CHAPTER

11

PHOEBE WATCHED KEATING put on the robe and tie it at his waist before getting out of bed. They were older now, but he showed less wear. Living on the outside did that for a body. Doctors, dentists, supplements. He was pudgier than he’d been in high school, but he wore his hair in the same style as he had back then. Longer, though, than suited her taste in a man, and gray at the temples, but still as wavy as in their youth.

High school. The prom. Going with Keating had been an inside joke among her friends. It still made her smile, how she’d agreed to go with him and then left him holding her shoes and standing beneath the basketball net on the opposite side of the gymnasium while she danced with every other boy there. Oh, how she had loved torturing him.

One week later she’d gone and eloped with Jim Elders. Eventually Keating had left for college anyway. She knew his type. Screw a local, marry a highbrow. But he had never married.

He returned from the bathroom and crawled under the covers still wearing his robe. The modesty surprised her. He touched her lips and cupped her chin a little rougher than she liked.

“I always liked your smile. Sly and cocky. The crooked little mouth of a liar.”

She didn’t know how to take that. He hadn’t been gentle with her when she arrived, hadn’t even offered dinner. Earlier at the diner, he’d slipped her a note that read, 8:00 tonight, my place. She’d been adequately late, but he’d seen through her fake ambivalence and taken her straight upstairs to the master bedroom. The room was dowdy, though she could get used to it. She’d never felt sheets so soft, carpet as thick as pudding.

“A sly smile hints at a quick mind,” he continued. “I always thought you were smart. Maybe too smart for your own good.”

She wondered if he meant then or now and just how much resentment he still held against her. Well, two could play that game. “Is that what you thought when I eloped?”

His face turned hard. “I thought you got what you deserved.”

She sat up. “And now? Do you think I got what I deserved?”

He was quiet for a moment. “No. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Whiskey and sex had made her drowsy and she wanted to lie back down and close her eyes. But she wasn’t comfortable here anymore. She’d finally given him what he’d wanted all those years ago and now she felt foolish. Now he’d turned mean.

“I only meant you deserved Jim. I mean—That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean? Just say it, for Christ’s sake.”

“Look, that jail sentence wasn’t my fault. I don’t know why you agreed to it. That was all the prosecutor presented me with. All I did was sign off on it.”

Her only weapon was silence and she decided to let him stew in it. She lay down, closed her eyes, hoping for a few hours of sleep and to leave before he woke. It was dicey, being here in his house, much less in his bed. But it was riskier for him. A judge with an ex-con. He had more on the line than she did and she wondered if she’d stumbled across a secret weapon. If anything, he could improve her image around town. At least get her a better job. As she contemplated the possibilities, her mind began to drift to white. Then a dull thump from downstairs startled her.

“What was that?”

He dismissed it as noise from the foundation settling but sat up at the sound of a small crash. She sat up, too, suddenly alert, and moved quickly to pull on her blouse. He found his slippers.

“Don’t you have a security system?”

“I left it off in case you left in the middle of the night,” he whispered. He opened a drawer, got a handgun from the nightstand, and walked across the carpet to the door. “There’s another pistol in the drawer if you need it, but you stay put.”

“You’re not leaving me here,” she said, and found the second pistol. Briefly she thought to hide, but there was no way out of the house from the second floor.

They went down the carpeted stairs, and when he stepped into the kitchen, she was right behind him. The deadbolt on the back door had been jimmied loose and the door was ajar. She thought about running out the door, but it occurred to her that a second person might be outside. There was safety to numbers, so she stayed behind Keating. The door to the basement and game room was half open, and inside it a flashlight flickered across the walls. Keating released the safety on his handgun and went down the stairwell first. He pushed the door open. A man was stooped low over the bottom drawer of the bar. When Keating flipped on the light, TJ Bangor stood to his full height and smiled slowly. The crystal decanter in his hand was half empty. He took another swig.

Recognizing his face made her feel better—until she remembered what they’d taken from him.

Keating lowered the barrel of the gun to the floor. “What are you doing in my house?”

“I came for what’s mine.”

“You’re not welcome here. Get out.”

TJ pulled out the drawer he’d been looking through and carelessly dumped its contents on the floor. He threw the drawer down and it broke in half. “I’m not leaving here without my ring.”

“You set the alarm off and the police are on their way. You leave now and I’ll tell them it was a misunderstanding.”

TJ laughed at the lie. He was so big, he made Keating’s gun seem like a toy, like he could just walk over and take it if he wanted. Keating had taken this too far and she wished he would give the man his ring and end this now.

“Good. Maybe they can help me find my damn ring.” TJ waved the decanter at Keating and took another drink. “Nice stuff you got here. A lot better than the swill you served the other night.” He threw the decanter against a bookcase and it shattered, leaving amber splotches on the wall and carpet.

“What the fuck! That belonged to my mother!”

TJ wasn’t threatened by the gun or Keating’s advantage, which, if he ever had one at all, was fading every second they stood there talking.

Phoebe thought about running for the back door, but a man that big could overtake her in two seconds.

“Give me my ring,” TJ said.

“We both have a lot at stake here, son.”

TJ slurred, “Don’t call me son!” He swayed like a pine in a windstorm. “I’m not leaving here without it.”

“Okay, calm down. It’s right there on the bar in the humidor.”

TJ lifted the lid. The Super Bowl ring was on the center cigar.

It seemed like it was settled. He could take the ring and leave. Phoebe started to back away from the door, but TJ caught the motion and wheeled toward her. His face shifted to comprehension. “You’re that bitch.”

Her heart pumped in her ears.

“Take it easy. It’s not what you think,” Keating said, but TJ lunged—or maybe he tripped. It would never be clear in Phoebe’s memory. Shots blasted the air and bullets lodged in the man’s midsection. He looked surprised as his legs gave way and he hit the floor. TJ let out a gasp of air as blood bubbled in his mouth, oozed down his cheek. He convulsed once, then again, and finally stopped moving altogether.