Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

He’ll wait until night to call. He’ll want her somewhere close but isolated. Somewhere he can leave her body.

  It was always coming to this. You knew that. Time to pay for what you’ve done.

  FORTY-TWO

  Snow drifts down softly on the Impala, the flakes melting as they touch the still-warm hood. Travis is parked in the gas station lot, watching the motel on the other side of the highway. Baxter’s station wagon glows red under the neon Castaways sign. The office is lit, but all the rooms Travis can see are dark.

  It’s eleven-thirty. He’s been here a half hour. Long enough. He takes the Bersa from his jacket, flicks off the safety. It’ll be louder than the Ruger would have been, but out here no one will hear the shots.

  He gets out, tucks the gun in his belt, zips his jacket over it. He waits for a car to pass, then crosses the highway.

  Flakes of snow swirl in the air. Once across the bridge, he moves into the trees, comes out below the sign. He’s bathed in red.

  Through the window, he sees Baxter asleep at the desk, head resting on crossed arms. There’s a black-and-white movie on the TV.

  Travis tries the door. It’s locked. He taps gloved knuckles on the glass. Baxter doesn’t stir. He taps again, harder. Baxter looks up then, sees him, sits up straight. Travis points at the door. A moment later, it buzzes.

  Chimes sound as he goes in. He smiles. “Hey, man, how you doing? Slow night?”

  Baxter squints, as if trying to place him. Travis unzips his jacket, draws the Bersa. “Step back from the desk.”

  Baxter looks at the gun, confused. Travis doesn’t want to give him time to react. He moves past the TV, flips up the hinged section of the counter.

  “What are you doing?” Baxter says. “You can’t come back here.”

  He puts the gun in Baxter’s side, grips the back collar of his shirt, pushes him through the curtained doorway into the back room. “On your stomach.”

  “There’s no money here,” Baxter says.

  Travis kicks a leg out from under him, and he goes down hard. He touches the gun muzzle to the back of his head. “Lay flat. That’s it. Arms back.”

  He sets the gun down, binds Baxter’s wrists behind him with a zip tie. “Is there anyone else here? Anybody in the rooms?”

  “No.” He’s out of breath.

  “If there is…”

  “There isn’t.”

  Travis feels his pockets, pulls out a cell phone. He slams it hard on the floor twice, tosses the pieces away, picks up the gun again.

  “Whether you’re alive or dead when I leave is all the same to me,” he says. “You try to get up, start banging around in here, I’ll hear you.”

  “I won’t. Don’t hurt me.”

  Travis opens the breaker box on the wall, starts tripping switches. The office lights go out.

  * * *

  She jumps when she hears the phone. When she answers, Travis Clay says, “You ready to do this?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where?”

  “Where else?” he says.

  FORTY-THREE

  Snow flashes in her high beams, blows against the windshield, the wipers sweeping it away. She’s wearing her down vest over a flannel shirt, has the heat turned up all the way, but is still trembling with cold. The bag with the money is on the passenger-side floor.

  She slows as she nears the motel. The sign and all the windows are dark. Baxter’s station wagon is alone in the lot.

  End of the road.

  * * *

  Watching from the office, Travis sees the headlights, knows it’s her. The car slows, as if she’s making up her mind.

  He checks the Bersa, pulls the slide back to see the round inside. He’ll make her bring the money in first, see how much she’s brought. Have her count it out for him, then put one in her head.

  Wind blows snow against the window. He opens the door, wedges a metal trash can against it to keep it from closing and locking. Cold air fills the office. He steps out onto the pavement.

  She turns slowly, pulls into the motel lot. Her headlights sweep across him. She’s a dark silhouette through the windshield. He motions to her to stop, raises the gun.

  * * *

  She sees him there, caught in her headlights, framed against the doorway. She brakes, her high beams reflecting in the office window.

  He puts up his left hand. In his right is the gun.

  No.

  She takes her foot off the brake, stamps down hard on the gas.

  * * *

  He hears the engine race as the car surges toward him. There isn’t time to fire. Blinded by the headlights, he throws himself to the right, just as the front end smashes into the doorway. He lands hard on pavement, the gun flying from his hand. The door shatters, spraying glass inside. The car reverses sharply, brakes a few feet away, as if ready to come at him again. The last of the door glass collapses.

  He rolls onto his stomach, looking for the gun, sees it against the door of room four. He tries to stand, and his left leg gives out. He falls, crawls across the pavement, gets his hand on the gun. Twisting on the ground, he aims with both hands, fires. The first shot takes out the driver’s window. The second punches through the door below.

  Pain in his leg, but it takes his weight. He limps toward the car, its high beams lighting up the office. He jerks open the driver’s door, points the gun inside.

  The car’s empty. There’s safety glass on the seats and floor. No blood. The wipers are still going, making a scraping sound against the glass. The passenger door hangs open.

  * * *

  She runs into the office carrying the bag, hears gunshots behind her. She pushes through the curtain into the back room. Baxter is facedown on the floor, hands bound. She can’t leave him.

  She slings the sports bag up onto the supply shelf, takes down the box cutter.

  “Joette, is that you?”

  She kneels beside him. “Quiet. Hold still.” She starts to saw at the plastic zip tie around his wrists, careful not to cut him.

  “You need to get out of here,” she says. “Run for the trees, fast as you can.”

  “What happened? Who is—”

  The zip tie parts. She pulls him to his feet, shoves him hard toward the exit door. “Go!”

  He pushes against the panic bar, almost falls as the door swings open. She watches him start toward the woods at a lopsided run.

  She looks back at the curtain. He’ll be coming through it any second. The bag is too heavy to run with. She’ll never make the trees.

  The master key card is on its hook near the breaker box. She grabs it on her way out the door.

  * * *

  Travis leans into the car, shuts off the ignition and headlights, pockets the keys, lets the door shut. All is dark and quiet again. Snow falls lightly around him.

  She’ll go through the building and out the back door, make a run for the woods. He goes into the dark office, glass crunching under his boots. The brochure rack is on its side, pamphlets strewn across the floor.

  Behind the counter, wind billows the curtain. He pushes it aside, goes through. Baxter’s gone. At the end of the corridor, the rear door is ajar.

  Gun up, he steps outside into the wind. Baxter is almost at the trees, running awkwardly, his hands free. He’s alone.

  Travis takes aim, fires, but the shot goes high. Then Baxter’s out of range, into the dark of the woods and gone.

  There’s a concrete patio back here, a propane grill with a vinyl cover, picnic tables and benches. Five rooms face this side, units six to ten. If the woman didn’t run, she’s hiding in one of them. There’s nowhere for her to go now, no way to get past him.

  He goes back into the hallway, gets the heavy aluminum flashlight he saw on a shelf. He thumbs the button. The beam leaps out.

  * * *

  She waits in darkness, her back to the wall, trying to quiet her breathing, listening for him. She heard the single shot, hopes Baxter got clear.
/>   What now?

  She didn’t know what she was going to do when she pulled into the lot. Something about the way he stood there, holding the gun, waiting. She thought of everything he’d done, all he might do, and her foot moved from the brake to the gas.

  She saw him dive to the side, a second before the car hit the door frame. The impact threw her against the shoulder belt but didn’t fire the airbag. She reversed to clear the doorway, unsnapped the belt, crawled across the seat and out the passenger door, pulling the bag after her.

  She can hear him outside the room now, his labored breathing nearer.

  Wind whistles under the door. She grips the box cutter and waits for him.

  * * *

  Room six is closest. He listens at the door, then heel-kicks it just above the knob. The trim splits. On the second kick, the door flies open, smacks the wall behind it.

  He shines the light inside, pans the beam across the room, tracking it with the gun, ready to fire. The closet door is open, the bathroom and kitchenette empty. No one in here.

  Four rooms left.

  * * *

  She hears the door to room six crash open, wood splintering. She holds her breath. The wind whines outside, changes pitch. She can feel her own heartbeat.

  The next crash makes her jump. It’s closer. Room seven. She’s trapped. If she tries to run now, she’ll be an easy target.

  Another door gives way, closer still. Room eight. She hears him through the wall.

  * * *

  He stops outside room nine, listening again. He thought he heard a noise inside, breathing. Nothing now, except the wind.

  You can walk away, he thinks. Get back in the Impala, head north. Find her some other day and do what he promised. It’s dangerous to stay. Someone might have driven by, seen the car and the damaged door, called 911. Baxter might have gone for help. Police may already be on their way.

  But she’s here now, close. He can feel it. Two doors left. He won’t let her get away again.

  He takes a step back from the door, kicks it hard. Something cracks, but the frame holds. Another kick above the knob, putting his weight into it. Trim buckles. Wood breaks. With the third kick, the door swings open.

  He points the gun into darkness, traces the flashlight beam across the walls, right to left and back again. The room is empty, but the bathroom door is closed. He trains the light on it, steps farther into the room.

  Movement behind him. He swings around and there she is, coming out from behind the broken door, something in her hand. He gets the flashlight up to block it, feels the slash across his upper arm. The flashlight falls, rolls. He swings the gun toward her, fires too soon. A bright muzzle flash, and the bullet holes the wall. Then she’s shoving him away, and he’s falling, first against the bed and then onto the floor.

  He raises the gun, but the doorway’s empty. She’s gone.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Run.

  A clear shot for him if she heads toward the trees. Instead, she races around the building, past the dark vending machines, back to the car. She pulls open the driver’s door. The keys are gone.

  Headlights coming down the highway. She drops the box cutter, runs out to the road, waves her arms. The car speeds up as it goes by, close enough that she feels its slipstream.

  She hears him behind her, coming around the side of the office. She runs across the roadway, heading for the opposite shoulder, the ditch beyond, cover.

  She’s almost there when she feels the hard punch in her back. It drives the breath from her, sends her face-first down the slope, the ground rushing up. She tumbles into the ditch, the sound echoing behind her.

  He shot you.

  * * *

  He sees her lurch forward with the impact, knows the shot was good. She falls out of sight.

  He stands in the lot under the dark sign, panting in the cold air, snow blowing around him. He touches the rip in his jacket. He’s bleeding. She cut him with something, but he deflected it with the flashlight. She was aiming for his throat.

  In the distance, he can hear sirens. He crosses the highway. She’s facedown in the ditch at the bottom of the slope, not moving.

  “You fucking deserved that,” he says.

  The sirens are louder, rising and falling. They’ll be here soon.

  He goes back to her car, takes out the keys and unlocks the trunk, raises the lid. Inside is a spare tire, nothing else.

  Way the dice fell, he thinks. Nothing you can do about it. She’s dead or dying, and the money’s gone for good, wherever it is. He tosses the keys away.

  Flashing lights far off down the highway. If he runs for the Impala, he can make it, get away before a cruiser reaches the motel.

  He starts down the road. Halfway across the bridge, he turns, looks back at the spot where she fell.

  One bullet left.

  * * *

  Joette rolls onto her back, snow drifting down on her. Her left arm is numb, useless. A wet warmth spreads beneath her shirt. Blood.

  She shifts onto hands and knees, hears sirens in the distance. She starts to crawl. If she can make it to the culvert she can hide there, wait for help to come.

  “I should have known.”

  She looks up, and he’s there on the shoulder just above, pointing the gun down at her.

  The sirens are closer, louder. He steadies the gun with his other hand. She shuts her eyes.

  Brakes screech. She hears car doors opening, voices shouting.

  * * *

  Travis looks down at her. Her eyes are closed. She’s breathing hard, waiting for the bullet.

  Blue-and-red rollers sweep across the wet ground. White spotlights catch him. A woman he can’t see is shouting at him to drop the gun. Then comes the unmistakable sound of a pump shotgun being racked.

  He squints into the glare of the lights, then looks back into the ditch.

  “You got lucky again,” he says. Then he turns toward the lights, raises the gun and fires.

  * * *

  Joette hears the pop of handguns, then the boom of something bigger. The pops keep coming, like a string of firecrackers, stopping as suddenly as they began.

  She opens her eyes to a light shining down on her, dim faces behind it. Then more lights, other faces, police uniforms. One of the cops is a woman. She has the butt of a shotgun braced against her hip. Joette recognizes her. It’s Bryce, the state trooper from the day of the accident.

  “Don’t try to move,” she says. “Ambulance is on its way.”

  Joette shudders. She’s cold all over.

  “Breathe,” Bryce says. “Stay with us.”

  Joette looks up at the falling snow. Her eyelids flutter. She’s growing sleepy.

  Is this what it feels like to die?

  The lights above her start to fade, the faces blur. She hears their voices from across a far distance, growing fainter, and she closes her eyes again.

  FORTY-FIVE

  When she wakes, she’s in a hospital treatment room. Noah stands at the foot of the bed, the curtain drawn closed behind him.

  She’s been drifting in and out of sleep since they loaded her into the ambulance. She remembers an EMT cutting her vest and shirt away, the flannel sticky with her blood. Then being rushed down the hall on a gurney, looking up at the blur of ceiling tiles as they went past, wondering when she was going to die.

  “You’re back,” Noah says.

  Her mouth is dry, her lips chapped. Under the loose gown, her shoulder is thick with bandages. An IV bag hangs above her, the tube feeding into a needle in the back of her right hand. Monitors beep just out of sight.

  She tries to sit up.

  “Don’t,” he says.

  She lies back. “Water.”

  “Nurse says just ice for now.”

  He takes a plastic cup from the bedside table, holds it to her lips. She sucks in crushed ice, lets it melt in her mouth. Up close, she can see the shadows under his eyes, all that’s left of the bruising.

  He tak
es away the cup. She shifts in the bed. Her shoulder is stiff, but there’s no pain. Whatever they’re giving her is working.

  “Where am I?” she says.

  “Jersey Shore in Neptune. They were the closest trauma center. How much do you remember?”

  “Not much.”

  “The ER doctor stopped by a little while ago. You were sleeping again. He said he’d come back.”

  “How’s Baxter?”

  “Fine. Couple scratches, that’s all. He says you saved his life.”

  She touches the dressing. “How bad is it?”

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  “They probably did. But I’m not sure how much I understood.”

  She gestures at the cup. He hands it to her, and she shakes more ice into her mouth, feels it cool her throat.

  “Clean through and through,” he says. “Round ricocheted off your shoulder blade, came out just above your collarbone. Soft tissue all the way. Missed your lung and a pretty major artery, they said. I’ll let the doctor explain the rest.”

  She finishes the ice, sets the cup down, feels the first stab of returning pain.

  “There are two troopers and a detective here,” he says. “They’re going to need you to give a statement when you’re ready. Is there anybody you want me to call?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “Not a bad idea, have someone on your side from the beginning,” he says. “Get your story straight.”

  “There’s nothing to get straight. I got shot, by the man who was stalking me. The same one that hurt you.”

  “Why did you go to the motel?”

  “He called me. He was going to kill Baxter if I didn’t come there.”

  “How did he get your number?”

  “I don’t know,” she lies.

  “You should have called me, or 911.”

  “Maybe I should have. But I didn’t.”

  She’s tired again, wants to sleep. There are voices down the hall, growing nearer.