by Trixie More
“Where are you?” Her voice came out hoarse and low. Who was this man to her? How did this happen?
“I’m coming for you,” he said, and her heart leaped. She unbuttoned her coat. She should tell the driver to turn down the heat, but she didn’t have enough brain cells to split her attention.
“You can’t,” she whispered. Her body begged to differ, pleaded for this man to make good on the promise in every way.
“Come for you?” he repeated back. “I’m sure I can.”
Oh, my God. She was suddenly sure she could return the statement right now. The ache was deep and long now, starting between her legs but reaching back inside her. She was empty, and her body was roaring to life, suddenly aware. She felt lightheaded.
“Please,” she said before she knew she was saying it. She made her voice even quieter, not wanting the curious driver to hear. “What if it’s me who’s coming for you?” she asked. The words alone almost fulfilled their promise.
“Sophia.” She loved him, saying her name. The sounds of the trains were louder. The intensity of her arousal fled, the ache still there but smaller now.
“Where are you?”
“Penn station.”
“No!” He couldn’t do it. “No, Doug, please, no.”
Now the driver was openly staring at her, concern on his face as he glanced over his shoulder.
She shook her head and gestured to the front of the car. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
“He better be careful with you,” Doug spit.
“He’s fine,” she replied. Insider her, the huntress, the predator, loved the promise of violence in his words. “You must not leave the city. Not for this.”
“Tell me what you’re doing then,” he said. “The train will be here any moment. I’m only minutes behind you.”
Like that. With a blast of heat, it all came back. If she’d been standing in front of Doug, she’d be wrapped around him again. The alley wasn’t a one-time thing for her. Sophia wondered how often she might feel this way with him? Three times? A handful? She couldn’t imagine the intensity would last. She swallowed and when she spoke, low, trembling huskiness wrapped itself inside her.
“I’m checking out a lead that was called in. The Elizabeth police already looked into it. It’s got to be colder than a Popsicle. I’m just hoping they’re at the scene so I can go in. Otherwise, all I’ll be able to do is check out the exterior. It’ll be fine.” She paused. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”
He repeated the address to her. Another train pulled to a stop.
“Doug, please, don’t get on that train.” The sound of begging was like a voice from another woman. “If you do, they’ll cancel your bail and then I’ll...” She paused, her stomach clenching at the words that were going to come from her mouth. “And then we can’t...”
Miles away, Doug sucked in a breath.
“I’m coming for you,” he said. “Now.”
The green car stuck out like a sore thumb. As Tommy drove through the ramshackle New Jersey neighborhood, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was monochrome, and his vehicle was the only thing with color—neon green color. There was no way he could park anywhere near his destination. Fingers shaking on the steering wheel, he hunched forward, peering through the windshield.
The caller, an associate of Camisa’s, who wouldn’t give his name, had been Samuel. Tommy had almost laughed when he’d heard the voice. He would have laughed, except Samuel was also very clear that Tommy needed to comply. It looked like Doug might not be going to jail for murder, and it was time for Tommy to do his part.
His polyester shirt stuck to his back, and his stomach kept threatening revolt. If he was going to hurl, it would be better to do it now, somewhere far from the soon-to-be crime scene, right? He pulled to the side, opened the driver’s door, and puked onto the roadway. Chinese, of all things, for God’s sake. Why the hell did he eat fried food and garlic tonight? The sight made his guts clench tight as a fist. The rest of his dinner and maybe everything he’d eaten all week spewed onto the ground.
“Gross! You better clean that up!” He looked up through the window of the open door and saw a young kid in a hoodie glaring at him. Tommy didn’t even bother to speak, he just pulled himself into the car and put it back in gear. His mouth felt like shit, but his gut felt better. The street was only a few blocks from here. He drove around and around, almost screaming in frustration as he felt time ripping past him, his body tight with anxiety and his action stymied by this all being so fucking foreign. Where the hell was a strip mall or some closed down garage? Where could he leave this neon green sign he was driving?
Space opened up ahead, and he saw a wire fence, a rolling gate set back from a warehouse of some kind. There were three cars parked nose in toward the chain-link and there wasn’t a soul around. Thank God. Tommy pulled in and just sat for a second, his knees weak and his hands trembling. How the hell had this happened? He was going to blow up a house. What if it killed someone? For God’s sake. He didn’t kill people. Doug was the one with the temper, the one who did rash and stupid things, not him.
Doug and Marco. Tommy put his head in his hands. His fingers rattled against his scalp.
It came down to so many things, so many ways he’d fucked up. When Marco called him and told him that Gerrimon had left the country with the cold wallet, it had seemed so obvious. Get on a plane, find Gerrimon, and get the cold wallet back. So he’d taken down the address in the Bahamas and booked a flight. In his own name. With the company credit card.
From there, it had been a fast ride to hell. Tommy had never had a chance. Marco, Samuel, these guys were in it up to their necks too, but they knew how to swim. Tommy did not. He’d gone to Gerrimon’s rental like Marco told him. Left his fingerprints on the doors, the furniture, a laptop. Then he let Marco and Samuel in. At first, he’d been so relieved. Gerrimon, with his Texas boy drawl and his big belt buckle, had caved quickly after Samuel broke his cheekbone. Gerrimon had connected up the cold wallet and signed in. Afterward? Samuel had taken Colton for a swim.
So, here Tommy was. Sitting in his ride share, outside an empty lot in Elizabeth, getting ready to plant a real live bomb because his fingerprints were on the laptop that Colton Gerrimon typed his damn password into. Tommy’s insides lurched again, but he held it all down. There would be no puking here. He didn’t want to leave any DNA anywhere. To that end, he dug his gloves out and put them on. He couldn’t take an Uber and have a witness, and for the love of God, he couldn’t try to bring this thing on a train.
Tommy got out of the car, gently pulling the small duffel bag with him. He fumbled with his cell phone, had to take his damn glove off again to make the touch screen work, and punched the address into the app for directions. When a voice shouted at him to take a left, the phone almost bounced out of his startled hands. Heart pounding, he turned off the volume on his phone and studied the screen. Three blocks to his left, over one. Perfect. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and continued on his current street, not wanting to be seen walking down the same street where he was about to send a building to kingdom-come if he didn’t blow himself up along with it. The fucking laptop had better be there. The man who was pretending not to be Samuel had promised an even trade. The computer for the small favor of blowing this house up, and don’t even think about not finishing the job.
The house was abandoned, that’s what the guy had assured him. Tommy felt his insides relaxing as he approached, cutting between the tightly bundled duplex homes behind his destination. All of this looked like it had been built in the 1950s, the same type of stacked flats you saw in the suburbs of every major city, or at least Boston and Detroit, since that was the extent of Tommy’s travels. Providing you didn’t count his jaunt to the islands this summer.
He crept into the backyard, watching around him warily but saw no people. It was after seven, and the sunlight disappeared earlier these days. Soon the clocks would be rolled back, and they’
d all be living in darkness from the time they left work to the time they got there again.
The lower floor of the house before him was boarded up, the upper floor windows black and silent. He tried the door, and it swung open smoothly. In this neighborhood, it was unlikely to be unlocked, so Tommy assumed someone had prepared the place for him. Why couldn’t they have just left the damn bomb there themselves? This was all so wrong.
He took out his cell phone and turned on the flashlight application, having to take his gloves off to do it—again.
His stomach’s remaining contents took a run at his esophagus, but he triumphed once again, seemingly at the expense of his legs, which started to tremble. Tommy inhaled deeply and immediately was overcome with coughing. The flashlight beam revealed swirling dust motes. Oh God, had he just sprayed DNA all over the room by coughing? He had no clue. This wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t a thug; he was a gay man who’d never fully come out of the closet who’d watched the love of his life stew in his own denial.
He looked around the kitchen. There on the counter was a laptop, the laptop. Sweat ran hot and slimy down Tommy’s temple. He blotted it on his sleeve. More loose DNA. At this point, if he didn’t blow this place to smithereens, the Camisas would make good on their threats, and all his DNA would be found connected to this place anyway. By coming here, if he’d ever had a choice to not do this, it was off the table now.
Fuck it. Deciding to pick up the laptop on the way out, when his hands would be empty, he shouldered the bomb-in-a-bag and walked into the living room. Dirt was scattered on the floor, clearly showing where a rectangle of carpeting had been removed, leaving a bright center and dark edges to the wood. The remaining couch was torn up, its guts of foam flowing pale yellow from the cushions where it was shoved against a wall. They’d told him to put the bomb in here. He couldn’t put it in the basement, they said. There was a freezer in the basement. It had held the body of a man killed by the cybercrime prosecutor investigating the Gerrimon case. The bomb must bring the police but the freezer must not be damaged. The evidence against the prosecutor must be found.
Tommy stood still. Why not pull the freezer out and dump it in front of a police station? It seemed so much saner. Maybe he could drag it out? He set the bag that held the bomb down on the floor and returned to the kitchen. Creeping down the stairs to the cellar, he found string hung from a light bulb. Would the light show through any windows? Scanning the walls, he found none and then pulled the dirty twine. Tommy blinked. The freezer sat there, the newest thing in the house. It was as long as a coffin and four times as tall. There would be no moving this thing. He needed to call attention to the freezer. He needed to make sure that it was investigated.
Daunted, he shut the light off and returned to the living room. All he had to do was plant this along the outer wall, the building would come down, and he’d be done. That’s what they’d said. He pulled the contraption out. He had no fucking clue what he was looking at. Put the thing up near a corner joist and put in the battery. That’s all he had to do, then get out of there and far away in fifteen minutes.
Tommy dragged the couch into the corner. Balancing on the arm of it, he looked for a way to get the bomb up high in the room. In the end, there was nothing to do but turn the couch on its arm in the corner. Next, he needed to set the bomb, placing it on the arm that was near the ceiling. He put the battery in the weapon, alarmed when red LED numbers flashed brightly. He gingerly stood on his toes and pushed the bomb across the upper arm of the sofa. It didn’t look close enough to the corner of the wall. He used just the tips of his fingers to push it farther until it was out of his reach.
Outside, a car pulled up. A door slammed shut, and then his heart almost ejected from his chest as the kitchen door to this house opened.
Tommy crouched down instinctively, even though there was no fucking place to hide here.
Footsteps pounded down the cellar stairs. Holy shit. The laptop was in the kitchen. Could he get it and get out the back door while whoever was down there? No. That would mean whoever it was would be caught in here and possibly killed. No, no, no, this was not good. He had to bring them out of there with him. He shouldered the duffel bag and headed into the kitchen. Warm yellow light spilled from the basement. He started down the steps and was three stairs down when he hesitated, crouching and peering around. There was a tall, thinnish man with his back to him. He was wearing an NYC Police windbreaker.
Tommy crept slowly back up the stairs. If that was a cop down there, then the freezer was already going to be investigated. He should shut the bomb off. If that was a cop down there and Tommy blew up the place with a cop inside, Tommy was dead. He’d be discovered and put into jail more surely than if they found out he’d been involved in the money laundering and the death of Colton Gerrimon.
Why had he ever gone in with Camisa? Tommy retreated to the living room. He had to shut the timer off.
The red light glowed in the darkness, reflecting off the wall dully. It was out of reach. Of course, it was. Tommy looked around for something to stand on. There was a chair with three legs, maybe he could prop it against the couch or lay it on its side. He carried the chair over, conscious of the time. From the cellar, a flurry of activity seemed to be going on. What the hell was the guy doing? Why weren’t there more cops? Didn’t they travel in pairs? Or fucking vans packed with men?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tommy laid the chair on its side. Two good legs along the floor, one remaining leg against the back of the couch, the edge of the seat looking too high. If he could balance on one foot on the side of the seat and cling to the sofa, he might reach the bomb. He levered himself up, and the entire sofa rocked. The bomb wiggled closer to the gap between the arm of the couch and the wall. Sweat burst out all over Tommy, and he dropped back to the floor. The fucking thing almost tumbled down behind the couch. What would happen if it fell five feet? Would it detonate?
How much time was left? Ten minutes? Five?
Behind him, he heard the impossible. The kitchen door opened again. Again. Camisa. They must have set this up. Set him up. Too late, he realized his cell phone flashlight had swept out into the hall. He shoved it into his pants pocket. Now his crotch was glowing, and the ludicrousness of it almost sent a ripple of laughter out of him. He put his fist over his mouth. Silence.
Who was out there? Tommy cowered in the living room. What should he do now? It didn’t matter who was out there if he blew himself up, so he got up and crept over to the couch again.
The line went dead in Sophia’s hands.
No, she thought. This was not what she wanted, was it? Her most private parts of herself seemed to disagree. He was coming for her. It should be wrong, like the creep at the fair, but it felt like if she rounded a corner, he’d be there to catch her. It should feel like overprotective coddling. Instead, the firmness of his assertions seemed like she’d left something behind that he was returning. Just returning himself to her. Underneath was longing, lust, the sentiment, and the sediment of a relationship building, assembling itself without her consent. If this was love, she wasn’t sure she wanted it.
The car entered the tunnel under the Hudson River. She’d be in Jersey shortly. The address wasn’t far from where they’d arrive, close to the airport in fact.
She texted him once more, and with each unanswered text, her desperation rose. She wanted this man. She wanted him out of jail.
Doug, don’t, please don’t. I’ll meet you as soon as I get back, I promise.
We’ll get something to eat
We’ll go to my hotel.
Anything.
The whine and rush of an airplane rising from Newark Airport and crossing above the car assaulted her ears. Panic gripped her stomach and squeezed, the urgency between her legs wholly erased now. She barely noticed it leaving. In her hand, she watched her messages, praying to see the little bubbles that meant he was typing. Two minutes later, the driver was pulling up to a corner she could have described in her sleep. It led
to the same street where Ben had paid off the man with the hairy arms. The Italian who had been accompanied by... an overweight black man. How could she have forgotten that? Stupid, stupid woman. The house had to belong to the Camisa family.
“Don’t turn here. Just drive past,” Sophia said. “There, just pull to the curb there.” The car slid slowly up to the cracked and weed-choked sidewalk.
“This doesn’t look safe, lady,” the driver said, all traces of good humor gone from his face.
“It’s not.” She opened the door, and leaning over the seat, dropped the fare plus forty dollars. “That’s to wait for me for one hour.”
He didn’t look convinced. Sophia tossed two more twenties at him. “Circle the block and come back every ten minutes, okay?”
The driver scowled at her. “I don’t like being in this position.”
“Give me back the eighty dollars and leave then,” she said calmly. She got out, shut the door, and leaned in the passenger window.
He handed her the money.
Sophia walked briskly down the street, turning the corner and heading toward the house where Ben had handed over a hundred grand to a stranger. Today, she was sandwiched between the past when Ben had stood on this street and handed over a bag of cash and the future when Doug would come and seek her outright at this same house. There was no stopping the shiver that shook through her. She tightened her belt and headed into whatever was coming next.
The house looked the same, except now it was boarded up. She was just as out of place as she’d been last time. The street was short, a dead-end at a chain-link fence. Not a soul stirred on the street, most of the windows dark, a few glowing blue in the deep evening gloom. At the back of one of them, yellow light flooded a backyard, at least one of the apartments inhabited. All the houses were narrow, two or three-story structures surrounded in exoskeletons of wooden stairs leading to the flats that had been chopped out of the single-family and duplex homes.
