Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  Eddie looked back at the house, the second-floor window.

  “Two ways this ends,” he called out. “You decide which.”

  * * *

  She sat on the floor, back to the wall, cold wind coming through the shattered window above her. She opened the .38, pulled the spent shells out, thumbed new ones in, fumbling with gloved fingers.

  Glass crunched under her feet as she stood, moved away from the window. Santiago called up to her.

  “You know what I came here for. That’s all I want.”

  She went downstairs and into the kitchen, moved to the window. She got her first clear look at him in the garage light. A big man in a trench coat and sweater. He had a foot on Chance’s back, a pistol-grip shotgun to his head. He leaned forward, and Chance groaned.

  “He’ll live. Long as no one gets stupid. You want him, come get him. But you need to toss that gun out here first.”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “He’s going to bleed out here soon, that what you want? You get him inside, you might be able to do something for him.”

  She went out onto the porch, staying low in the shadows.

  “You need to come out here,” he said. “But throw that piece first. This thing’s got a hair trigger. You take another potshot at me—or anyone else comes out of that house with you—and he’ll get it first, then you.”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “All right, then. Come on out.”

  She pushed the porch door open, stood at an angle to it.

  “Right there’s good,” he said. “Lose the gun.”

  She tossed the .38 into the snow.

  “Okay,” he said. “Come get him.”

  He stepped away, watching her. She went to Chance, knelt. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. She got an arm under his, tried to lift him out of the bloody snow. He gasped. She set him back down, opened his jacket. On his upper right side and shoulder, the sweater was torn and black with blood.

  “Get him up.”

  “Bobby,” she said into his ear. “We need to get you inside.”

  He half-opened his eyes.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”

  She switched sides, away from the wounds, got his arm around her shoulder. She stood slowly, taking his weight. He moaned, gripped her tighter, finally straightening his legs.

  “There you go,” she said.

  When he had his feet under him, she began to walk him toward the door.

  Santiago bent and picked up her .38, pocketed it.

  “In the house,” he said.

  Chance was fading in and out, but still walking. Santiago followed them in.

  “The kitchen,” he said. “Right there on the floor is good.”

  She got him through the door just in time, his legs going loose again. She eased him to the floor. Her gloves were slick with blood, a dark smear of it down her coat.

  “Turn around,” Santiago said. “Let me get a look at you.”

  When she did, the butt of the shotgun came at her in a blur. It thumped into the side of her head, and suddenly she was facedown on the floor.

  “Stay there,” he said.

  The room seemed to spin around her, and she felt a surge of nausea. She saw him set the shotgun on the floor, go through Chance’s pockets. He took out the two pair of flexicuffs, looked over at her. “These for me?”

  Chance groaned.

  “You stay right there,” Santiago told him. He picked up the shotgun, came back to her. She was seeing double from her left eye. The warm muzzle touched the side of her face.

  He put a knee in her back, pinned her there, patted her down. He took away her pick set and pocketknife, left the loose shells.

  “Anything else on you I should know about?”

  When he set the shotgun down, she bucked hard against him, trying to throw him off. He put a forearm across her throat, pulled back until she couldn’t breathe. “Don’t fight me.”

  She felt her arms being pulled behind her, plastic cinching around her wrists. This is it, she thought. You lost your chance. He’s going to kill both of you.

  She looked over at Chance. He lay facedown, not moving. Blood was spreading slowly across the floor.

  Santiago stood, kicked her left ankle. She drew it in reflexively and he knelt on her calf, brought her feet together, bound her ankles with the other pair of cuffs. She heard the ratcheting as he drew them tight.

  He moved around in front of her, squatted, showed her the shotgun. “You know who this belonged to?”

  She watched him, the double vision lesser now.

  “Your friend Hector. I took it off him.”

  From a pants pocket, he drew out a straight razor with a bone handle.

  “And this, I got off your buddy Stimmer.” He opened the blade. “I used it on Hector for a while. I can use it on you, too.”

  He held the blade in front of her face. “The money.”

  Time, she thought. You’ve got to buy time. She breathed deep, looked at him. He tapped the flat of the blade against her cheek. She winced, closed her eyes.

  “Look at me. Or I’ll take those eyelids off.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “The money,” he said again. “It’s here, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  “In the car.”

  “The one in the garage?”

  “Yes. In the trunk.”

  “Good girl.” He stood, folded the razor, put it away, picked up the shotgun.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  He walked through snow to the garage. He set the shotgun on the car roof, opened the driver’s door, got in, looked at the ignition. It was a professional job, the screwdriver as good as a key now. When he was done here, he’d take the car, drive it back to where the Mercury was parked, save himself another trip through the woods.

  He looked in the glove box, felt under the seats, then pulled the trunk latch.

  * * *

  Rolling onto her back was easy. The double vision in her left eye had faded to a faint blurriness. She crabbed across the floor, got her back against the refrigerator. Chance lay silent.

  The floor was wet from the snow they’d tracked in. She pushed with both feet, locked her legs, her boots scrabbling for traction. The refrigerator swayed back, something clanging inside. She pushed harder, until her back began to slide up the front of the door. In a few seconds, she was standing.

  She shuffled her feet toward the stove, her fingers finding a burner knob. She pushed, twisted it all the way.

  Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the right front burner start to glow. Slowly, it went from a dull red to a deeper orange. A wisp of smoke came off it, from dust and disuse.

  She clenched her fists. The gloves would give some protection, but not for long. More than anything, she would have to keep her balance. If she fell, it was all over.

  The heating coil was bright now, and she could feel its warmth. She stretched her arms as far back as they would go, held her breath, and pushed her wrists into the burner.

  * * *

  He opened the overnight bag, saw the money inside, dumped it out into the trunk. Banded stacks; fifties, hundreds. He pushed them around. Ten grand at most.

  “Lying bitch.”

  He pulled back the trunk carpet, looked in the wheel well, beneath the spare. Nothing.

  He could use the razor on the woman, get her to tell him where the rest was—if there was any. But then he would have to figure out how to get it, start all this over again, only this time alone. It wasn’t worth it. Better to take what was here, cut his losses, go back in and kill them both.

  * * *

  She could smell burning plastic now, the stink of smoldering leather. Smoke drifted up behind her, the burner scorching her right hand through the glove. She shifted to get a better angle, cried out as bare skin touched the heating element. Pain rushed up he
r right arm, watered her eyes.

  She pulled her hands away from the burner, could smell her own flesh burning. She’d seen a paring knife in the silverware drawer. If she could get through the wrist cuffs, she could use it to cut through the ones on her ankles. It wouldn’t be much of a weapon, but it would have to do. She had no other chance.

  She looked behind her, trying to center the cuffs on the edge of the burner. She bit into her lip, tasted blood, and pushed down hard.

  * * *

  He put the money back in the bag, zipped it up. It would have to do.

  He shut the trunk, got the shotgun from the roof. When he left the garage, he used the butt to break the light fixture on the wall. The yard went dark.

  The snow around him seemed to glow in the moonlight. He walked back to the house.

  THIRTY-ONE

  As soon as he entered the porch, he smelled it, the acrid stench of burned plastic and leather. He shouldered through the kitchen door, came in with the shotgun up, finger on the trigger.

  Chance was gone, just a puddle of blood on the floor there now. Eddie swung the shotgun toward where he’d left the woman. He saw the orange glow of the burner, the smoking gloves on the floor, and then she was coming out of the shadows, a knife in her hand.

  * * *

  Crissa went for his face, jabbing with the paring knife, trying for the eyes. He got the shotgun up, blocked it, and her next thrust went through his right coat sleeve and deep into his upper arm.

  He grunted, swung the shotgun at her, and she grabbed it with both hands, tried to twist it out of his grip, couldn’t. He spun her, drove her back, and she felt the refrigerator rock as she hit it. But she had a solid grip on the gun now, wouldn’t let go.

  His lips pulled back, and she could see his teeth, smell his breath. He was trying to get the shotgun across her throat, the knife still dangling from his arm. She let him get in close, then used her knees, jacking them up into his thighs, trying for the groin. He twisted away to protect himself, his grip on the gun loosening, and that was all she needed.

  She pulled him to her, drove the top of her head into his face, and then he was falling back, sliding in Chance’s blood, and she had the shotgun.

  He came up faster than she expected, getting his footing, drawing her .38. She swung the shotgun. The stock cracked into his wrist, and the .38 flew away, hit the wall. She turned the muzzle toward him, and he was diving for the porch, throwing himself into the blackness as she squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  He heard the blast as he hit the floor. The center porch window exploded and collapsed. He rolled away, heard her pump and fire again, buckshot shredding the floor where he’d been. He got to his feet, lunged for the porch door, hit it, and tumbled out into the snow. The window above his head detonated, blew glass over him. He ran into the darkness.

  * * *

  She tracked him through the shattered windows, the shotgun up, glass at her feet. The garage light was out, the yard lit only by the moon. She saw the solidity of his shadow, fired, the gun kicking back hard. She worked the pump again, the smoking shell flying to her right. The breech closed with a hollow click. Empty.

  She went back into the kitchen, tossed the shotgun on the counter, picked up the .38. Her hands stung. She shut off the stove light, ducked below the level of the kitchen windows, listened. The only sound was the wind.

  Staying low, she moved into the dining room. Chance lay where she had dragged him.

  She knelt beside him. He opened his eyes.

  “Hey,” she said. “You’re back.”

  He shifted, winced.

  “Don’t move.” She set the .38 down, opened his jacket.

  “He got me good,” he said. His voice was weak.

  “Yeah, he did.” She gently pulled the sweater away from his wounds. He gasped as she ripped the material along the pellet holes, exposing his chest and shoulder. The wounds were clustered high, all of them steadily oozing blood.

  “A little lower and that would have been it,” she said. “But what you caught doesn’t look too deep. Can you move your right arm?”

  “A little.”

  “Good.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out there somewhere.”

  “You hit him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be back.”

  She picked up the .38, went upstairs. Wind blew down the hall from the broken back window. She crouched beside it, looked out on the moonlit snow. There was a maze of tracks from the three of them. She couldn’t tell which were his.

  In the bathroom, she closed the door tight, turned the light on, set the gun on the sink. Her hands were throbbing, both wrists bright red and spotted with pale blisters. She ran water over them, the pain shooting up into her shoulders. After a few moments, the burning began to subside.

  In the medicine cabinet, she found rubbing alcohol and a box of large gauze pads. She took a clean hand towel from the shelf, then turned the light off, opened the door to listen. He might not run, she knew. He might just double back, try to find a way into the house.

  She carried everything downstairs. Chance had worked himself into a sitting position against the wall.

  “I told you not to move,” she said. She knelt, set the .38 on the floor.

  “I don’t want to pass out again.”

  “You may anyway. This is going to hurt.” She pulled the ragged edges of the sweater wider, uncapped the alcohol, looked in his eyes. “Easy now.”

  She poured alcohol down his shoulder and chest, washing through the clotting blood. He cried out, stiffened, closed his eyes. The pungent smell of it drifted up.

  “You still with me?” she said.

  He nodded, opened his eyes. She shook three gauze pads from the box, tore them open. She laid them on his chest and shoulder, covering most of the pellet wounds. Almost immediately, the gauze began to darken.

  She folded the hand towel, placed it on his chest. “Hold this against yourself. Keep up the pressure.”

  She guided his left hand to the towel, helped him hold it there. He winced again.

  She sat back on her haunches. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  He looked up at her. “You think he’s still out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She picked up the .38.

  “Go find him,” she said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  She went out the front door. The wind had stopped. She listened, then cocked the .38 as quietly as she could. Rounding the corner of the house, she looked up the driveway. Moonlight gleamed on the snow.

  She started toward the rear of the house, staying close to the wall. When she reached the back porch she stopped and looked out into the stillness of the yard. The snow began to darken. Clouds moved in front of the moon.

  The garage was a darker shape ahead. He might be inside there, waiting for her to show herself. Or anywhere in the trees, with another weapon, waiting for a clear shot.

  She raised the .38 in a two-handed grip, pointed it into the yard, searching for a silhouette, a shadow. Hoping she’d be quicker on the trigger than he was.

  She started toward the garage. The clouds parted again, bathed the ground in moonlight. A gleam in the driveway caught her eye, right on the edge of the woods. Something metallic there in the snow. She moved closer. It was the paring knife, the blade shiny with blood. So he’d gone that way, back into the trees. He’d have a car out there somewhere, on the other side.

  She was in the center of the driveway when she heard the click of the Toyota’s ignition, the roar of its engine. She turned toward the garage just as the car came skidding and screeching out of it, aiming at her. She twisted to run toward the house. Knew she wouldn’t make it.

  * * *

  Eddie looked over his shoulder, steered at her, heard the fleshy thump as he caught her with the left rear fender. Halfway down t
he driveway, he hit the brakes hard, and the Toyota slewed to a stop, pointing toward the house.

  He turned on the headlights, saw the woman in their glare, struggling to stand. It had only been a glancing blow, not solid enough to put her down for good. She was on her feet now, dragging one leg. She looked down the driveway at him, blinded by his lights.

  He slammed the gearshift into DRIVE, pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  * * *

  She heard the Toyota’s engine, the buzz saw whine of its tires fighting for traction. In the blaze of the headlights, she saw the .38 a few feet away, lying in the snow.

  She dragged her right leg, bent for the gun. She heard the tires grip and squeal, and then the car was coming at her, and she had the gun, was turning with it, into the lights. Aim, she thought. Make it count. Even if he kills you.

  She fired at a spot above the headlights, the gun jumping in her hand, fired again, and then the car was veering toward the house. She threw herself to the left, the front fender missing her by inches, and landed hard on the frozen ground.

  * * *

  When the first shot came through the windshield, Eddie turned his face away, the glass spraying across him. He aimed the car at her, standing there in his headlights, and the next shot starred the windshield above the steering wheel, scored his neck. He twisted the wheel to the left, and then the woman was moving to the side, out of the way, and he slammed hard on the brakes, but it was too late. The house filled his vision.

  * * *

  The Toyota hit the house just under the dining room windows, the front end punching into the siding, then bouncing back with the impact. She saw the driver’s side air bag bloom open.

  The engine was still running. It steadily pushed the car’s crumpled front end back into the wall again. Steam hissed out from under the wrecked hood, then a puff of darker smoke.

  When she got up, her right leg and hip were numb. She opened the .38, picked out the empty shells, reloaded. Moving to the center of the driveway, she raised the gun, the car about fifteen feet away.

  The whine of the engine grew louder, higher, and then there was a burst of black smoke from beneath the hood. Flames began to dart out from around its edges, blistering the paint. The engine coughed and died. Ruptured fuel line, she thought, spilling gasoline onto the hot manifold.