Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  The girl said, ‘Libby found it under the seat. I dunno whose it is.’

  He picked it up, a light touch on the edges, like it had got here by sorcery. He pushed the button to turn it on, and the little battery icon was showing only a sliver, bright red to let him know it was critical. First 8 percent, then 5, even as he sat looking at it. He had another brief dig, in case the magic glove compartment had sent him a charger, too, but it was all just paperwork.

  He swiped his finger on the slider graphic to unlock the screen, and then looked through the call history. There were only four entries, two outgoing and two incoming, the same number each time, but he knew who it was. Henry Lee. He’d seen it yesterday, when he got the call about the Connecticut meeting. ‘Perry, I’ve found your man. Come do your thing.’

  He stared at the screen a second, thinking of what to say, jiggling one knee to speed things along, the girl sitting there with her chin jutted, using her pinkie to wipe away tears. The battery hit 3 percent.

  Perry pulled his helmet off, and then he dialled.

  He got some dumb message about how he was low on credit, and then a long pause, and then the thing started ringing, rang and rang and rang—

  ‘Yeah?’

  His foot was a jackhammer now, eyes squeezed shut, sweat running down his face. ‘Henry, it’s Perry. You gotta get out, there’s guys coming for you.’

  ‘Oh shit. Right now?’

  He lost the call. He checked the screen, but it had gone black.

  Perry slumped back and said, ‘We need to get out of here, too.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Marshall

  Henry looked at the phone and put it back to his ear, said a few hellos, getting louder each time. Then he said, ‘Piece of shit,’ and tossed the phone on the couch, drew a long breath as he ran his hands through his hair. The tension fixed the lines in his face.

  Carl said, ‘What’s happening?’

  Henry took up his post at the window again, tugged an earlobe as he gazed out, some kind of dilemma brewing. Marshall lowered his knife and fork, paired them on the plate, swivelled around to watch.

  Henry said, ‘Go down to the car and bring Bridgette up, would you?’

  Carl said, ‘Who, me or Frankie?’

  ‘The both of you. Now would be great.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Henry leaned forward, palms on the glass, let his head hang. ‘Nothing, I just don’t want her running the battery flat.’

  ‘You want us to bring the kid up as well?’

  Henry glanced back at him. ‘Oh, damn, yeah, bring her, too. Look, Frankie, c’mon, you’re not dead, get up already.’

  He ushered the pair of them out, making flapping motions, like trying to ward off a bad smell.

  Marshall eased off his stool, slid it tidily under the counter. Letting them out of the room mightn’t be the best idea—nothing to stop them going down to the truck for guns and then coming back for another try. But he’d met people who were competent and he’d met people who weren’t, and he got the impression that Frankie and Carl were at the safer end of the spectrum. He said, ‘Who was that?’

  The front door slammed. ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Henry didn’t answer. Marshall crossed the room, the shotgun hanging in his left hand. He picked up Henry’s phone from the sofa and turned it on, got an image of a keypad.

  ‘What’s your code?’

  No answer. Footsteps in the entry hall, Henry doing laps. The handle rattled quietly, Henry checking the lock. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said what’s your code. For your phone.’

  Henry laughed as he walked over. ‘Jeez, c’mon. You got coffee, cooked breakfast, you don’t need my pin as well.’

  He was smiling as he said it, back in character. Arms spread, trying to keep things light, swaying his hips a little.

  Marshall raised the shotgun, one-handed. A swift little wrist motion, aiming from the hip.

  Henry stopped. Very abrupt, like he’d walked into a window. He raised his hands, palms out, tight in by his chest. ‘Whoa, easy.’

  Marshall said, ‘I really appreciate the eggs, and all the rest of it. But I’ve been under a bit of pressure lately, trying to find who’s gunning for me, so my patience is running short.’

  Henry didn’t answer, lips pursed on a word that wasn’t coming out.

  ‘Who called?’

  Henry didn’t answer, held his pose.

  ‘Last chance. Who called?’

  Henry closed his eyes, brought his hands up a little further, a nice arrangement, how they framed his face like that. It seemed too placating, the sort of expression PR people use when they’re about to duck the truth, tell you something smooth and evasive. ‘Look, I—’

  Marshall turned a fraction and jabbed forward like a fencer and hit Henry in the stomach with the muzzle of the shotgun. It was a neat little move, plenty of twist and pop from his hips, driving forward with an open palm on the back of the pistol grip, no different really from punching him in the gut left-handed, except the shotgun bridged the gap. Henry went down on one knee, hands at his midriff, rolled over awkwardly on his back.

  ‘Holy shit. Oh my God, that hurt.’

  Marshall stood watching, the shotgun hanging beside him. He waited until Henry’s eyes opened, teary and bloodshot, and said, ‘You see that?’

  He gestured with the gun, early sun making shapes on the carpet, the window profiles cast pale and skewed.

  Marshall said, ‘Those light rays have travelled millions of miles, all the infinite reaches of space they could have gone, they ended up in your living room, Sixty-second and Park. Right there on the carpet.’

  Henry didn’t answer, more worried about getting his breath back than homilies about space and light rays.

  Marshall said, ‘I’ve been going a while, too, thirty-six years, and I don’t really want your apartment to be the place I end up. If that makes sense.’

  He figured he should keep it brief: all very well rushing him along, and then wasting time with musings.

  Henry didn’t answer, just lay there staring up at him, seeming surprised more than anything else, like this was way out of character. Marshall guessed the view from down there must’ve been pretty sobering. The grim-looking gun and the guy holding it looking pretty serious, too.

  Henry said, ‘There’s guys coming.’ The words coming out in a wheeze.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When are they coming?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably now.’

  ‘Who called you?’

  ‘Perry Rhodes. He just said there’s guys coming. That’s all he said.’

  Marshall held up the phone. ‘What’s your code?’

  Henry closed his eyes, shook his head, looking around in his memory. ‘Four-two-eight . . . Ah shit, what is it?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Four-two-eight-seven. Yeah, four-two-eight-seven.’

  Marshall thumbed it in, brought up the call log. ‘The last call’s from my phone. Perry called you from my phone.’

  Henry lifted his head off the carpet. ‘So?’

  ‘So I left my phone in your car.’

  Henry took a second to put it all together, slow off the mark with his injury. His head hit the floor again. ‘Oh shit, they must have the girls. The girls were in the car, too. Oh man.’

  Marshall said, ‘If Perry called to warn you, he might’ve got cold feet and let them go, I don’t know. But whatever, there are people in the building right now who want me dead.’

  Henry didn’t answer, arm across his face, hyperventilating. Marshall looked at the door. All quiet, but his imagination went to work on it, pictures out of his control. He saw guys in black fatigues lining the corridor, guns all around, break-in imminent. The countdown to his death nearing zero. He hated that hunkered-down feeling. It took him back through the years, childhood in Indiana, hiding in the trailer with his mother, men who wanted money coming to collect.
Recompense for product that wasn’t quite pure. That awful nighttime fear, where every shadow’s a threat. You can’t run because you have to save her.

  He looked at the ceiling, coming out of the memory. ‘You have any duct tape?’

  Henry got his breathing steady. ‘Yeah, bathroom.’

  Marshall said, ‘Why’s there no bolt on the door?’

  ‘Uh. I had it taken off. Almost OD’d this one time, called Frankie but then he couldn’t get in, so.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘All right. You’re going to have to do exactly as I tell you. I don’t know how long we’ve got.’

  Ludo

  Garage was so quiet, Ludo thought they’d have a clear run in the elevators too, probably would have if they didn’t stop on the first floor. ’Course, the way it turned out, they picked up half a dozen people, and all of them wanted different floors, and no one was going north of 14. Only good thing was everyone knew the etiquette, none of this small-talk shit some people try. Like you can’t go thirty seconds without saying something. Goodness ain’t it cold, or Finally they’ve changed the music in here. Shit like that.

  He and Tol stood at the back, visors up to avoid a heist vibe, hands clasped and looking at their feet, trying to seem all respectful of the nice rich folks that live in the building. No one looked at them, most too busy talking at their phones, loud voices and big words, show the people nearby this was some important business.

  The last passenger got out on 12. Ludo hit the hold button as the doors closed, crouched down, and started ripping tape off the box. He tore the long lengthwise strip free, stuck his hands in the gap between the flaps, like prying back the cut for surgery. He looked up at Tol.

  ‘I’m relying on you not being like your brother.’

  Meaning all squeamish and pussy. Tol seemed to get it, looking at him flatly a couple seconds, like his danger-radar hadn’t even blipped yet. He said, ‘You know I’m not.’ Muffled from the helmet.

  Ludo smiled up at him, always a good look, or so he thought, coming on all cheerful when someone was doing the hard-man act. He said, ‘I just don’t want to get in there and find you’re not holding up your end of things.’

  Tol said, ‘Open it and let’s get on with it.’

  Ludo reached up and slapped his knee. ‘That’s the way.’

  He folded back the cardboard. He had his Beretta in there, and the axe crammed in on the diagonal. Ludo put the pistol in the back of his belt, hidden under the jacket, and then picked up the axe by the head. He held it beside him like a walking stick, pushed it out on a lean so he could look it up and down. He nodded. ‘Yeah. I reckon this’ll do nicely.’

  He pushed the hold button again, and the elevator kicked gently to life after a short pause. Funny how the music didn’t stop, just the motor. It’d piss you off if you were stuck in here, going nowhere, Chopin’s Greatest Hits or whatever just carrying on, rubbing your nose in it.

  Tol said, ‘You didn’t bring me something?’

  ‘You’re a grown man, sort your own gear out.’

  ‘What about the box?’

  ‘Just leave it.’

  Place had that real moneyed feel to it, elevator ding all soft and courteous, a countryside painting on the wall when the doors opened. A nice side table beneath it, dark wood with a bold grain. One of those old telephones sitting on it, earpiece like a phonograph.

  Ludo stepped out, taking the lead, the axe actually not too bad as a walking cane now he tried it. He counted doors, 46, 48, figured 52 must be just up here on the right, that one right there, and they were probably only twenty feet away at the most when the door opened and two guys stepped out into the hallway.

  They were arguing, too busy deciding who should’ve gone and who should’ve stayed to notice anyone else right away. Only a few seconds, but by the time they looked up and saw there were two guys in motorbike helmets coming their way, it was too late, just the four of them in an empty hallway. One of those beautiful moments when the planets align, like a full-on lunar eclipse, no cloud cover, and a blood-red moon.

  Ludo had the axe in his left hand, and he rolled his wrist to make the handle pass across him, a big pendulum swing, caught the end in his right hand and raised it high like a javelin. He had to wait a beat so his feet caught up, and then he lunged forward with his stride and smashed the right-hand guy full in the face with the flat of the axe head.

  He had some experience in these matters, and he’d found a lunging motion was the best way to hit a guy, harder to stop than a big slow swing. The axe head alone was probably eight or ten pounds, and Ludo had given it a decent shove. Plenty of energy and momentum, and the blow caught the guy on the brow and snapped his head back, a serious impact, solid enough Ludo was happy to let him fall and move on to the left-hand guy.

  Tol was two or three steps behind, too far back to be useful, so Ludo dropped the axe and swung through with a right uppercut, hit the guy high in the gut, and then grabbed him by the throat with two hands.

  ‘Don’t scream.’

  The guy shook his head frantically. He looked like he’d never say another word, snap-frozen speechless by the sight of the other guy having an axe rammed in his face.

  Ludo pushed him against the wall, the guy way up on his toes, wheezing from the gut punch. Ludo checked the corridor, still all clear.

  He gave his guy a jiggle. ‘Where’s the closest storage cupboard?’

  The guy made a few fishlike gapes, trying to get air in rather than words out.

  Tol said, ‘Could be one over there on the left. There’s a little alcove thing.’ He was holding up all right, didn’t seem too bothered by the altercation. He knelt down and took the injured guy’s pulse. ‘Oh shit.’

  He stared at the wall a second, trying to focus on touch. ‘I’m not getting anything.’

  Ludo’s guy started crying, mouth saggy and wobbling as he sucked air. ‘Oh Jesus, you killed Carl, you killed Carl.’

  Probably quite the trip for him, emotionally. Arguing one second, missing him the next. One of those classic cases where he’d regret his last words, wish he hadn’t sworn at him as he died from an axe blow.

  Ludo said, ‘Be quiet. Jesus.’

  The guy shut up, mouth still quivering, like it was holding up some massive weight. Ludo started dragging him through the hallway, the two of them in an awkward crab walk, the guy still snivelling.

  Tol said, ‘Should I bring this guy, too?’

  ‘Yeah, well, we can’t leave him there, look at the state of him.’ The impact had split his forehead, twin blood streams running past his ears.

  Tol picked up the axe, eyed the business end, grabbed the guy’s wrist with his other hand. He dragged him up the corridor, past 52, kicked him into the little alcove by the cleaning closet.

  Ludo said, ‘Shit, there’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘Yeah. And not a lot of pulse.’

  Ludo said, ‘Stand there,’ and pushed his guy into the corner while he helped Tol move the other guy in against the base of the door. It was hot work with the helmet on, his breath stinking it up. He leaned the axe against the cupboard door and then rattled the handle. Locked. He slipped his glove off and knelt down and tried the Carl guy’s pulse. Nothing, nothing, and then this weak little patter, like a moth wing on your finger.

  ‘Yeah, I’m getting something. Pretty weak.’

  The other guy gave a feeble sob, one knee going haywire. Ludo held the back of his collar to keep him upright. ‘Show some spine, man, come on.’

  The guy stayed upright, forehead propped against the wall. Ludo said, ‘How many visitors has Henry got?’

  ‘Two—I mean one. One. It’s just Henry and Marshall.’

  ‘And where were you two going?’

  ‘Just down to the car to get the girls.’

  Ludo pulled the glove back on. ‘You needn’t worry about that, we’re looking after them.’

  A door opened down the corridor, off to their left, past the elevators.

  Ludo g
ot in close with his smile, helmet on the man’s cheek. ‘Not a sound.’

  The guy was nodding before he even knew what he was agreeing to. His knee was still jerking a little, involuntary, like a postmortem twitch. Ludo heard the door hiss closed on one of those pneumatic arms, and then click home solidly. Feet on the carpet, and then the soft plastic crunch of the elevator button. Tol was pressed in against one corner, Ludo and his man crammed in against the other, like a freeze-frame of some romantic coupling.

  A lot of blood on the floor, would be hard to miss unless you were staring at a phone or something, but there was no shout, no footsteps heading this way. The elevators doing their intermittent rumble, somehow avoiding this floor.

  Come on.

  Still waiting. Maybe they had shut one of them down while they investigated that box. Goddamned things never come when you need them, even if you want it for someone else. Still waiting, Christ. He was sure they’d hear the guy’s leg wobbling away.

  Then the bell made its polite little ding, and the doors opened with that quiet, formal rumble, and then a moment later they could hear it descending.

  Safe again.

  Ludo drew the Beretta, pushed it against the guy’s spine, low down, a real screamer of a gut shot if he misbehaved.

  ‘You got a key to get in?’

  The guy nodded about six times.

  ‘All right, good. You’re going in first, and we’ll be right behind you. OK? Sort of a human-shield kind of arrangement.’

  The guy gave him another four or five nods. ‘Yeah, OK, cool. What about Carl?’

  ‘Carl’s going to be just great. Don’t worry about it.’

  Ludo almost believed it himself, now that the blood was congealing. Happier prospects, when it wasn’t fresh. He spun the guy around by his collar and shoved him over toward 52, Tol following, doing the walking-stick thing with the axe, copying Ludo’s moves.

  Ludo gave the guy another little shove. ‘Open it.’

  ‘Uh.’ He touched his pockets feebly. ‘I don’t actually have a key.’

  Ludo dug the Escalade fob out of his pocket, dangled it in front of the guy’s face, a soft tinkle-tinkle. ‘Problem solved.’