In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

  “All right!” said the second crook, swinging the door wide and stepping out, wrapped in a towel.

  Virgil swung the shotgun so that he could easily take out either of the two. The second guy was smaller and wirier, and he had a sneaky look in his eye Virgil didn’t like.

  “If you think you’re faster than buckshot,” he said, “just try something.”

  “We weren’t causing any trouble, Officer,” said the bigger guy. “What do you want with us?”

  Virgil laughed. “I thought I’d start with murder, attempted murder, breaking and entering, grand theft auto. I imagine Jake has a few things to add.”

  At the mention of Jake’s name the bravado left the Ranger’s face, replaced with a deep-seated rage and curiosity.

  “Jake Crowley?”

  “So you know him.”

  The smile that crossed the big guy’s face was in no way reassuring, and Virgil found himself tickling the trigger of the shotgun.

  “Do you know where he is?” asked the Ranger.

  “You must be joking,” said Virgil, frowning. “You!” he said, catching the little crook edging back toward the bath. “Get in here with your buddy and spread ’em against the wall. You, too, big fella.” He waved the shotgun at the Ranger, who merely shrugged and turned away, placing both hands on either side of the window jamb and spreading his feet. The little guy did the same next to him. Virgil jerked out his handcuffs and poked the big guy in the back with the shotgun barrel. “Give me your left hand.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Virgil sighed. This would be hard enough with one perp. With two dangerous criminals it was going to be touchy, to say the least. But if he cuffed the two of them together they should be easier to manage. He stuck the shotgun in the little guy’s kidneys, hard enough to knock some of the wind out of him.

  “Hand!”

  The little guy offered his left hand behind his back and Virgil snapped a cuff on it and backed away. When the punk glanced over his shoulder, Virgil nodded toward the big guy.

  “Hook him up,” he said, nodding toward the other man’s right hand.

  The little guy glanced from Virgil to the Ranger. Clearly he was more afraid of the big guy than he was of Virgil and his shotgun.

  “Do it!” said Virgil, taking a threatening step forward.

  As the small crook stepped in between Virgil and the Ranger, the big guy kicked the little guy square in the belly, driving him back toward Virgil. Virgil just managed to lift the shotgun so that he took the brunt of the falling weight against the stock as he stumbled out into the hall. He smashed the gun sideways into the little guy’s head, knocking him to the floor, trying to get a shot at the bigger guy before he could charge. But the Ranger was already crashing through the window, shattering glass and thin mullions. The candle blew out, and by the time Virgil stumbled to the opening there was nothing to see but broken glass, the hammering rain, and the towel snagged on the sill.

  Moaning from behind drew Virgil away from the window, and he hurried over to the smaller crook. Even by the dim light of the candle in the bathroom Virgil could see a welt running up the guy’s cheek all the way to the hairline. He was going to have a sizeable headache. And the last thing Virgil wanted once the creep came around was to have to baby-sit him. He glanced around the hallway. Ten feet away, beside the phone table, a heating pipe ran floor to ceiling. Virgil grabbed him by the arm, dragged him unceremoniously across the carpet, and hooked the handcuff to the pipe. The guy lost his towel, but Virgil wasn’t too worried about his modesty at the moment.

  Now what to do about the other guy?

  On one hand the asshole was running around in a valley he didn’t know, buck naked and unarmed. On the other hand Virgil was pretty sure that if he really was an ex-Ranger, the situation might not bother him too much.

  Virgil stared at the busted window, and suddenly it occurred to him that the guy might be reentering the house at that moment. Why run away when he could hang around and use his training to kill an old, out-of-shape sheriff? Virgil snatched his flashlight from outside, then locked the door and shoved a chair from Pierce’s room under the knob. Then he locked the kitchen door and all the other windows. But there was a broken window in Pierce’s bedroom covered with cardboard that wasn’t going to stop anyone intent on getting in. And as he passed the handcuffed crook again he saw that the guy’s eyes were open, glaring at him.

  “You didn’t have to hit me like that,” said the crook.

  “Shut up,” said Virgil, crossing the living room to shove the recliner up against the wind-tossed curtains. But of course that left most of the opening still uncovered. The house was a sieve.

  He jerked the curtains closed on the other two windows and then got the comforter off Pierce’s bed and hooked it over the rod on the busted window in the living room, draping the thick blanket down behind the chair to hold it in place. He wasn’t happy with it, but the sills were five feet off the ground outside, so if the bastard did try to slip back in that way he’d have to make some noise. Virgil turned back to the little punk.

  “Could I have my towel back?” said the guy, making a face. “It’s kind of chilly.”

  Virgil smirked, kicking the towel across the floor to him. The guy eventually gave up trying to wrap it and simply draped it across his midsection. Virgil picked up the pistol from the floor, stuffed it in his pants, then found another in the bathroom, along with a nasty-looking switchblade. He also found credit cards and ID in the name of Paco Estaban. From Houston. In the other guy’s clothes he found ID in the name of James Torrio. Also from Houston.

  Jimmy Torrio. The brother of the man Jake had killed on the beach. So he hadn’t sent goons to do his dirty work. He was here in person.

  On the floor beside the dryer were two sets of shoes. One large. One small.

  The smaller set had a star on each sole.

  HE EERIE NOISE WAS CLOSE enough behind them that for the first time Jake could tell exactly where it was, and he could have sworn that he heard more than whispers. It sounded like a heavy bass rumble that might have been some kind of out-of-phase motor turning. But whenever a lightning bolt struck there was nothing to see but rain and trees.

  Then suddenly Pierce stopped in his tracks, and Mandi and Jake collided. Jake tugged at Pierce’s hand, but he quickly understood what Pierce already knew. The whispering had stopped. There were no sounds but the rain and rushing water. Without the whispers and the weird thrumming, even the sound of the rain and the thunder seemed subdued. The three of them stood for long minutes, like shell-shocked soldiers waiting for the next cannon blast. Jake put his free arm around Mandi’s shoulders, drawing both her and Pierce into a tight embrace.

  “Where is it?” she said.

  “Ask Pierce.”

  She took Pierce’s hand, and they communicated silently.

  “He says he doesn’t hear it.”

  Jake watched her in the flashes, illuminated like a dancer in a strobe show. Her hair was pasted to her head, her clothes were sodden. But she was even more beautiful than he remembered, and his heart ached because of the terror that he felt he had somehow brought down upon them.

  When the next bolt struck Jake tried to make sense of their surroundings, but everything around them was just trees and muddy, leaf-lined ground, and the rain lent a sense of continued urgency to their plight. No telling when this area would flood. They could be washed away again at any minute.

  And then suddenly Pierce stumbled back against Jake, slapping at Jake’s pant leg. A bolt of lightning illuminated a small glade, and Jake saw something large creeping toward them through the rain, something dark as the night itself and almost as shapeless.

  “Move!” he shouted, jerking Mandi and Pierce backward. He could just make out the low whispering again, all around them, and Mandi’s ragged breaths added a fevered chorus to the weird sounds.

  “Did you see it?” she panted, crashing through the underbrush.

  “Didn’t you?”
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  “I didn’t see anything.”

  But he could tell by the way she pulled Pierce along between them that she believed him. Jake waved his free hand in front of his face, taking fast steps, kicking out with his toes to test for impediments before placing his foot down. He finally stumbled into a thigh-deep ditch, and two almost simultaneous lightning bolts revealed that they were only paces from his car.

  “Made it,” he shouted, wondering at just how close to the road Pierce had actually brought them.

  “Thank God,” said Mandi.

  “Don’t thank Him yet,” said Jake. “I barely got through some of the water back toward Pam’s place. We’ll be lucky to make it home.”

  “I just want to be in the car and away from that thing.”

  “Come on,” said Jake, dragging them down the road behind him.

  MMY DIDN’T WASTE TIME WORRYING about Paco or the cop or how his attorneys might get him out of this one. Things had escalated way beyond that by the time the old sheriff burst into the house. Obviously the cop had already discovered Smitty’s body inside the trunk of the car. And he and Paco had left way too many fingerprints and who knew what the fuck else that they hadn’t had time to get rid of. And they’d both been seen with the car, anyway.

  Jake Crowley had ruined his business and murdered his brother. That was enough to set Jimmy on the killing path. But top that off with a series of events that Jimmy now believed couldn’t all be coincidence—the plane, the rental car breaking down, the flood, running into the first cop, hitting the kid on the highway—and Jimmy had begun to understand that the fates were against him. Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing you could do about it. But when that happened it was Jimmy’s nature to want to take someone else down with him. And he had decided that someone was not only going to be Jake Crowley but everyone else in this fucking valley that he could get his hands on. Jake had a woman here. Maybe a kid from what Jimmy could tell. He was starting to form a picture inside his head, an image of Jake Crowley watching both of them die. Knowing it was Jimmy doing the killing. Knowing why.

  Of course when he was done here, Jimmy Torrio was going to have to die, too. His organization in Houston was finished, and he’d be a wanted man. But he knew that he could resurface with a new identity. Rebuilding his fortune would take time, but it was doable. And eventually he’d probably even bring some of his old staff back on board. Not Paco, though. Paco was far too much of a liability now. Before Jimmy Torrio disappeared, Paco was going to have to disappear, as well.

  Jimmy’s night vision was better than most. That was one of the reasons he’d made it into the Special Forces. But with the thick storm overhead, the dense falling rain, and the cover of trees all around, it was impossible to see more than dim outlines, and he kept his eyes squinted tightly against the rain and blinding flashes of lightning. The forest was a world of shadow and spectral mist as Jimmy slipped out onto the road, reveling in the feel of slishy gravel beneath his bare feet. In fact he was so immersed in the rain, the forest, the darkness, and the even deeper blackness within that he passed the first driveway before he was aware of it, and he stopped, picturing the kid’s map again in his mind, locking the valley into a hard image he could use to his advantage.

  This was the driveway to the old man’s house. It was a crime scene, and there’d be no one there now. He waffled between wanting to loot the house for weapons or clothes and the desire to remain as he was, a murderous animal freed of human restraint. Finally reason won out, and he padded up the drive, mud slishing between his toes.

  He paid no attention to any evidence he might be leaving as he busted the glass with his palm and unlocked the door. He was in a curious state where everything he experienced was on a heightened level. It felt just as good to be out of the rain as it did to be in it.

  He searched quickly through the trailer, but the old man’s clothes were much too small, and there were no guns anywhere. Rage and frustration overwhelmed him, and once again he pictured himself, only this time he was killing Crowley with his bare hands, and the image stirred him so profoundly that he found himself becoming sexually aroused. He glanced at his half-erect penis and laughed out loud.

  Too fucking much.

  He chose a heavy chef’s knife from a kitchen drawer, testing it against his thumb. Not as sharp as he would have liked. But it would do. The knife ruined the image of his fingers around Jake Crowley’s throat. But enough of Jimmy’s training won through that he was unable to leave the weapon behind.

  He strode back out into the rain naked but armed.

  OU ALWAYS WEAR HANDMADE ITALIAN LOAFERS?” asked Virgil, waving one of the shoes at Paco. Paco gave him a careful look. “How come you know so much about shoes?”

  “It’s a hobby.”

  Paco shrugged.

  “Pretty unusual pattern on the sole,” mused Virgil, pretending to study the star.

  “So?”

  “Just curious. I found the same imprint at a friend’s house just recently.”

  “What friend?”

  “He’s dead,” said Virgil. “Beaten to death.”

  “Bullshit,” said Paco. “I don’t know nothing about no murder.”

  “Oh, come on, Paco,” said Virgil. “I found a corpse in the trunk of that car you and your boss stole. That’s one murder. Might as well ‘fess up to everything. Make it a clean slate. These are your shoes with the star on the sole. They’re too small to fit your boss. So I can place you at the scene of Albert’s killing. Why did you murder the old man? You weren’t there to rob him. Did Jimmy send you to do it? Was it to get information or to get back at Jake?”

  “You’re crazy, man. I don’t know nothing about no murder or no corpse in a trunk.”

  “Really? That wasn’t you in the car that tried to kill me out on the highway? How did you and Jimmy get here, then?”

  “We hitchhiked.”

  Virgil sighed. “Paco, I’m thinking that you just got sucked into something you didn’t want to do. Ain’t that right?”

  Paco just glared.

  “That’s usually the way it is,” continued Virgil. “The big guy calls the shots, and it’s the little guy who has to pay the piper, or spend the rest of his life behind bars, as the case may be. But you’re smart enough to know about state’s evidence.”

  “I’m smart enough to know you don’t pull that shit on Jimmy Torrio,” said Paco.

  “Why not?”

  Paco laughed. “Because I’d rather spend the rest of my life behind bars than die in this fucked-up place.”

  “You may die here, anyway,” said Virgil.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Virgil shrugged. “There’s talk about the old Crowley curse.”

  Paco frowned. “Whatcha talking about? There ain’t no fucking curse here.”

  Virgil squinted, leaning close to Paco’s face, sensing something new there. A fear neither he nor Jimmy Torrio was responsible for. “You’ve heard it before, haven’t you? You got that look in your eyes. Did you hear it the day you murdered Albert?”

  Paco’s breathing quickened, and his face colored. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Virgil nodded. “Like a whispering sound . . .”

  Paco glared at him.

  “It gets louder and louder,” said Virgil. “It’ll scare the shit out of you.”

  “Get fucked,” said Paco.

  Virgil shrugged again. “What are you gonna do when you hear it, Paco? After I’m gone.”

  “What do you mean, after you’re gone?” said Paco nervously. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “I gotta go find your boss,” said Virgil.

  Paco shook his head, glancing around the house. “You ain’t going out there. You’d have to be crazy. Jimmy’s a trained Ranger killer. He’s like fucking Rambo. You ain’t that stupid.”

  “You have no idea how stupid I am,” said Virgil, rising slowly again. “I sure hope that last
candle doesn’t blow out, or it’s gonna get real dark in here.”

  “Don’t you leave me!” said Paco.

  “Then tell me what you know, and don’t give me any bullshit.”

  Paco clammed up again. But his eyes were fluttering with indecision.

  “What kind of training does Jimmy have?” asked Virgil, changing the topic.

  “He’s an army killer. I’m telling you, he’s like Rambo.”

  “How come a Ranger ends up being a crook?”

  “Who said we were crooks?”

  Virgil laughed. “You wouldn’t be crosswise of Jake Crowley if you weren’t.”

  “How come you know so much about Jake Crowley?”

  “He’s an old friend,” said Virgil. “Why are you two here? What’s Jimmy planning?”

  “Crowley messed in Jimmy’s business. Nobody fucks with Torrio business. Then when he killed José, Jimmy went a little crazy.”

  Virgil nodded. Just as he’d suspected. That was probably enough to set off a crazy ex-Ranger.

  “What will Jimmy do now?”

  Paco hesitated. “Maybe look for Crowley’s cousin’s place.”

  Virgil felt his blood go cold.

  “How would he know how to get there?”

  “Up the road I guess. There’s only the highway or the valley. Where the hell else would he go?”

  Maybe back out onto the highway to try to get the hell away, if he was as bright as Virgil suspected he was. On the other hand, Jimmy seemed crazy enough to stay and keep hunting for Jake, even naked, unarmed, and lost.

  Or he might be just outside the door, waiting for Virgil to come looking for him.

  Wind rattled the house, and Virgil glanced at the busted window. On impulse he inspected the windows and doors again by the light of the flashlight. For the first time he noticed the desk in the corner of Pierce’s room. Staring down at the stark white topo map, he could see fallen plastic trees where Jimmy’s hand must have rested over the plastic letters marking Pam and Ernie’s place.

  “Shit,” he said, hurrying back down the hall to Paco. “Do you know Jake’s cousin’s name?”