by Don Winslow
She flirted with him, she played, she luxuriated in feeling attractive. She bathed in sunshine and his admiration. For Allie, sex had always been a commodity: something she traded for money or affection, attention or revenge. A quick exchange of need for need. Now she enjoyed the sweet leisure of courtship, the tantalizing slowness of discovery, the muted music of her body falling in love. After a quick, freezing swim, she would lie on the rock, letting the warm rays of the sun cover her—and it was him covering her, warming her, his heat filling her and warming her, him melting her and melting in her. And then she would open her eyes a slit, pretending to sleep but watching him shyly watching her, watching him swim determined laps, and thinking, That won’t help you, Neal, that won’t save you, but go ahead. She would laugh softly to herself and perhaps drift off into a sweet sleep, wake up and find him on the rock above her, reading a book and trying not to think about her, stare at her, gaze on her. And she would know, in that infallible, infuriating feminine wisdom that makes life possible, that he would eventually come to her, come in her, and she would enfold him and hold him inside her and they would feel the whole world in their joining. There was time for all of that, and now even the waiting was delicious, the gentle pangs of want. She loved him, and she was in no hurry.
For neal, the lake became the symbol of his dilemma. There was the cold, refreshing reality of the water against the sunbaked dream of the glistening rock and the golden girl. The siren song of Allie. Naked, she would perch on the rock above him, Mythology 101 sprung to seductive life. Her skin alone, dappled in sunlight and shadow, made him dizzy. He was swimming in desire. He could feel the insistent tug, the hollow thump, the fierce quick stir in his groin, the pleasant ache. He hadn’t felt it since Diane. Hell, he thought, he hadn’t felt it before Diane.
It complicates things, he thought, and things are complicated enough. You can deal with it later. Now you have five days to make it work. Five days before the shit hits. There’s a lot to do: make arrangements with Dr. Ferguson about the book … get on a plane with Allie … disappear. That would be the hardest of all, because Levine would come after him.
Joe graham sat in chase’s hotel suite, listening to the tirade.
“I didn’t want you to send that kid,” Chase was yelling. “But you all said he was the best! The best what? Fuckup? Head case? Let’s face it, gentlemen, he isn’t coming back and he sure as hell isn’t bringing my daughter with him!”
He was red in the face, Graham noticed, pure power-trip rage.
“I think we had better consider damage control now, gentlemen,” Lombardi said.
I’ll bet you do, Graham thought.
Levine hung tough. “We still have four days before your deadline expires. A lot can happen in four days.”
Let’s hope so, Ed, thought Graham. Let’s hope so.
Lombardi laughed and said, “You haven’t even heard from Carey in weeks, and will you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?” Graham asked.
“Rubbing your artificial hand into your palm. It’s driving me nuts.”
“I do it when I’m worried, and I’m worried about Neal.”
“You’d better worry about him if I ever get my hands on him,” Chase roared.
Fuck you, Graham thought. Fuck you all. Neal had Allie and now he’s missing, and one of you pricks arranged it and I think 1 know who. If my kid is hurt … if my kid is dead …
He rubbed his rubber hand into his palm and stared at Lombardi.
It was after a particularly compelling afternoon at the lake, during which she was certain Neal was finally going to touch her. She could feel him sitting on the rock above her, could feel his glances and was sure that he was just on the verge of sliding down and laying his hands on her shoulders. She could feel herself stroking the backs of his hands, and pulling him tighter, and she knew he was just about to come to her, just about … when he stood up and jumped into the cold water. This time she was pissed off, and she was quiet the whole walk back to the cottage, and they ate their dinner in silence. She went up to bed without a word of good night and watched the doorknob for a long time, willing it to turn.
When it did, Neal stood in the doorway. Just stood in the doorway.
“We’re leaving,” he said. “Tomorrow after breakfast.”
“I don’t want to.” “I’m not asking. It’s time.” “It’s time for a lot of things.”
He stood in the doorway for what seemed like an hour. Then he turned suddenly and shut the door behind him.
The night wind stung Colin’s face but he didn’t let up on the bike’s throttle. The pain felt almost good—it focused his fury. Dickie Huan’s lads had stomped him pretty good. Pretty cute they were with their little hands and feet, but he would meet them again sometime, on his turf and on his time, and then they would find out just how cute they were.
But that was for later. Now he was headed to settle with his old girl Alice and his old buddy Neal. It had taken some talking to convince Dickie to let him go alone. Dickie had wanted to send a fookin’ army, but it was explained to him that Yorkshire villages aren’t used to seeing a horde of Chinese and it might attract negative attention. And besides, the book might be business, but killing Neal was personal. And killing Alice would be a nice hobby. He might even get generous and let Dickie play.
He let his mind imagine Neal and Alice in bed. It helped him forget his cuts and bruises. “Sweet dreams, lovebirds!” he shouted into the wind. “Colin’s on his way!”
33
Neal got up early and collected his few belongings. He put the copy of the Pickle in his briefcase and locked it. He poured himself a cold bath, washed up quickly, then heated water to shave. He heard Allie get up. She came down the stairs and brushed past him in the kitchen without a word. She put up water on the stove for her own bath, staring out the window while it heated.
“Good morning,” Neal said.
She didn’t answer.
“You’re not talking to me?”
“How does it feel?”
Then she carried the bucket outside, poured it into the tub, shucked her clothes, and stepped in. For once, the cold air didn’t seem to bother her, and she took her time bathing.
When she came back in, Neal was sitting at the table, reading some old paperback. Allie went into the kitchen, pulled eggs and bread out of the pantry, and began to make breakfast. When it was ready, she tossed Neal’s plate of eggs and toast in front of him, and said, “So we’re leaving today.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t I get a say? I thought I was a partner.”
“A junior partner.”
“A fifty-fifty partner.”
He looked up from his plate. “Knock it off.”
You’re not getting off this easy, Neal, she thought. I didn’t trade one Colin for another. You’re not going to treat me like this.
“No, Neal,” she said, “you knock it off! I want to know what’s next. What happens when we get back to the States?”
“You get sixteen thousand dollars.”
“I mean what happens between you and me?”
Oh, Allie, not now, he thought. Just give me a few more days to work things out. Just trust me.
“Let’s just take it slow, okay?”
“Slow? Haven’t we been taking it slow?”
“So let’s keep taking it slow.”
“Maybe I’ll just take my money and split.”
He looked up from his plate and met her eyes. “You can if you want to, Alice. You have to know that.”
She ate a few bites of toast, then got right to the heart of things.
“Why won’t you make love to me?”
“Jesus, Alice” was the best he could manage at the moment.
“Why?”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t think I’m attractive.”
“I think you’re very attractive.”
“Then what is it?”
He took his time. “How d
o I explain this…”
Then she got the idea, the wrong idea, but she got hold of it and it hurt her. “It’s because of my father, isn’t it? That’s why!”
“Alice, that’s not it!”
“I shouldn’t have told you!”
“No, I’m glad you did.”
Her face contorted in pain. She tried for the mocking laugh she used to have, but it didn’t work, and she screamed at him, “I thought you loved me!”
“I—”
“But you can’t love a junkie whore who fucked her own father!” He started to explain, to try and tell her … But she was already headed out the door.
Let her go, he thought. Let her blow off steam. She can’t go far. Let her be alone for a while.
Colin was lost. All these dirt roads look alike, he thought, and there are no signs. He was consulting Simon’s directions again when he saw a little dog running toward him, barking.
“Jim!”
Colin heard the voice before be saw the old man. The dog stopped in his tracks, sat down, and began to wag his tail.
That’s better, Colin thought.
Until he saw the shotgun.
“Who would you be?” the old man asked him.
“Good morning,” Colin said in his best toff accent, flashing his most charming smile. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”
The old man didn’t smile back. He’s looking at the cuts and bruises on my face, Colin realized.
“Went off the road with the motorbike,” he explained, adding a self-deprecatory chuckle. “Stupid.”
Still no smile from the old coot, and the dog’s tail had stopped wagging.
“I never liked those things,” the old one said, “Now, who would you be?”
I’d be the Aga bloody Khan if I had the money, you ancient hairy bastard. “I’m a friend of Simon’s.”
“You don’t look like a friend of Simon’s.”
Colin knew how to handle the yeoman class.
“Nevertheless,” he intoned, and let the awkward silence do the rest.
“Simon’s out of country,” the shepherd said.
That’s all right, actually,” Colin said. “I’ve come to see Neal and Alice. Would you know if they’re in?”
“I would.”
“And could you tell me where the cottage is?”
“I could.”
Colin let the precise, polite grimace of impatience cross his face. “And…”
The shepherd turned around to point downhill and took his bloody time about it—quite enough time for Colin to grab the wrench from his toolbag.
Leave her alone, for a while, Neal thought again a few minutes after Allie had left.
Like you let the Halperin kid alone. Poor, stupid little Jason Halperin, from Cincinnati, who you took from that gentle queen on Twenty-third Street. You took him to the Hilton and it was late. You were both hungry and room service was closed. And Jason Halperin was so docile, relieved almost, to be caught, and you figured you could leave him alone for ten minutes while you went across the street to grab a couple of sandwiches. He was engrossed in some stupid movie on television, and you told him that you were locking the door from the outside, which is impossible, and you’d be right back. And you didn’t bother to cuff him, because why put the kid through any more shit, right? And service was so slow, it was a bit more like twenty minutes before you came back with the roast-beef sandwiches and the Cokes and the Twinkies, and there was fourteen-year-old Jason Halperin hanging from the clothes rod in the closet. Because you had left him alone and there were things he couldn’t face alone and you should have known that.
The yapping of Hardin’s dog woke him from the reverie and he took it as a signal. No, don’t leave her alone for a while. Go find her—now.
Neal rushed out the door. The butt of the shotgun hit him square across the upper ribs and he dropped to his knees, sucking for air. He could barely raise his head to see Colin standing there, and Allie standing frozen beside him.
“‘avin’ a little spat, were we?” Colin asked. “Let’s all go back inside and talk it over.”
He ushered Allie inside with the barrel of the gun and sat her down on one of the kitchen chairs. Then he went back out and nudged the shotgun under Neal’s chin. “Trouble gettin’ up, rugger? Want some ’elp?”
Neal struggled to his feet, went in, and crumpled into the other chair. His ribs were burning and it was hard to breathe.
“First things first,” Colin said. “I’ll take the book now …”
“In the bedroom,” Neal said. His eyes began to focus. He recognized the gun as Hardin’s.
“Yeah, ’at’s right, Neal. I thought the other cottage was your little love nest at first. Alice luv, get the book, will you, dear? Before I blow Neal’s ’ead off?”
She went upstairs.
“Neal, Neal, Neal,” Colin said sadly. “You ‘ad to make this difficult.”
“Take the book. Leave Alice.”
“No, I don’t think so. Ah, ’ere’s your beloved. Alice, open the case.”
“Both dials to fifty-three,” Neal said.
She opened the case and set it on the table. Colin leaned over to gaze at the book. “Better late than never, hey, rugger?”
He was getting comfortable now. He held the shotgun against his hip in the crook of one arm. His finger was on the trigger and he had the barrel pointed at Allie. “Neal lad, give us the name of the buyer,”
“I’ll trade you the name for Alice.”
“Well that’s quite generous of you, considerin’ I ‘ave the book, Alice, and this shotgun, and you ‘ave fuck all.”
“I have the name.”
Colin lowered the barrel, dropping it down to Allie’s knees. “It would be a shame, Neal, but I’d do it.”
His finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger. Allie turned dead white, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.
“Dr. John Ferguson, Eleven St. John’s Wood.”
The barrel swung to Neal’s face. “Truth?”
Neal nodded.
“If I find it isn’t, Neal, I’ll take a knife to ’er pretty face, and …” He winced and shook his head.
“It’s the truth.”
“I believe you.” He stepped back and leveled the gun back at Neal’s face. “Well, lad, I’ve never shot anyone before—”
“Don’t hurt him and I’ll go with you,” Allie said.
“You’ll go with me anyway, Alice.”
“I’ll do anything you want. For as long as you want. Just don’t hurt him.”
Colin didn’t take his eyes from Neal. He had made the mistake of underestimating him before. “How can I believe you, Alice?”
“I don’t know! I swear!”
“I’ve got an idea.” He fished out a set of works from his left pocket and dropped it on the table. He followed with a small glassine envelope. “Cook it up and shoot it, there’s a good girl.”
Allie grabbed it. He had brought it all. She had just lit the match under the spoon when Neal said, “Alice, don’t.”
Colin tightened his finger on the trigger. “Shut up.”
A gun makes you see the world in a whole different way. All Neal wanted came in one single, fervent prayer: Don’t let it go off. Please don’t let it go off.
Allie tied the rubber hose around her arm and pulled tight. She chose a vein and lowered the needle to it. She was crying. “Promise me, Colin, you won’t hurt him now.”
“A deal’s a deal.”
Neal was trying to fight through the fear. If he lost her now, he lost her forever. She’d never fight her way back again. Not through the dope, and the selling herself. Not through what Colin was planning for her. Not through the ghosts that haunted her.
You’ve blown it, he thought. Blown it. You haven’t done anything you started out to do.
And you haven’t told her about her father.
“He’s not your father,” Neal said. He felt dizzy. He saw Colin’s jaw tighten. Saw the barrel of the s
hotgun.
“What?” Allie asked. She froze with the syringe a millimeter from her arm.
“Shut up!” Colin yelled. Another ounce of pressure on the trigger and it would go off.
Neal felt as if he were swimming through fear, fighting to the surface. “John Chase is not your father. What he did to you was horrible, but he’s not your father. Remember that.”
“Who are you?”
Neal spat out the words as fast as he could, before the shotgun’s roar could drown him out.
“They sent me to bring you back. Your mother wants you back, and John Chase is not your father.”
“What are you fookin’ on about?”
“All this time …” she said, staring at Neal.
“Shoot it or I shoot ’im. Now!”
She looked at Neal for a moment more, then touched the needle to her arm.
“Allie, don’t!”
She pushed the plunger. It was a strong mix and took only a couple of seconds to hit. Her knees buckled but she caught herself on the table, then shook her head once. Twice. Peace flowed over her, into her.
Neal sank back in his chair.
“Right,” said Colin. “Well, ’ere we go.”
He grabbed the briefcase and shoved Allie toward the door.
“Cheers, rugger.”
Allie’s attack was feeble, heroin slow, but her raking nails hurt anyway and threw off his aim as he knocked her aside and turned to face Neal, who had sprung from the chair.
The blast caught Neal square in the chest and set him down in a bloody heap on the floor.
Colin hit Allie in the stomach with the butt of the gun, then crouched over Neal and felt his neck for a pulse. He didn’t find one. He grabbed Allie by the elbow and shoved her outside toward his motorbike.
Neal had felt the first wicked shot of pain, and then a great sleepy, bloody weight pressing down on his eyes and his chest, and then blessed oblivion.
34
Dr. ferguson answered the telephone, only mildly surprised that someone would be ringing him at that time of the evening. He sometimes wished he had gone into specialized practice, with its nicely specified hours, but for the most part he was pleased with his work and with himself. Dr. Ferguson was a man content. He had a public passion for books, a private one for his wife of twenty-odd years, and an addiction to trout fishing that went beyond all reasonable bounds.
