In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

  “That was one big sucker. Wasn’t it, Jake?” muttered Ernie.

  Even the pounding rain seemed to settle to silence.

  “What?” said Jake.

  “That thing on the road. What the heck was that thing?”

  Virgil’s eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased. “What did you see, Ernie?”

  Ernie glanced groggily from face to face. “You guys saw it, too, right?”

  “I didn’t see anything but the rain and trees,” said Jake. “What about you, Cramer?”

  Cramer shook his head. “It was too dark.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” said Virgil.

  “How could you not have seen it?” said Ernie, his head wobbling on Pam’s shoulder. “It was as big as my truck!”

  “What did it look like?” said Jake, catching Pam’s eye.

  “Just huge, and black, like a shadow,” said Ernie. “But it was there. I swear it was. Moving through the trees up ahead, like a giant bear. Then the shooting started.” He shook his head, and his eyes glazed a little. “It was big. Real big.”

  “Try to hang on,” said Jake as he started sliding back into the car next to Pam.

  “You two stay here,” she said, glancing from Jake to Cramer.

  “What?” said Jake. “We’re going to the hospital.”

  Pam shook her head. “Someone needs to be here with Barbara. She’s beside herself, convinced that some monster is going to come and get her and Oswald. I gave her another pain pill, and she’s out on the sofa. But I don’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Cramer can stay,” said Jake.

  “Oh, no,” said Cramer, sliding out of the car. “You aren’t leaving me alone with that crazy old broad.”

  Jake sighed as Virgil caught his eye in the mirror. “We’ll let you know as soon as Doc Burton has seen him.”

  Jake nodded slowly, squeezing Pam’s hand before closing the door and watching the cruiser slide down the drive. Once again someone he loved had been touched by the Crowley curse, and there was nothing he could do about it. Should he have drawn his gun sooner? What good would that have done? And that wasn’t the real question that tortured him, anyway.

  Had he somehow caused the violence? Was he responsible for Rich’s death and Ernie’s wound? For the hitchhiker, and Albert, and Dary Murphy? For years he had hidden from his past. He had kept his emotions locked tightly at bay lest some madness escape and an innocent be harmed. Had it gotten out without his knowing?

  “You gonna stand out here in the rain all night?” asked Cramer.

  He shook his head, following Cramer inside.

  HE FRONT TIRE JOLTED through a pothole the size of a basketball hoop, and Jimmy lurched into wakefulness. He glared at Paco, but Paco just shrugged. Jimmy stared out through the slapping wipers at the dark road ahead, wondering what kind of backwoods bullshit he’d gotten himself into. But at least the Maine forest felt more familiar than the rolling farmland of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. He’d spent years in woods a lot thicker and more dangerous than these.

  Still, no reason other than family revenge could have brought him to this place or kept him here. But that was something that could not be denied. There was never any love lost between himself and José. In fact, they had been bitter rivals from the time they were old enough to crawl, and their old man had seen that the rivalry grew, pitting them against one another whenever he got a chance. Still, the two of them had managed to build the most powerful criminal organization in Houston’s history by utilizing their talents—José’s for unthinking brutality, and Jimmy’s for thoughtful ruthlessness. José had no tact, and few social skills. Jimmy was the essence of savoir faire. He had graduated—if not with honors—from public school, and later, when the empire began to expand, he had taken lessons from a gentleman who claimed to have been educated in France, so that he knew which fork to use on his salad and which knife to use on his enemies. He had also been trained by the United States Army.

  In an attempt to escape the barrio and his upbringing, Jimmy had joined the service immediately after graduation. He discovered that he liked the weapons and the thrill of danger so much that he did well, progressing first to Ranger school, then Special Forces. During five years with the elite group, Jimmy had learned to kill in ways he’d never suspected existed. And he had become adept at surviving in all sorts of exotic locales where the average man would have quickly succumbed to the elements.

  But his upbringing was deeper rooted than his training. When he was caught selling drugs, a very good military defense attorney was able to get the charges dismissed if Jimmy accepted an immediate dishonorable discharge. Later he had the two soldiers who turned him in murdered.

  Every one of their hundreds of “employees” feared José for his sudden deadly temper. But they feared Jimmy more, for his elaborate punishments. Only the month before, a drug dealer named Watson had screwed one of Jimmy’s men on a deal. The amount was immaterial in Jimmy’s book. The jerk knew the man worked for him.

  Jimmy didn’t kill him outright or maim him for life the way José would have. Instead, he had another of his men start supplying Watson with even better shit at a better price to gain his trust. During the third deal—a moment after Watson whiffed in a good noseful to test the latest batch—Jimmy walked calmly into the room. The junk Watson had just snorted was so pure he was barely able to put up any resistance as Jimmy’s men tied him to a chair. A week later, the police discovered Watson’s head encased in clear epoxy resin, resting on the corner of the street in front of his house.

  And Watson had only screwed Jimmy’s employee out of money. He hadn’t murdered Jimmy’s only brother.

  “How far are we from Crowley?”

  Paco shrugged again. “There’s no signs in this fucking state. I think it can’t be that far, though.”

  “How the fuck could you have gotten us lost again?”

  “Boss, I was in here and out of here, and all these backwoods shitholes look the same to me. I’ll get us there. If we don’t get washed off the fucking road first.”

  “See that we don’t. And find a place to dump our friend.”

  “I been looking. But every time I start to pull over a goddamn car comes along. I was gonna drop him down a side road, but they’re all flooded.”

  “All right,” said Jimmy irritably. “He’ll have to stay in the trunk. Just get us there.”

  As personal as José’s killing made things, a tiny voice in Jimmy’s head kept telling him that he should have sent any one of his remaining enforcers to do this job. He was taking big chances here, but that went with the territory. It was important that his people knew what he did to anyone who dared touch a Torrio. One day he was going to have to face both his father and José again, and he was going to be able to look them in the eye and tell them that José’s killer had died badly and by his own hand. He crossed himself and spat air toward the window, a gesture he’d picked up from his father, who ranted endlessly about the fucking church but sent a cautious glance skyward whenever he blasphemed.

  “Where will we find them?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” said Paco. “They may be staying in the old man’s house.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not likely. It’s a crime scene. Doesn’t Jake Crowley have any other family in the valley?”

  Paco nodded. “A woman cousin named Pam.”

  “Why didn’t you threaten her the way you were supposed to do the old man?”

  “Jesus, boss. After I came to and found the old man dead, I had to get out of town.”

  That Paco wouldn’t hold his eye was no cause for concern, but the sweat on his brow and the slight quiver of his hand on the wheel told Jimmy he was lying. Lying was not something Jimmy accepted from anyone.

  “Why?”

  “Why what, boss?”

  Jimmy’s voice was quiet, but he knew Paco would read the proper level of threat into it. “Why did you kill him? You can tell me the truth.”

  Th
e sweat beaded and trickled into Paco’s eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand and Jimmy enjoyed the show.

  “Honest to God, boss, I blanked out. I know how crazy that sounds. But maybe the old man drugged me or something. When I came to he was dead. Blood was everywhere. The old fart looked like he’d been run through a blender. I couldn’t have beat him up that bad if I wanted to. I ain’t that strong.”

  That fact was the only thing that had saved Paco’s life. Jimmy had seen the police report—he, too, had ways of getting information—and the photographs left little doubt in Jimmy’s mind that the work wasn’t Paco’s. Paco was a knife or pistol man. He was good for a shiv in the back. Not for a beating.

  “All right, then. Tell me about the whispering,” said Jimmy.

  Paco shivered. “I heard it right before I blacked out. It kept getting louder and louder.”

  “Loud whispering?”

  Paco sighed. “Well, hissing maybe. I don’t know. But the noise got around the house and it sounded like it was everywhere at once. It was like I was being swallowed up by something, and I was scared. More scared than I’ve ever been in my life. It felt like . . . it felt like something was trying to get inside of me.”

  “Inside of you?”

  Paco shrugged. “It felt like there was something inside my head—”

  “That must have been a new experience for you.”

  The car rocked again, and Paco struggled to bring it under control. But this time it pulled hard to the right, and the steady thunking noise told Jimmy they had a flat.

  “Damn,” he said. “Can we get any worse luck?”

  “There’s a little more shoulder up ahead,” said Paco, nursing the car over onto the side.

  They sat for a minute staring into the rain, and Jimmy could see Paco gutting up to say something.

  “I have to get to the spare,” said Paco at last. “I need help moving him around.”

  Jimmy sighed. A small bloodstain already marred the perfect cotton of his sleeve. He nudged open his door and waited in the deluge while Paco fumbled the key into the trunk. They wedged Smitty farther back into the tight space and dug out the spare and jack then slammed the lid again. Jimmy climbed back into the front seat, turning on the heater to at least warm him if not dry him out, as Paco jacked up the rear of the car. As Jimmy listened to the humming of the fan he stroked the butt of the pistol under his arm.

  Because they had bought airline tickets at the last moment, he had known they’d be searched. A drug lord understood the venues through which his booty traveled. So he’d paid a likely-looking kid a thousand dollars to claim that one of Jimmy’s bags was his and had not been out of his sight. The kid thought he was smuggling dope, which was fine with him. In fact Jimmy never did drugs or sold them himself anymore. The kid had smuggled pistols for Jimmy and Paco.

  So although that part of the trip was a pain in the ass, it was to be expected. But the plane breaking down was not. Neither was the rented car dying on them. Or getting lost too many times to count. And now this. It was as if someone up there didn’t want him to get the revenge he needed.

  “Screw you,” he said, glancing skyward, genuflecting, and spitting toward the floor.

  Paco slapped the side window, and Jimmy glanced up to see headlights appearing through the veil of rain ahead. As though to prove that karma really was against them, the car turned out to be a sheriff’s department cruiser. Jimmy climbed out to stand beside Paco and act as if he was helping. The last thing he wanted was Paco talking to a cop.

  “Got a flat?” the deputy shouted, pulling alongside.

  Jimmy wondered if astuteness was on the list of attributes necessary for a cop in these parts. He supposed no more here than anywhere else.

  “Yep,” he said, shaking rain from his hair and smiling broadly. “We’ve about got it, though. Thanks.”

  When the deputy put on his plastic-covered Smokey Bear hat Jimmy cursed under his breath. The cop pulled a U-turn and parked behind them. He climbed out, slipping on a yellow rain slicker, and trotted over to them, leaning around to check the ground.

  “Not a great place to put that jack,” he said.

  “Seems to be holding,” said Jimmy. “We didn’t want to go too far and ruin the tire.”

  The cop nodded as Paco slipped the spare on, fumbling with the lug nuts. Jimmy noticed that Paco couldn’t look the deputy in the eye, and he wondered if the cop noticed.

  “Where you guys coming from?” asked the cop, glancing at Smitty’s out-of-state plate.

  “New Jersey,” said Jimmy quickly. “We’re trying to get to Arcos.”

  The cop smiled. “How did you get over here? It would have been a lot easier coming up Route Two.”

  Jimmy smiled back. “We took a wrong turn. We’ve been lost so long I’m kind of getting used to it.”

  Paco tightened the lugs and started lowering the jack as the cop watched. Then he picked up the flat tire.

  Jimmy jerked open the rear passenger door.

  “In here,” he told Paco, looking at the frowning cop. “We had to take all our luggage out to get to the spare and now it’s soaked enough as it is. Besides, we have to find a garage to get the tire fixed, and I don’t want to dig it out again.”

  The cop nodded, as Paco shoved the tire onto the floorboard. The deputy peered into the backseat as Paco slammed the door.

  Jimmy made a face, water trickling off his chin. “Straight up this road?” he said, half into the car already.

  The cop nodded, pointing ahead. “About fifteen miles up ahead you come to Route Two. Head east. You’ll see the signs for Crowley, but that road could be closed at any time. If it is, you can probably find a place to stay in Arcos. You can get the tire fixed there, too.”

  Jimmy nodded his thanks. As Paco pulled out onto the road, Jimmy looked in the outside mirror, and he could see the cop memorizing their plate.

  The road followed the river, and between swaths of drenching rain the dark stream could be glimpsed swirling and churning and reaching out of its banks with grasping tendrils of water. It reminded Jimmy of Guatemala, and he recalled just how much he’d hated that place, filled with snakes and scorpions, spiders, and every manner of stinging, biting insect. But he’d killed three men there—two with his bare hands—and the experience had left an indelible mark on his mind.

  He’d enjoyed it.

  Two miles farther along they spotted the taillights of a small coupe ahead of them.

  “Weaving,” muttered Paco, watching the lights. “Must be drunk.”

  Jimmy frowned. “Get around him.”

  Paco nodded, goosing the accelerator. Jimmy felt the rear tires break loose on the wet roadway, but Paco quickly eased off the gas, and they got traction again, pulling past the sedan. Jimmy glanced at the driver—a young man maybe nineteen years old—and decided he wasn’t drunk, he was stoned. The kid had the familiar glassy-eyed expression, nodding to the beat of some song on the radio.

  Just as Paco gave the car a little gas, Jimmy felt a sickening lurch, then heard the sound of crunching metal as their rear quarter panel connected with the kid’s front end. While Paco fought to control the car, Jimmy watched the other sedan rocketing down a steep embankment toward the river.

  “Shit!” said Paco, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Jimmy sighed loudly, shaking his head.

  “Just fucking keep driving,” he said.

  IRGIL SAT IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT, staring at the rain-shimmered pavement. Ernie was going to be all right, according to Doc Burton. But he might limp for the rest of his life.

  Like Pierce.

  It suddenly dawned on him that the same man might be responsible for both infirmities. But if Rich had hurt the boy all those years ago, he had certainly paid for it tonight. What the hell had caused him to go off his nut like that? If anyone would know, Carly would. He started the car, and pulled out onto the highway.

  The story Jake had given him after his mother’s death had
been so far-fetched that Virgil made sure Jake never told anyone else but him, afraid that the boy would end up in therapy, maybe for life. But now Virgil figured he might have been wrong not to listen. Maybe Jake really had seen something impossible back then. And Virgil wasn’t all that sure that he and his men, armed to the teeth, could kill it the way he’d told Pam. But that was his job. He had to try. Only he hadn’t figured out just yet what he was going to tell his deputies. When he neared the intersection with the highway he radioed Rumny, who was on the desk.

  “Ernie going to be all right?” asked Rumny.

  “Good as can be expected. Pam’s worse off than he is. She wouldn’t leave his side. Augusta got any more news on that footprint?”

  “It’s some kind of fancy handmade Italian shoe, Sheriff” came the staticky reply. “They won’t be able to give you a run number because it’s probably what they call a one-off.”

  “Made for the person,” said Virgil.

  “Yeah.”

  That was good news, but what was a guy wearing handmade shoes doing around Albert’s place? What could that possibly have to do with the Crowley curse? Virgil shook his head, too tired to think about it.

  “Any more news on the hitchhiker or that hit-and-run?”

  “Nothing new on the girl. There’s a lot of gray paint on the kid’s car, so we can probably trace it to the make, model, and year eventually. If it’s not a repaint. But Deputy Grasy just called in and said he thought it might be a couple of suspicious guys he ran into up on Route Five in a Crown Vic with New Jersey plates. I’m running the plate now. Grasy said both guys in the car were Mexican.”

  Mexican? They didn’t see a lot of Latinos in the county.

  “You thinking stolen?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. Did you get anyone up to secure the crime scene in the valley yet?”

  Slight hesitation. “Not yet. Sorry. We’re right out straight. But I’ll try to give it priority.”

  “That’s all right. I’m headed back up to talk to Rich Morin’s girlfriend. I’ll do it.”

  “You sure you want to try that in the cruiser? The roads are getting bad fast. Power and phones are going out all over. Hold on. I got another call coming in.”