Charlie T thought, or thought he thought, that he would be devastated by Angelique’s death, but he’s almost horrified, certainly fascinated, to discover that he’s actually relieved. Maybe it was the way she had come out of the trees and pounced on the wee one, rubbing the chloroform rag in her face all crooked backed, like a witch in a fairy tale. Maybe it was the fact that she was too fucking full of herself all of a sudden, bossing him this way and that, not that he didn’t like it a bit, but he couldn’t have liked it a lot, otherwise he would have been a lot more upset than he is, which is, not really at all for her, but a lot on account of how the fuck is he going to manage the kids?
He has a compact Steyr S9 tonight, fifteen in the magazine, twelve left, one in the chamber. He doesn’t want to have to point a semi-automatic pistol at children, but he will if it’s necessary. The obvious thing is to get to the aunt’s house, it can’t be too far, you wouldn’t walk kids that size more than a mile at this hour, or in these conditions. The younger one is wailing, the wee soul; the older one is over by her aunt’s body, touching her face, trying to will her back to life. She stands then and glowers at him.
‘You are a bad man,’ she says. ‘Irene, come here.’
Irene goes to the older one and sidles into her, and a protective arm is placed around her shoulder, like a bird coming under her mother’s wing. He is a bad man, and no mistake. This goes against every rule in his book.
‘We have to move,’ he says.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ the older one says. Irene’s wailing is getting louder. They have to get the fuck out of there now. Charlie raises the gun and waves it at them, making sure Irene can see it. Pick on the younger one, there’s a brave fella.
‘We have to move. Get to the house. And then we can ring for Mum and Dad, OK?’
Irene nods, her lip out. Barbara frowns, and raises a stick she has in her hand, but flinches and drops it when he waves the gun at her. He comes around behind them.
‘We’ll send back for your aunt.’
‘Ring an ambulance.’
Charlie makes a sound that, despite himself, means ‘fuck all point in that.’
‘Ring an ambulance or we stay here,’ the older one says in a voice that could curdle butter.
‘Barbara!’ says Irene.
‘I don’t care. We don’t know if she’s dead.’
Fair enough. Charlie T calls Mr Wilson.
‘Charlie?’
‘Ambulance, please. Yes, I’ll hold.’
‘Has the target been dispatched?’
‘Yes, I’d like to report the body of a woman on the path by the side of Lake Ripley in Cambridge, Wisconsin. Access from the steps at the rear of Ripley Fields.’
‘The client will meet you at the sister’s house, Mr T. And you’ll carry out his instructions from then on, do you understand?’
‘No, explain,’ Charlie says.
‘He has something in mind. Some kind of display. For which he is willing to pay, more than double. He’ll clear your gambling debt entirely. A fresh start, Charlie. And all you have to do is carry out his instructions to the letter. Understood?’
Charlie wants to protest, wants to set conditions, wants to insist that deep down, he’s a good man. But he’s not, is he? Deep down, maybe he is, but it’s fuck-all use deep down. Up here on the surface, pointing a gun at two wee girls having just murdered their aunt, walking past the broken body of his girlfriend and stopping only to take her purse so that it can’t be traced to him, ready to deliver children into the hands of Satan knows what kind of fucker. He’s already gone through the aunt’s pockets, got her keys and phone. Barbara’s right. He’s a bad man, by anyone’s definition.
The girls walk in front of him. He trains a small Maglite on them. He won’t ask where the house is, as the teenager in training there will insist on not telling him, and he doesn’t want to have to bully it out of the wee one, who’s still sobbing quietly to herself, God love her. He’ll just watch the way they walk, watch for tells when they get near. He didn’t come down in the last shower.
He’s better off. All that kidnapping crack. Fuck’s sake. What kind of a future would they have, she’s smothering old folk in the hospital, he’s a professional assassin. Fantasy land. That’s not the kind of girl you settle down with. Not at all.
Barbara is leaning over and whispering something in Irene’s ear. He can’t hear it, but he can hear the squealed reply.
‘We can’t, Babs, we can’t. He’ll shoot us, he’ll shoot us.’
‘What’s that, Irene?’ Charlie T says.
‘Aunt Donna’s house is up there,’ Irene says, pointing to a forest pathway leading up the side of a hill.
And Barbara makes a noise, a growl of frustration and rage.
Charlie T takes a coil of nylon rope and, keeping the Steyr in full view at all times, ties Barbara’s right wrist to Irene’s left, then pulls the rope forward and winds it around his right arm and sets off up the hill ahead of them. Too much scope for them to hive off left or right and vanish, or at least, need to be chased down.
‘Tell me if I’m going too fast, or pulling the rope too hard,’ Charlie T says. Irene is not going to stop crying any time soon. Barbara sets her face in a grimace of hatred and rage. And like that, Charlie T tugs them steadily up the hill toward Donna Brogan’s house.