Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

“I forgot to mention,” Harry says, “it looks like our buddy Alex found a rifle.”

  I escort Mom quickly down the hall, peek in on the boys, find them still alive, and press on to the laundry room, where I left the flashlight. I stick it in my holster belt, then stop by the bathroom again on my way back.

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” I say to Mom. “This is almost over.”

  “I hope so, Jacqueline. This might not be the right time, but I’m thinking about moving back into the city. Would that be okay?”

  I smile. “We’ll call a Realtor in the morning, Mom. Stay put. Harry will be by soon.”

  We hug again, and I hurry back to the kitchen. Harry is at the kitchen table, holding his cell phone.

  “Just erasing the picture of your head,” he says. “And another one I took up your skirt when you weren’t looking.”

  I open the patio door and step outside, Harry in tow. The night has continued to cool off, and the wind blows through my hair and makes me shiver. It feels good, clean, almost energizing. Hopefully it will be energizing enough to get me on the roof.

  “I’m going to climb up onto the veranda,” I tell Harry.

  We push a lawn chair to the corner of the patio, and I stand on it. Harry braces himself against the post and bends down. I step onto his back and get my chin up over the top of the veranda. On any other night, I could have easily pulled myself up. But this small effort by itself has turned the world into a carousel, spinning me around and around. I take a few seconds to control my wobbling.

  “Anytime now,” Harry grunts.

  “You have to lift higher.”

  He straightens his back, and I rise another few inches. It still isn’t enough.

  “Push me up with your hand,” I say. Then I add, “Your real one.”

  The aforementioned hand lands solidly on my ass, and he squeezes. I freeze up.

  “McGlade, there’s so much wrong with what you’re doing right now.”

  “I’m not enjoying it either, Jackie. You’re not exactly heroin chic.”

  Fighting words. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “No. Of course not. You’re…what’s the opposite of anorexic?”

  I remind myself I only have one bullet and need to save it.

  “Never discuss a woman’s weight with her, Harry.”

  “Tell that to the loop of intestines bulging out of my side. It’s so big I can twist it into balloon animals.”

  He grips lower, onto my thigh, and lifts. This is enough for me to get my upper body onto the veranda. But I’m having a little trouble swinging my leg up.

  “Okay, Harry. Push on my—”

  “Oh shit!”

  Suddenly McGlade is gone and I’m alone, legs dangling. I slap my palms against the wooden slats of veranda top, trying to find something to grab hold of. All I find are splinters. If Alex is down there with Harry, I’m an easy target with my ass hanging over the ledge. I reach for the holster, ready to drop down and—

  “Sorry, Jackie.” Harry is beneath me again, his hand pushing against my feet. “Your damn cat just ran past me, into the house. Scared the hell out of me.”

  He shoves me, and I manage to finally get my whole body up onto the veranda. I lie on my back for a moment, staring at the stars in the night sky. My heart is beating wildly, and I try to summon up enough saliva so I can swallow.

  “You okay?” Harry asks.

  I’m about as far from okay as a girl can be, but I say, “Yeah. Get back in the house and keep an eye on Mom.”

  “The cat’s in the house.”

  “McGlade…”

  “Fine. I’m on it.”

  I wait, but don’t hear the patio door close. I twist my head and peek down through the slats. Harry is still standing there.

  “Move it, Harry.”

  “Yeah. It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I should be the one on the roof.”

  Unbelievable. “Little late for that now.”

  “Just…just be careful, Jackie. I was an only child my whole life. I’m not anxious to be one again.”

  I’m grateful I’m up here, because his tone implies he wants to hug me again.

  “Don’t you have anything you want to say to me, Jackie?” he asks.

  “Yes, I do, Harry.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening. I’m here for you. Say what you need to say.”

  “Here it is: Get in the house and watch Mom.”

  Harry nods. “I understand. You’ve got all of these new feelings, and it isn’t easy to—”

  “GET IN THE DAMN HOUSE!”

  “Got it. I’m going.”

  Harry goes back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. I sit up, then carefully get to my feet. The veranda is flat on top, and I’m able to keep my balance. Walking from the veranda to the roof is a bit more problematic, since the roof is on an angle. Not a steep angle, but too steep for a woman with multiple injuries who was shot in the head a few hours ago.

  Standing isn’t going to happen. Crawling on the rough shingles hurts my knees. So I settle for a sort of sliding scoot, navigating the roof on my butt. I tug the flashlight from my belt and flick it on, giving this side of the roof a quick scan. I have no idea what a cell phone jammer looks like, or even how big it is. I’m guessing it doesn’t look like dead leaves; that’s all I see.

  I make my way toward the garage, my bare feet brushing the gutters, methodically checking every other scoot for anything that looks electronic. I make it to the end of the house, maneuver over the corner of the roof to the side of the garage, and still find nothing.

  Unless Munchel is lying, the only place the jammer can still be is on the front side of the house—which is where Alex is waiting with her sniper rifle.

  I pause, switching off my light. There hasn’t been any shooting for a while. That might mean she fled the area. Or it might mean that she’s just waiting for me to come into view.

  I rack my brain for other options, and can’t come up with any. I have to find the jammer, the sooner the better.

  Either I get shot, or I don’t, I think. Not much in the way of rationalization, but it’s all I have to work with.

  I scoot over the corner, facing my driveway, and notice an SUV parked down the road. There’s a big hole in the windshield, and its headlights are on.

  I can’t make out who’s inside, but lying on the ground, near the passenger door, is Alex. My first hope is that she’s dead, but that’s dashed when I see her slink closer to the front of the truck.

  If she’s sneaking up to it, there must be someone inside. Everyone in the house is accounted for. That leaves Phin.

  I have to warn him.

  I draw the Desert Eagle, figuring I’ll fire one in his direction to get his attention. But that will leave me unarmed.

  Alex sneaks closer.

  I switch on my flashlight, wave it over my head, and yell, “Phin!”

  I don’t know if he hears it. But Alex does. She turns her head, waves at me, then begins to climb the hood. She’s going to go in through the hole in the front windshield.

  Phin came here because of me. I have to do something.

  Without considering the wisdom of my action, I kick my legs out over the edge of the roof and brace myself for impact with the ground.

  12:07 A.M.

  PHIN

  HE KNOWS ALEX is in the dark somewhere, stalking him. Phin can’t find her. And until he does, he’s stuck in the Bronco. This truck is a mobile arsenal, with enough ammunition to overthrow a small country. He can’t carry it all back to the house in one trip. And if he abandons it, there’s a chance Alex will appropriate the ammo for herself.

  Hot-wiring a vehicle is beyond Phin’s criminal ability. All that remains is sitting here, trying to spot Alex, and keeping an eye on the front of the house.

  He’s tired, and in pain, and worst of all, sober. This giv
es him an unfettered chance to dwell on a future he isn’t going to have, which hurts more than his cancer and his elbow combined.

  Living without hope is a shitty way to live.

  He considers the grass in his pocket again. That would help take the edge off reality. But he needs to stay sharp. For Jack.

  On the other hand, Jack is his friend, and she wants him to be happy. He’s not happy sitting in a truck in the middle of the night, shirtless and shivering, with a broken elbow and a cancerous pancreas, throwing a major pity party for himself.

  He sticks his hand into his jeans, touches the bag.

  Leaves it there.

  Phin isn’t sure why Jack inspires this loyalty in him. Is it a crush? Or maybe something more?

  Phin kills the thought. He has no future. He has no hope. There’s no room for love in his life.

  For his own protection, he needs to prove that he doesn’t care. The easiest way to prove it is to get high right now.

  But he still doesn’t pull out the bag.

  Rather than dwelling on what that means, Phin turns the headlights on so Alex can’t approach from the front. His rifle is loaded, and so is a shotgun he found in back. He uses the night scope to check the rear again, and the woods to the side. Then he shifts in his seat to watch Jack’s house.

  There’s a light, on the roof. It’s waving around, and then he hears Jack cry out, “Phin!”

  A warning cry.

  Phin jerks around to the front, spotting Alex on the hood. He fires the shotgun through the hole in the windshield, hitting nothing but sky, and she rolls to the side.

  The gun bucks in his hands, and he can’t rack it again with a broken elbow. He wedges the butt between his legs, the barrel touching the ceiling of the truck, and moves to pump it with his right hand. Before he has a chance to, Alex pours into the cab.

  She doesn’t go for the gun. She goes for Phin’s injured arm, grabbing and twisting until all he can see is a big red ball of blinding pain. He yells, hits her in the head with the stock, but there’s no force to the blow.

  Phin pulls away, raises up his foot, but there’s no room in the front seat to kick her. Alex lets go of his arm, but then she’s wrestling with the shotgun, her two hands versus his one.

  She’s winning, and he can’t hold on much longer. Rather than release his grip, Phin pushes forward, forcing her through the front window, climbing on top and pinning her back to the hood.

  Phin lets her have the shotgun—she can’t use it on him while they’re grappling. His knee digs into her solar plexus, and his good hand locks onto her throat. He squeezes to kill.

  Alex rakes her fingernails across Phin’s eyes, but he shuts them tight, concentrating on crushing her windpipe.

  Then she finds his elbow again, and yanks on it so hard that something else snaps.

  Phin cries out, rolling off of Alex, landing face-first on the cool grass. The shotgun skids across the hood and falls in front of the truck, between the headlights.

  Alex is closer. She scrambles for it, reaching down.

  BAM!

  The shot doesn’t come from Alex. It comes from behind them.

  Jack.

  The cop is only twenty yards away, jogging over with a huge handgun pointing in their direction.

  Alex does a diving roll, then tears off into the woods, leaving the shotgun behind.

  Phin crawls to the shotgun, pumps it with the butt on the ground, and fires it into the darkness after Alex. Jack staggers up behind him. She’s panting.

  “She’s unarmed,” he tells her. “You can go after her.”

  “No ammo,” Jack says.

  “Take the shotgun.”

  Jack reaches for it, goes wiggly, and collapses right onto Phin’s lap.

  12:08 A.M.

  MUNCHEL

  “YOU LITTLE YELLOW-EYED BASTARD. The first bullet is going in your skull.”

  Munchel slowly extends his hand, reaching for the revolver for the ninth time.

  The damned cat hisses and lashes out its claw, tunneling three more deep scratches along Munchel’s wrist.

  He jerks his hand back again and swears. Munchel’s arm is bleeding in so many places it looks like he stuck it in a blender. The pain almost rivals the pain in his gut. Over twenty scratch marks and three bites; one he’s sure went all the way down to the bone.

  The revolver is only a few feet away, just within reach. But it’s right next to the litter box, which the cat is standing in. Every time Munchel reaches for it, the cat draws more blood.

  Worst of all, the horrible feline seems to actually be enjoying itself. As if this is some sick game. Munchel tried waiting for it to use the litter box and leave, but it just sits there, yellow eyes sparkling, daring him to make another move.

  Gunshots, outside. Munchel isn’t concerned with that. His entire world has become his arm, the gun, and the cat.

  Munchel tried yelling. Tried slapping his hand on the floor. Tried talking sweet. Tried begging. He even tried nudging the litter box, but that’s the move that provoked the biting, and he isn’t going to attempt it again.

  Munchel’s lower lip trembles, and the tears come. His stomach is getting even worse. It’s not even about escaping anymore. Even if he shot off the handcuffs, he wouldn’t have the strength to get to the truck.

  Munchel wants the gun for another reason. His final request. He wants to shoot that split-tail and that one-armed guy who did this to him. And the cat. He really wants to shoot the cat.

  Then he’ll use the gun on himself and end this terrible pain.

  Just do it, he thinks. It’s just a cat. If it scratches you, no big deal. You’re going to die anyway. Be a soldier and do it!

  Munchel extends his hand toward the revolver for the tenth time. He shows no fear, and doesn’t hesitate. The cat watches him, unblinking, as he gets within ten inches of the gun.

  Eight inches.

  Six inches.

  Four inches.

  Two inches.

  Munchel grabs it! He lifts the gun up, his index finger seeking the trigger, and then there’s a blur of yellow fur and the cat has all four claws and its teeth locked onto Munchel’s hand. Munchel can’t help it—the cat hits a tendon or something that makes his hand pop open, causing him to release the gun. He screams, reining his arm in, lifting it up to beat the cat against the underside of the workbench. But before he can, the cat releases him, hopping back into the litter box.

  The pain doesn’t abate. It feels like the cat is still clawing, still biting. Munchel looks for the gun, and sees it’s even farther away now.

  And the cat, the damned cat, is licking Munchel’s blood from its paw.

  There’s some noise, from the opposite side of the garage. Munchel swivels his neck around, and through a gap in the boxes he spies someone climbing in through the window.

  It’s the woman. The badass woman who was trying to kill the split-tail cop. She navigates the boxes and walks over to Munchel, staring down at him.

  The woman has a killer body, but her face is Phantom of the Opera. Still, she’s trying to kill Jackie. She could be a possible ally.

  “We both want the cop dead,” Munchel says.

  The woman lifts her foot up, lightly touches her toe to Munchel’s stomach. He howls, all thoughts of a possible alliance being wiped from his mind. Everything gets bright, then dark.

  “It’s your stomach acid,” she says. “It’s leaking through the bullet hole, and dissolving all of your other organs. Bad way to die. Takes hours.”

  She moves her foot up higher, nudges his shoulder. Munchel wonders if maybe he blacked out for a few seconds.

  “What happened to your hand?” she asks.

  Her eyes track from Munchel’s arm to the litter box, then to the revolver. The woman’s face twitches.

  “Kitty won’t let you have the gun? That’s pretty damn funny.”

  The woman bends down, looks at the cat, and says, “Scram.”

  The cat hisses, then bounds out
of the garage, back into the house. The woman picks up the revolver.

  “Is this what you wanted? So close, but so far. That must have been awful for you.”

  Munchel knows what he has to say, but can’t bring himself to say it.

  “Let me take a wild guess.” The woman crouches next to him, wipes away one of Munchel’s tears with her thumb. “You want me to shoot you. Right?”

  Munchel nods, and manages to add, “Please.”

  “Normally, I’m a merciful chick. But you and your boys—well, you really fucked up my plans for the evening. So I think the best thing for both of us is for you to die in horrible agony.”

  She’s not going to help him. But maybe he can force her to.

  “I’ll…I’ll scream,” he says. “I’ll scream that you’re here.”

  The woman straightens up and places her foot on Munchel’s stomach again, taking his breath away.

  “No you won’t. Because I can make it worse.”

  She reaches over his head, onto the workbench, and grabs two items: a funnel, and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner. She drops them next to Munchel.

  “You make a sound,” she tells him, “even the tiniest sound, and I’ll fill you up with something that hurts a lot worse than stomach acid. Got it?”

  Munchel nods, pissing his pants once more.

  “Who has the keys to that truck outside?”

  “Pess…Pessolano.”

  “He the guy in the living room?”

  Munchel nods again, wishing he would die.

  “Inside. Are they armed?”

  “…the guy, Harry…he’s got a Desert Eagle…only one bullet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “…no…please…”

  She finally takes her foot off his stomach. Then she swings out the cylinder on the revolver, slaps it back in, and cocks it, heading for the doorway to the house. Before she goes through she looks at Munchel.

  “Remember,” she says, putting a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Munchel closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on being very, very quiet.

  12:09 A.M.

  JACK

  I WAKE UP WITH MY HEAD in Phin’s lap. He appears concerned, an emotion I’ve never seen from him before. It softens his features, making him look like a different person.