by Simon Wood
“Is that my money?” Mackey motioned at the bag with the gun.
Torrance nodded and dropped the bag on the snow between them. Half a million dollars made a sizeable dent in the snow.
“Count it,” Mackey instructed Rachel.
She dropped to her knees and pulled out the banded stacks of hundreds, leaving the counted money on the snow. Torrance feared for the money. But that was the weird thing about money. It could get wet, it could get dirty, even bloody, but regardless of its condition, money never lost its value. He couldn’t think of anything else in this world that could boast such credentials.
“How did you get it?” Mackey asked.
“I didn’t win it if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mackey laughed. “So you did it. You pulled it off.”
Torrance nodded.
“You son of bitch,” Mackey chirped. “You siphoned the money out of the firm’s accounting system.”
“That’s the thing about being an IT administrator. You have all the passwords and access to everyone’s accounts. It’s not hard to change a few things.”
Torrance didn’t feel the joy Mackey did. It wasn’t because he’d ripped his employers off or because they’d notice the shortfall in the accounts in the morning and be on to him straightaway, but because he’d had the plan in place all along. Obviously, he hadn’t planned to steal such a large chunk of change in such a hurry. The plan had been to trickle it into an account for Rachel and him. The money was for their escape. They were meant to be escaping Mackey with it, not handing it to him.
Mackey examined Fyker’s head wound, using the revolver to probe at it, as a doctor would use a tongue depressor. “You did a nice job with Fyker, too. Look what kind of guy I turned you into, Torrance.”
“It’s all here, baby,” Rachel said and started piling the money back into the bag.
Baby, Torrance thought. She’d said this to Mackey, not him. Something was wrong here. The warmth Rachel had supplied moments earlier died, letting in the cold.
“Oh dear, Rachel, I think you made a mistake.” Mackey aimed his revolver at Torrance’s chest. “Take the gun from him.”
Rachel zipped up the bag and sidled up to Torrance. Her hand slipped over his for a moment before grasping the .32. “Sorry about this, lover.”
Torrance made no effort to stop her and let her take the pistol. The pieces had fallen into place. He’d destroyed his life chasing after a lie. He was so stupid. Rachel backed away with the gun pointed at him, then handed it to Mackey.
“So this has all been about the money?” he asked.
“No.” Fyker supplied the reply. “They had to get rid of me.”
“Our paths crossed some time ago,” Mackey said.
“I should have realized when you had me snatched,” Fyker told Mackey. “Just goes to show what I know. I thought I’d buried myself deep enough that you would never find me.”
“Who are you?” Torrance asked.
A gunshot cut off Fyker’s reply. The sharp crack from the .32 spread across the field, but with no walls for the sound to echo off of, the report lost its strength and the sound fell into the snow. Fyker fell back into a snow-angel repose. Blood poured out of him, staining the snow scarlet.
“Who he was isn’t important,” Mackey said. “He was a problem that no longer exists.”
“Is this a regular scam for you?” Torrance asked.
“I wouldn’t say regular,” Rachel replied.
“Something we do when we need to,” Mackey added.
“When the cash runs low,” Torrance said, finishing off the thought.
“Now you get it,” Mackey said. He pocketed the .32 and aimed his revolver at Torrance. “Okay, come toward me and turn and face our friend Fyker. This has to look like you guys whacked each other.”
Torrance did as he was told. As he approached, both Mackey and Rachel backed up and circled around Fyker. After some final cajoling, Torrance stood exactly where Mackey wanted him. Mackey and Rachel stood with Fyker’s head at their feet.
“Was he a previous mark?” Torrance asked.
“No,” Rachel replied. “His brother was. He spent years trying to find his brother’s killers.”
“So you’re going to kill me?”
“Isn’t this the way it’s got to end?” Mackey suggested.
Torrance could see how it would almost be the best for him. He hadn’t covered his tracks very well with the embezzled money. The cops would have a slam-dunk case. He couldn’t see himself doing too well in prison. All that he could live with, though. The sheer stupidity, he couldn’t. His stupidity had cost a man his life. In a lot of ways, a bullet between the eyes was a good thing.
“This is the first time we’ve had to do it this way,” Mackey admitted.
“We usually make it look like a suicide,” Rachel said.
“What changed the plan?”
“Fyker,” Mackey said. “We didn’t know he’d moved to Edmonton. He’d seen us once with his brother.”
“We couldn’t risk him spotting us here,” Rachel said.
“So why not kill two birds with one stone,” Torrance suggested.
“And talking of killing two birds.” Mackey pulled back the hammer on the revolver. “We’re one bird short.”
“You can’t get away with this forever,” Torrance said.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Mackey focused his aim on Torrance’s chest. “Any last requests?”
“Yeah. Tell me, why here?”
Mackey snorted. “This place is perfect. You would never find a body out here under all this sky.”
Torrance couldn’t fault Mackey’s logic. There were so many things to sink you in the city. There were plenty of cops with plenty of resources backed up by an abundant array of witnesses to convict you. None of that was true in the country. You could make all the mess you liked and no one would be around to notice anything. He wondered how many people were killed out here, never found, and written off as missing.
“Time to hit the road,” Mackey said and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Torrance in the chest with the impact of a red-hot sledgehammer. His chest felt like it had collapsed, crushing the air from his lungs. Try as he might, he couldn’t manage to inhale to reverse the damage. How could such a tiny piece of metal do so much damage? Torrance thought as he collapsed to the ground on his back, the soft snow cushioning the fall.
Mackey knelt by Fyker’s side and placed the revolver in his hand.
Rachel edged back from Torrance. “Is he dead?” she asked.
Mackey trotted over, gave Torrance a cursory glance, and dropped the .32 by Torrance’s hand. “No, but he will be soon. Let’s go.”
Torrance stared up at the clear night sky and listened to the hurried footsteps crunching on fresh snow, escaping toward the road. Soon their footsteps disappeared and the world went quiet. He’d never experienced this kind of silence. Even on the quietest of city nights, he could still hear cars and the passing of jets, but out here, nothing. He found the stillness of it comforting, relaxing even. All he could hear were his shallow breaths leaving his mouth and the beating of his heart. He could live here for the rest of his life. He laughed at the thought. He probably would.
Mackey’s curses broke the quiet. He and Rachel ran back toward Torrance. He couldn’t think what had gone wrong and caused all the commotion; then it struck him.
“Keys,” he murmured to himself. They needed to get rid of the Buick. They couldn’t leave the car on the road. “They forgot to get my keys.”
Torrance fumbled in his pocket for them. He wrestled them free and tossed them into the snow. His throw didn’t get the keys far, but far enough to make life difficult for them.
Mackey raced to Torrance’s side and reached into his pockets. “Where are the damn car keys?”
“Oh, I must have dropped them.”
“Where?” Rachel demanded.
“Over there, I think,” Torrance replied, pointing
in the opposite direction from his throw.
“Don’t listen to him,” Mackey rasped. “He’s just screwing with you.”
Torrance reached out and his hand curled around the revolver Mackey had used to shoot him. “Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Shit!”
Mackey noticed Torrance raising the pistol, but it was too late. Torrance pressed the gun to Mackey’s throat and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, Mackey toppled onto his side, and there was more scarlet on white.
“Oh my God,” Rachel cried.
Torrance struggled, but managed to sit up. Rachel went for the revolver lying in Fyker’s hand.
“Don’t,” Torrance ordered, but she snatched up the weapon. Torrance fired. His shot caught her in the side of the head, just at the temple. She crumpled as if she were a puppet and he’d cut her strings. She collapsed on top of Fyker.
Torrance still didn’t understand why he wasn’t dead. He dropped the gun and ripped open his jacket. The bullet had passed through his jacket, sweaters, and shirt, but had stopped when it had struck and glanced off the silver cross. The cross itself had been pressed deep into his chest, leaving its impression branded over his heart.
He struggled to his feet. Mackey should have made sure he’d killed him. He wouldn’t make that mistake himself. He tottered over to Mackey. He was dead, but blood continued to ooze from his throat wound. Rachel was dead too. Torrance dropped the cross on her back. It was a gift for her, after all.
Torrance stood back from the carnage. What was he going to do with three bodies? But he didn’t have to do anything. Hadn’t that been Mackey’s point? Under this big sky, no one would find the bodies anytime soon, and by the time they did, he would be a million miles away.
“You would never find a body out here under all this sky,” Torrance said, repeating Mackey’s words. He tossed the revolver at Mackey, and it landed in the snow next to him. “Thanks for the tip.”
Torrance found his car keys easily enough, and the keys to the SUV in Rachel’s pocket. He crossed the field in the direction of the cars. The wind picked up, and he glanced up at the sky. A weather front was moving his way. It would be snowing again in a few hours. Mackey was right. No one would see the bodies by morning.
He ditched the SUV in the field opposite from the bodies, driving it far from the road and hiding it behind a tree. He jogged back to his Buick, slipped behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. The country western station burst into life, and he switched it off. The money was on the backseat, so he moved it to the trunk.
Buckling himself in, Torrance selected DRIVE but didn’t take his foot off the brake. Where was he to go? Back to Edmonton or another big city? He discounted both places. Things happened in cities, things that involved police. He didn’t want that. He’d give the country a try and live under the big sky where he couldn’t come in harm’s way.
PROVE IT
MONDAY
Milligan climbed the bleachers running alongside second base and dropped his weight on an aluminum bench seat. Benton sat down next to him. They watched the San Quentin inmates practice on a field paid for by the San Francisco Giants. Gomez, who could have had a promising career if he hadn’t kept stealing cars, turned a fastball into a home run. He called out to Milligan and Benton as he took his trip around the bases, trying to rouse some appreciation for the hit. He didn’t get his adoration.
“How much do you owe the lawyer?” Benton asked.
“Ten grand. Carole sold the car to pay his some of his fees, but now that she’s been laid off, she can’t afford to pay him the rest. She can barely pay the rent. I never should have gone for the appeal.”
His appeal had crashed and burned. It had been the dumbest idea he’d had since he’d ripped off the liquor store on an impulse. Macarthur, his lawyer, felt the judgment against him had been harsh and the DA’s case had been sloppy. But the DA had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s for the rematch. The only winner had been Macarthur’s bank account.
“What about savings? You must have something tucked away,” Benton suggested.
What a joke. A life of crime and what did he have to show for it? Nothing. A big fat zero. “I told him the only thing I have left to my name is my life insurance.”
“You Milligan?” a heavily muscled Hispanic demanded, casting a shadow over them. Bulging biceps stretched the arms of his prison-issue T-shirt, threatening to tear the material. His sixty-inch chest tapered to a narrow waist. Gang tattoos lined his arms. And he wasn’t alone. Two equally lethal-looking Hispanics shadowed him.
The interruption threw Milligan. He stammered something that wasn’t a reply. The Hispanic, unsatisfied with the response, grabbed Milligan by the shirt pockets. His fingers bit into Milligan’s flesh as he hoisted him to his feet. The Hispanic’s boys moved in to shroud events from prying eyes. Benton jumped to his feet as a sign of allegiance, but he was heavily outgunned in this situation.
“You’re Phillip Milligan, aren’t you, man?”
The Hispanic released one hand and drew back a fist. Milligan turned his head away, closed his eyes, and braced for the impact. “Yeah, man, I’m Phillip Milligan.”
The Hispanic’s grip loosened, but he didn’t remove it. Milligan opened his eyes.
“What do you want?” Milligan asked, the pressure in his chest from his pounding heart making it hard to speak.
The inmate eyed Benton. “Take a hike, man.”
Benton didn’t have to be asked twice, and he descended the bleachers two rows at a time. Milligan didn’t blame him. No one risked his neck for another inmate, even for a friend.
The Hispanic waited until Benton was out of earshot. “You’re in for kidnapping.”
“Armed robbery,” Milligan corrected. “I ripped off a liquor store. It went wrong.”
“Don’t make me say it again.” The Hispanic’s grip tightened around Milligan’s throat until he saw stars go supernova in his vision. “You’re in for kidnapping.”
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Was it a child?” Spittle flecked Milligan’s face. “Was it a girl? Don’t tell me it was a girl.”
“No.” Milligan could barely breathe. He was going to pass out if the thug didn’t release his grip. “It was a woman. She was sixty.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
“No, man. I’m telling you the truth. It was an old woman.” Milligan knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help himself. If he didn’t say something to convince this ape, he’d end up as a case file on a prison investigator’s desk.
The Hispanic released his pipe wrench grip, and Milligan collapsed onto the bleachers with a clang.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“You’ve got till Friday to prove the person you kidnapped wasn’t a kid.”
“How do I do that?”
The Hispanic turned and tramped away from the bleachers with his shadows following in his wake. “Friday. Don’t make me find you.”
***
Milligan held a forkful of food but didn’t put it in his mouth. He stared at the elegant mural painted in the mess hall, chronicling the history of California. One of the inmates had spent his twenty-five-year stretch completing it. Word was the Smithsonian wanted it. He hoped they wouldn’t get it. He didn’t see why they should have one of the few things of beauty in the prison. It was one of those things that kept his spirits up. Surviving prison was all about spirit, and with his current problems, Milligan felt his spirit slipping away in fist-sized chunks. Benton slipped into the seat opposite.
“His name is Rodriguez.” Benton speared a forkful of his dinner and ate it. “He just graduated from the RC.”
“The RC?”
“Yeah.”
That didn’t make sense. Milligan and Rodriguez’s roles were swapped. Inmates fresh out of the San Q’s Reception Center, the holding pen for new inmates awaiting final processing, usually had to prove themselves to the genera
l population, not the other way around. General pop wanted to know with whom they were sharing a cell. They wanted to see papers. No one wanted a pedophile as a celly.
“I thought he looked new,” Milligan said. “What’s he in for?”
“Gang-related activities.” Benton made air quotes.
Milligan knew why. The catchall term covered a lot of sins, but it boosted credentials. Rodriguez would have connections in this prison. His demands and threats carried weight and couldn’t be blown off.
“Do you know him?” Benton asked.
Milligan shook his head.
“Well, I know why he likes you.”
“Why?”
“His kid. His daughter was grabbed by some perv. Something went wrong and the kid died. He had a rep for being vicious before the incident. Now, he’s practically medieval.”
“I didn’t take his kid.”
“He knows that. The prime suspect ended up in a Dumpster, but he don’t have any love for kidnappers, especially those who specialize in kids.”
Milligan cursed. After his failed appeal, this capped his week.
“Someone must have marked your card to have put him on to you, my friend,” Benton added.
Milligan nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of who, though. He hadn’t tangled with anyone.
“You’d just better get his proof.”
“Yeah.”
“It was an old woman, right?”
“What kind of question is that?” Milligan slammed his fork down on the table. It clanged, drawing glances from both inmates and corrections officers, but that was all it did. No one came to ask them to keep it down.
Benton held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, all I’m saying is that I can understand if you wanted to omit certain facts to prevent this kind of thing from happening.”
A friend. That was all Milligan asked for at a time like this, not doubters. He shook his head in disgust.
“I can’t believe you asked.”
“Hey, I had to ask. I’ve got my own butt to worry about.”
