Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  He takes the check, unfolds it. “A thousand? For real?”

  “Real enough,” she says. She picks up the bag, opens the door. “Take care of them.”

  * * *

  Back in the room, she sits on the edge of the bed, unloads the gun again, trying to get a feel for it. She pulls the slide back, and the chambered bullet pops out. She pushes it back into the clip.

  Is this what you’ve become? Someone who carries a gun?

  Standing in front of the mirror, she slips the clip back into the gun, thumbs on the safety. When she slides the gun into her right front jeans pocket, it’s barely visible.

  If it comes down to it, will you be able to pull the trigger?

  She doesn’t know the answer.

  TWENTY-ONE

  We blew it,” Cosmo says.

  They’re headed south on the Turnpike in the Lexus, Cosmo at the wheel.

  “What do you mean?” Travis says. He’s distracted, thinking about the Harper woman, what she might do next. Wondering where she got the nerve to take it as far as she had.

  “We should have been investing that fent money, those first big paydays we had,” Cosmo says. “Moved on to other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Real estate. Residential properties. Luxury apartments for foreigners who need to hide their cash over here. We would have tripled our investment by now, left all this other mess behind.”

  “Little late for that. What do you know about real estate, anyway?”

  “Enough to know we should be thinking bigger. The money we lost, that three hundred grand? That’s nothing. These hedge fund guys, investment bankers, they make that at lunch. And nobody gets shot.”

  Travis flexes his left hand. The cut finger itches beneath the bandages. There’s a dark spot where it’s started to bleed through. “How much farther?”

  “Exit’s coming up. It’s a couple more miles from there. I hope you’ve been listening to me.”

  “I have. Real estate.”

  “Once we get the bank back up, we should do that. Invest. Stop screwing around with lowlifes. We can work it the same way we always did. Start off with seed money and build.”

  “And nobody gets hurt,” Travis says.

  “That’s right. Think about it. We can still do it.”

  They take the exit, drive for another mile, then turn onto a two-lane road, pine forest on both sides. Their headlights illuminate a rusted sign that says MUNICIPAL AIRPORT, with the silhouette of a plane, and an arrow pointing ahead.

  A chain-link fence runs along on the right. Through gaps in the trees, Travis can see a clearing beyond.

  Cosmo slows. “There should be a gate up ahead.”

  “Pull over.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “Do it. Kill the lights, open the back.”

  Cosmo steers onto the shoulder, dims the headlights. Travis gets out, leaves the door open. He pulls on gloves, waits for the rear hatch to rise, takes out the knapsack with the fifty thousand. Under the wheel well is the Ruger. He fits the gun into his belt, shuts the hatch.

  He sets the knapsack on the passenger seat. “You’re taking it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re bringing the money to them. Tell them I punked out, got scared.”

  “They’re expecting both of us.”

  “The money’s there. That’s all they care about.”

  “I already pissed these guys off when I told them we were only bringing fifty. I change up on them again, they’re not gonna be happy.”

  “You’re here to give them the money, pick up the product. That’s what you’re going to do.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be close by. Do what they say, stay cool, it’ll be fine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Didn’t want to give you too much time to worry about it, get nervous.”

  “Jesus, thanks a lot.”

  “Go on.”

  Travis watches the Lexus drive away, headlights on. Farther down the road it slows again, makes a right turn through an open gate.

  He walks the fence line until he comes to a spot where the chain-link sags almost to the ground. He climbs over it, makes his way up a gradual slope into the woods. When he reaches the far edge of the trees, he’s looking down on the airport. A half-moon shines above.

  A concrete hangar is the only building left on the cracked tarmac. Its big front doors are shut, light creeping out around their edges. There’s a metal side door. Next to it, a window throws a square of light on the ground.

  Cosmo pulls up to the doors. One of them slides open, pushed by someone within. Travis can see two motorcycles and an SUV inside. The Lexus drives through, the door closing behind it.

  Branches rustle. He smells the sharp tang of cigarette smoke. More rustling, then the glow of a cigarette that flares and fades.

  There are two men about ten feet ahead of him, sitting on the ground, watching the hangar. The smoker is to his left. In the moonlight, Travis can see he has long hair, a beard, is wearing a sleeveless denim jacket over leather. The man on the right is hidden in shadow.

  The Ruger would be too loud here. He takes out the tactical knife, folds open the blade.

  The second man stands.

  “What are you doing?” the biker says. “Sit your ass down.”

  “I want to see.” A Latin accent. “I have my reasons.”

  “Fuck your reasons. We’re supposed to stay here.”

  “This is personal.”

  He starts down the slope, moving loudly through the brush. He crosses the tarmac, knocks at the side door. It opens, spilling light, and he goes in.

  Better odds now. Travis grips the knife like an icepick, blade pointing down. He slows his breath, steadying himself, moves closer. The biker flicks his cigarette away. He’s sitting on a log, a pump shotgun across his knees.

  A cloud crosses the moon. Travis slaps a hand across the man’s mouth, pulls him back and stabs him in the chest, four, five, six times, fast as he can, aiming for the heart. The man tries to twist away, and Travis stabs him twice more, quick and deep, turning the blade. It scrapes on bone as he yanks it free.

  He shoves the man away, leaves him whimpering facedown in the dirt, bleeding out. He wipes the slick blade on the man’s denim jacket, then closes the knife and puts it away.

  Sitting on the log, he picks up the shotgun, brushes off dirt and pine needles. The barrel and stock have been sawn down. He works the pump to eject the rounds into his lap. Seven shells, a mix of twelve-gauge buck and solid lead deer slugs.

  He blows into the receiver to clear it, then feeds the shells back in, leading with a slug. He cycles the pump to chamber a round. Cut down like it is, there’s not much weight to the gun. It’ll kick hard.

  He looks at the hangar, wondering what they’re doing to Cosmo in there, what he’s telling them.

  Ten long breaths, and he’s ready. He stands, walks down the slope, cuts across the tarmac and crouches outside the window. He can hear the muffled thump and hum of a generator inside.

  He raises up, looks in. Cosmo is bound to a wooden chair in the middle of the floor, duct tape on his forearms and calves. A Dominican sits facing him, almost knee to knee. Nearby is a makeshift table, a sheet of plywood across two sawhorses. On it are a stainless steel revolver, a pair of pruning shears and the knapsack.

  Three other men in the room. A biker stands by the motorcycles, arms crossed, watching. The Dominican from the woods is behind Cosmo’s chair. Another Dominican waits by the side door.

  The seated man is older than the others. Chano’s age. He says something Travis can’t hear, taps Cosmo on the knee. Cosmo shakes his head. The man leans closer and slaps him hard across the face.

  Cosmo turns his face away, waiting for another blow. The Dominican stands, goes to the table and picks up the shears.

  Travis bangs twice on the door with the bottom of his fist. “Open up. Got some trouble out h
ere.” Keeping his voice flat.

  From the other side, “¿Qué?”

  “Open the door.”

  He backs up, aims the shotgun chest high. When he hears a lock turn, he squeezes the trigger. The stock kicks back, and the slug blows a quarter-sized hole through the metal. He pumps, fires, twelve-gauge this time, a wide spray that sends the door back on its hinges. He pumps again, goes through.

  There’s a man at his feet, chest shiny with blood. Travis steps over him, moves fast to the left, away from the door. The Dominican drops the shears, reaches for the pistol.

  Travis fires, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. The Dominican twists with the impact of the buckshot, loses the pistol. The biker dives to the floor.

  Travis swings the shotgun toward Cosmo, racks it. “Down.”

  Cosmo throws himself to the side, topples the chair, exposing the man behind him. Travis hits the Dominican in the chest with a round of buckshot, knocks him off his feet.

  The biker is up, running for the open side door. Travis fires over his head. The biker pulls up short, hands raised. Travis gestures him back toward the motorcycles.

  The wounded Dominican is crawling toward his revolver, trailing blood on the concrete. Travis circles him, kicks the gun away and fires into his back. He racks the shotgun again. A smoking shell rolls across the floor.

  “Hey, man,” the biker says. “This ain’t got nothing to do with me.”

  “Get on the floor.”

  The biker kneels. “No lie. I didn’t know what was going down here.”

  “All the way. Hands behind your head.”

  To Cosmo, Travis says, “You hit?”

  “I don’t think so. Cut me loose.”

  Travis goes to him, flicks open the knife. There are spots of blood on Cosmo’s face. His crotch is wet.

  Travis saws through the duct tape on his right arm, gives him the knife. “You can do the rest.”

  He squats in front of the biker. “What’s your name?” The generator chugs away behind them.

  “Val.”

  “Val, you want to tell me what went on here?”

  Cosmo pulls the last of the tape off his legs. He’s shaky getting up. “I can tell you what went on.”

  “I want to hear it from this guy.”

  “It was all the Dominicans,” the biker says. “It was their deal.”

  “Explain.”

  “They came to us, said you might be asking around, looking to buy. They wanted us to get you down here, said we could keep whatever cash you brought. We didn’t know what they were planning to do.”

  “You had an idea.” He stands, kicks the pruning shears toward the biker. “What were you gonna do, stand around and watch?”

  He goes to the table, opens the knapsack, looks at the banded bills inside. “You take any of this?”

  “No,” the biker says. “It’s all there.”

  Cosmo has righted the chair, is sitting with his head in his hands, the open knife on the floor at his feet.

  “You okay?” Travis says.

  “Yeah. I just want to get out of here before I get sick.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” the biker says. “I just came along for the ride. I got nothing against you.”

  Travis walks over to him. “You think I’m not going to kill you?”

  “Man, I fucking know you’re going to kill me. So I’ve got nothing to lose, right? That’s how you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Makes sense. Thing is, though, you sold us out, set us up.”

  “It wasn’t me, man.”

  Travis points the shotgun at his head. “Close your eyes.”

  “Wait!”

  Travis fires. The sound echoes through the hangar. Cosmo looks away.

  Travis sets the gun on the table, zips up the knapsack, slings it over his shoulder.

  “Get sick later,” he says. “We need to go.”

  * * *

  Travis drives. Cosmo looks out the window, trembles every once in a while, as if with a chill. He hasn’t spoken since they left the hangar.

  “You did good in there,” Travis says. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Why’d you send me in alone?”

  “I wanted to have a look around, in case it was a setup. Good thing, too. What did they ask you?”

  “What do you think they asked me? Where you were. Why you weren’t there. I said what you told me to. I don’t think they believed it.”

  “You gave me the time I needed.”

  “They were going to cut off my fingers.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  Travis lowers the window, feels the cold air on his face.

  “Look at it this way,” he says. “There were five men back there, waiting to kill us. Fucking Valley of Death, and we walked out of it without a scratch. We’re the kings of the jungle tonight, man. Believe it.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Morning, and she’s parked down the street from the trailer, her hoodie pulled up. She doesn’t want neighbors to see her.

  Crime scene tape is strung across the warped front door. All the windows are gone, the walls around them dark with soot. The carport is full of debris and blackened furniture. The smell of smoke and damp hangs in the air. Part of her wants to tear off the tape, go inside and see what’s left.

  That’s your old life. There’s nothing for you there now. Anything you find will only hurt.

  She takes out her cell phone, considers calling Noah, telling him she’s all right. He’ll hear about the fire eventually, will come looking for her. It would complicate things. First she needs a plan.

  Or you could just tell him. Turn the money over to the police. Take the consequences, whatever they are. One call and it’s all over.

  She puts the phone down, watches the crime scene tape flutter in the wind.

  * * *

  Her mother is asleep in her room when Joette gets to the nursing home. She’s propped up on pillows, tiny and frail beneath the covers. The bed rails are locked in place on each side.

  There’s a game show on the wall-mounted TV, the volume muted. The only sound is chatter from the nurses’ station down the hall, the trundle of a medication cart.

  She brings a chair close, watches her mother breathe, the sheet barely moving. She takes her hand, feels the bones just beneath the skin.

  There’s a light knock at the open door. Kimberly, the day nurse, is there.

  “Your mom wasn’t feeling very well this morning. She only ate a little breakfast, so I decided to put her back in bed, let her rest. I’ve been keeping an eye on her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You look tired.”

  “A long couple days. How is she doing?”

  “Her vitals are still strong. She just can’t seem to stay awake very long.”

  “I’ll be here for a while,” Joette says. “If they bring a tray in for lunch, I’ll try to feed her.”

  “I’ll let them know. I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

  Joette brushes a lock of hair from her mother’s eyes, listens to her faint breathing.

  Where are you, Mom? What are you dreaming? Who do you see?

  She feels a slight squeeze on her hand, not sure at first if she’s only imagined it. It comes again, weaker this time. She knows you’re here.

  She kisses her mother’s forehead. “I’ve got to go away for a while, Mom,” she whispers. “But I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  She takes her mother’s hand in both of hers, holds it tight.

  * * *

  She calls him from the parking lot. The line buzzes seven times, stops. She disconnects, then calls again. This time he picks up.

  “We can make a deal,” she says.

  “Too late.”

  “No deal, no money.”

  “What money would that be?”

  “You’re worried about the phone. Don’t be. I just bought it.”

  “Smart. Sometimes, though, smart people overplay
their hands. Because they’re not as smart as they think they are.”

  “I just want this to end. You were right. I have too much to lose.”

  “And how do you see it ending?”

  “You lost something. I found it. Now we can talk about how much you’re willing to let me keep.”

  “That offer’s closed.”

  “You need me, or you get nothing. That list I gave you—”

  “Is bogus, yeah. I figured that out. That stunt at the bank didn’t solve anything, though. All it did was make me angry. Tell me, how long had you planned that? Known what you were gonna do?”

  “Not long. And I lost my trailer, so we’re even.”

  “We’re not even close to even. Curious, is Irene Kelly your mother, or grandmother? Mother, I bet. And Kingsley Gardens isn’t that far away, is it?”

  The back of her neck goes cold. “Stay away from there.”

  “That’s what I mean by overplaying your hand. Way I see it, all you’ve put me through, anything happens now is fair game.”

  It must have been something she left behind in the trailer. Something he found before he set the fire.

  Don’t panic. She’s safe there. No one can just walk in past security. No way he can get to her. It’s a bluff.

  “Ask yourself how far you want to take this,” he says. “Because I can take it all the way. You want to spiral with me, babe, I’m good with that.”

  “I have the sixty from the first bank. I’ll hand it over to you. Then we can talk about the rest.”

  “Nothing to talk about. We take a ride, get all the money from all the banks. One shot. That’s it.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “That’ll be up to me,” he says. “And I haven’t decided yet.”

  * * *

  Driving back to Atlantic City, she calls Helen, puts her on speakerphone. “I need a favor,” Joette says. “A big one.”

  “Hold on. Let me take this in the break room.”

  Joette hears voices, then a door opening and closing, muting the noise.