Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  Cara wakes, rubs her eyes, looks up. “Jo, is that you?”

  “It’s me, kiddo. How are you doing?”

  “Let’s go,” he says. “There’ll be time to talk later.”

  Brianna gets up, holding Cara close. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “No,” Joette says. “You need to go home. I’ll be okay.” Wanting them far away from him.

  “She’s right,” he says. “We’re just going to talk some business.”

  Cara wraps her arms around her mother’s neck.

  “Go on,” Joette says. “Please.”

  “I’ll keep your phones,” he says. “Just in case you’re tempted to make a call, get someone else involved. That would be bad for everybody.”

  He moves aside to let them pass. When they’re gone, Joette says, “Did you kill him?”

  “No, he’s there. Like I told her.” He pokes her side with the gun. “Down the hall. Move.”

  In the living room, a candle flutters on the mantelpiece, throws shadows on the wall. Her feet brush against trash. He touches the cold muzzle to the nape of her neck.

  This is where you’ll die. In this room. This darkness.

  Her back to him, she holds out the bag. “Your money.”

  “Glad to hear you call it that. If you’d realized that sooner, it would have been easier for all of us.”

  He takes the bag, sets it down. “Cell phone.”

  She hands it to him. He drops it on the bag. “Where’s your car?”

  “On the beach road. About a block away.”

  “Rental?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me the keys.” He takes them from her hand.

  An engine starts outside. The noise grows fainter, then there’s only the wind.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “Even if they go for help, we’ll be done before anyone gets here. And I’m thinking they won’t try anyway. You’re the one put them in danger to start with.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “More than one.”

  “Whatever happens, leave them alone.”

  The gun comes away from her neck.

  “If I do have to pay them a visit, it’ll be no one’s fault but yours. Don’t think otherwise. Now turn around.”

  Her hand drifts closer to the .25 in her pocket. Off in the distance, something bangs in the wind.

  She turns to face him, looks into those pale gray eyes behind the mask. He moves the gun to his left hand, flexes his right. His gloved fist is a blur.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When she comes to, she’s on the floor, her face against cold wood. Shadows move on the wall. The left side of her face is swollen, and she can taste blood.

  He’s sitting on a canvas chair by the fireplace, counting money, the sports bag open at his feet, the candle beside it. No mask now.

  Wind blows through the house, brings the smell of the ocean. Eyes half closed, she looks down the hallway to the kitchen, the deck beyond. Wonders if she has the strength to get up, run for it. The speed to make it outside before he shoots her in the back.

  “Hey,” he says. “Come on, wake up. I didn’t hit you that hard. Not as hard as I wanted to. Felt good, though.”

  She keeps still, trying to buy time, clear her head.

  “I was trying to figure out how much you held back,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter at this point, does it? It’s not about the money. Hasn’t been for a while.”

  He gets up, kicks her leg. “Wake up. Look at me.”

  His fingers tangle in her hair. He twists and pulls up sharp, drags her to her knees. The pain makes her gasp. Her right hand goes to her back pocket. It’s empty.

  He holds up the .25. “Looking for this?”

  She tries to pull away, and he twists her hair tighter. “Plenty of times you could have put a stop to this. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

  He lets go and she falls back. He crouches in front of her.

  “Only one round in here. Optimistic on your part, wasn’t it? Now, did I take it out of the chamber, or not?”

  He pushes the muzzle into the soft skin below her jaw, twists it there, angling upward. “One way to find out.”

  She closes her eyes. Wonders if she’ll feel the bullet. If she’ll even know.

  “Not much fun, is it?” he says. “Having a gun pointed at you. Not much fun getting shot either.”

  The gun clicks.

  She starts to shake.

  “Guess I did,” he says.

  She opens her eyes. He takes the gun away. He’s sitting back on his haunches, three feet from her, the side of his face lit by the guttering candle. His own gun’s on top of the money bag, out of his reach.

  No. You’re not going to die. Not like this. Not here. Not now.

  His jacket is open, and she can see the slight bulge beneath his shirt on his left shoulder. Bandages covering where she shot him.

  There.

  She twists her hips, pumps her right leg out, drives her heel into his shoulder. He falls back, and she swivels on the floor in the same movement, kicks at the candle with her left foot, sends it flying. The room goes dark.

  Get out.

  She’s on her feet. He rolls into her, grabs at her legs. His hand closes tight on her right ankle, and she kicks at his face, feels it connect. His grip loosens, and then she’s free, moving past him, running through the darkness toward the kitchen. The crack of his gun behind her, and a bullet whines past her ear. The next one will be in her back.

  He fires again just as she reaches the deck. She hears the shot pass above her, leaps off the steps into the hard sand. It drives the breath out of her. She pushes against the ground, gets her legs under her, runs. Panic is a siren in her head.

  Another crack, louder than the wind. Sand kicks up to her right. The dune grass is ahead. You can lose him there.

  She cuts to the left, heading for the waving shadows, hears his feet on the sand behind her. He’s panting as he runs.

  She’s almost at the dune grass when he catches her. He grips her hair, drags her off-balance, kicks her leg out from under her. She lands on her back, and then he’s straddling her, his left hand around her throat, leaning his weight into her. She can’t get air. She pulls at his hand, tries to pry his fingers loose.

  “Fucking stop fighting me.” He pushes the warm muzzle into her face, just below her cheekbone. His finger is on the trigger.

  No.

  She grabs his wrist with both hands, shoves the gun away. His weight comes forward, and the barrel slides into the sand just as he fires. Sand explodes, showers down around them. She tries to hold on to his wrist, but he jerks it free, jams the gun into her side, twisting it up under her rib cage. She waits for the ripping heat of the bullet. Hears the gun snap and click.

  * * *

  The Ruger’s slide locks back half open, the trigger seizes. In that instant, he knows what’s happened. The vacuum of the recoil sucked sand into the barrel, jammed the mechanism.

  He raises the gun high, the butt reversed. He’ll finish it like this. Hammer away at her face, keep hitting her until all the bones are broken and she’s drowning in her own blood.

  * * *

  She sees the gun go up, raises her left hand to ward it off, punches at his shoulder with her right. She hears his sharp intake of breath, knows it hurt him. Her fingers close on the dressing through his shirt, and she pushes her thumb into it, digging, twisting. He jerks away from her, shifts his balance, and that’s all she needs. She swings her hips to the side, squirms out from beneath him, shoves him away. He falls back in the sand, and then she’s on her feet again, running.

  She crashes through the dune grass, trips on something, sprawls into the sand. She reaches down and feels a crooked piece of driftwood half buried there, three feet long and hard as stone.

  He’s almost on her. She grips the driftwood, swings wild with it, hits him in the left knee. He grunts in pain, and she rolls away from him as he falls. Then she�
�s standing over him, holding the driftwood in both hands.

  He looks up at her, and she brings the driftwood down across the side of his head, feels the impact. The blow knocks him sideways in the sand, his legs twisted under him.

  She raises the driftwood high again. He’s motionless at her feet.

  Hit him again.

  But she can’t do it, not like this. The driftwood seems to grow heavier. She drops it, takes two dizzy steps back and sits down in the sand, gasping for breath. The wind howls around her.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Y​ou can’t stay here.

  She stands, her ankle numb from her fall. He hasn’t moved. A line of blood is creeping out of his hairline.

  She gets her car keys from his jacket pocket. Then she walks grids until she finds the gun, a darker shape against the sand. She takes it out onto the jetty, stepping carefully on the slippery rocks, throws it as far as she can out into the water.

  She’s dizzy as she limps back to the house. In the dark living room, her foot hits something that clatters away. She reaches down, feels for it. It’s a penlight. She switches it on, and the beam shows her the trash-strewn floor, the .25, the cell phones. The bag with the money.

  * * *

  Her hands shake as she drives. A few blocks from the beach house, her vision begins to blur. There’s a stab of pain behind her left eye, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to pass out.

  Something moves in front of her headlights. She hammers the brake, jerks the wheel to the right. The Ford’s front tire hits the curb with a jolt, climbs it, then rolls back down. There’s nothing in the road.

  You can’t drive. You’ll kill yourself or someone else.

  She turns down a side street of dark summer homes, vacant for the season. She pulls into an empty driveway, shuts off the engine and lights, rests her head on the steering wheel.

  Don’t fall asleep. Don’t…

  A gust of wind moves the car. She opens her eyes, doesn’t know how much time has passed. Nausea swells up, and she wants to vomit, holds it back.

  She takes the sports bag from the passenger seat, gets out. She’ll walk until she finds someplace with people, lights.

  Back on the beach road, sand and wind sting her face. Her vision slips out of focus again. The ground tilts under her, and she falls onto her side.

  Get up.

  She pushes the ground away, counts her steps. At fifteen, she falls again.

  She looks out at the dark ocean, hears Troy’s voice inside the wind. Get up. Walk.

  “Don’t leave me, baby,” she says. “Don’t leave me alone again.”

  Get up.

  Far down the beach road, headlights are coming slow. They stop, and she’s blinded by their glare.

  The driver’s door opens and Brianna gets out, runs toward her.

  Joette tries to smile, but it hurts too much.

  * * *

  Sand blows in the headlights as they drive.

  “You came back,” Joette says.

  “I couldn’t leave you there.”

  “Where’s Cara?”

  “With Keith. She’s safe. As soon as I got them inside, I turned around and headed back. I was afraid he’d killed you.”

  “You were taking a chance, doing that.”

  “Your face.”

  She touches her jaw, feels a flash of pain.

  “Is he coming after us?” Brianna says.

  “No.”

  “Is he dead?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  * * *

  Keith’s place is a garden apartment in Brick Township. He jumps up from the couch when the door opens.

  “Where’s Cara?” Brianna says.

  “In my room,” he says. “Sleeping.”

  Joette brings in the sports bag. Her ankle hurts with each step.

  “We should get you to a hospital,” Brianna says. “And maybe it’s time to call the police.”

  “No.” The room begins to spin slowly. She puts a hand on the back of a chair. “You have another bed here?”

  “In the back,” he says. “It’s made, but there’s only a mattress, no box spring.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She carries the bag down the hall, stops at a half-open door. Cara is sleeping on the bed inside. The hall light falls across her face, her pale blond hair. Joette watches her breathe, then quietly closes the door.

  There are no curtains in the back room. Dawn is a faint glow outside the window.

  Her head aches, but her vision is clear. She shuts the door, sets the bag against it, lies facedown on the mattress, and is instantly asleep.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The wind wakes him. He’s lying in the dune grass, sand under him, his clothes damp and cold. He can hear the waves.

  He touches the left side of his head, the hair stiff with blood there, feels the three-inch-long furrow. The driftwood glanced off his head at an angle, her aim uncertain in the darkness. Hard enough to knock him out, but not to kill him.

  He crawls, kneels, then pushes himself to his feet, finds his balance. His shoulder is on fire, the dressing there loose.

  He pats his jacket pocket. Her keys are gone. He looks around but can’t find the Ruger.

  His left knee throbs, but he can walk. The house is empty. The bag with the money is gone, along with her gun and the cell phones.

  He’s shaky, ready to fall again. He has to get out of here, keep moving, get back to Cosmo’s.

  His knee aches as he walks the beach road. The sky over the ocean is growing lighter. The wind’s begun to slacken. After a block, he hears an engine, turns to see a blue van coming up behind him.

  He steps into the road, waves. The van slows to a stop. The paint is sun-faded, the panels pitted with rust. The driver is young and bearded, wearing coveralls. He puts the window down as Travis comes up to him. “Man, what happened to you?”

  “I’ve been in an accident. Can you take me to a hospital?”

  “An accident? Where?”

  Travis gestures vaguely behind him. “Back there somewhere. I’m hurt bad.”

  “You need to call 911.”

  “No police.”

  “Why? You been drinking?”

  “Yeah. I can’t afford another DWI.” He moves closer to the door, gauging angles, distance.

  “Anybody else hurt?”

  “No.”

  “I still think you need to—”

  Travis steps up on the running board, punches him in the temple, snaps his head to the side. He slumps forward against the shoulder belt, and Travis leans in and hits him again in the same place. The driver’s foot slips off the brake, and the van begins to move forward. Travis reaches in and shuts off the ignition. The van rolls to a stop.

  No traffic, the nearby houses dark. He opens the door, undoes the driver’s shoulder harness and drags him out. A cell phone is clipped to his belt. Travis leaves him in the weeds on the side of the road, takes the phone.

  He climbs into the van, starts the engine. The rear compartment is full of paint cans, tarps and a ladder.

  He has to steady himself, get his breathing under control, before he can drive. His shoulder is burning.

  He leaves the van in an empty shopping plaza two miles away, calls Cosmo from the cell phone.

  * * *

  Cosmo watches from the doorway as Travis pulls off his gloves, runs water in the bathroom sink. He shrugs out of his jacket, dips his head under the flow. Crusted blood washes away, swirls pink down the drain. The pain sharpens.

  She could have crushed your skull out there, he thinks. Another swing or two would have been all it took. But she didn’t do it, and didn’t call the police afterward. Did she think she’d killed him?

  He pulls a bath towel off the rack to dry his head. It comes away pink with blood.

  “You’re in bad shape,” Cosmo says. “This is no good, staying here.”

  “We’re okay. No one knows where I am.” He snapped the driver’s phone into piece
s on the way here, dropped them out the window. “How much fent is left?”

  “Six caps. That’s the last of it.”

  “Already cut?”

  “Yeah, with powdered baby aspirin. It’s cut heavy. I tried to stretch it out as much as I could.”

  “Get me one.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Travis looks at him.

  “All right,” Cosmo says, and leaves the doorway.

  Travis pulls off his T-shirt and peels the dressing away from his shoulder. It’s bright with blood.

  He hears Cosmo opening the floor safe in his bedroom. When he comes back in with a capsule, Travis twists it open, carefully taps a few grains onto the back of his left hand. He snorts them, feels the burn in his sinuses. He licks up what’s left on his skin, then closes the capsule. He’ll keep it for later.

  Looking in the mirror, he’s angry at himself. The money was there, she was there. It should have gone the way he planned. Instead it all fell apart.

  No use going back to the condo in Howell. They won’t be there anymore, and if they’ve gone to the police, someone might be watching the house. Cops may have already found the Saturn. He’ll need to steal another car, one that won’t be reported anytime soon. Then he needs to find a gun.

  “You look like you’re ready to drop,” Cosmo says.

  The fent starts to kick in. Now he wants rest, sleep.

  “Not yet,” he says.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Keith drives her back to where she left the rental car. He’s quiet the whole way. They stopped at the inlet, and she took their cell phones and the .25, dropped them over the seawall into the water. All that connects them to what’s happened.

  She slept four hours, woke feeling tired and weak. Her face isn’t swollen anymore, but the bruise there is purple and yellow. There are finger marks on her throat.

  He pulls up a block short of the car. The beachfront streets are still empty. No cops waiting, watching.

  His hands twist on the wheel.

  “What?” she says.

  “Last night. I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. If I could’ve gotten the drop on him, I would have. I never had the chance.”