Squall

by Sean Costello

  “Sounds pretty Zen there, Sanj,” Tom said. “But if you think we’re letting you out of that chair before the cops get here, what you’re experiencing isn’t an epiphany, it’s a stroke.”

  “I’m already resigned to my fate,” Sanj said. “I’m merely trying to shape it into something purposeful.”

  Tom said, “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “Actually, Tom,” Sanj said, as if they were having a friendly chat, “would you mind getting me a glass of water? I’m parched, and all I can taste is that filthy rag.”

  Dale thought Tom would tell the guy to go fuck a goat, but instead he said, “Sure,” and left the room.

  In a confiding tone, Sanj started talking again.

  * * *

  Tom caught himself holding a finger under the tap to make sure the water was cold enough, then he just filled the glass, thinking, Let him drink it piss warm.

  The gun was digging into his back now and he drew it out of his pants and set it on the counter by the sink, checking to make sure the safety was on.

  He paused a moment then and took a deep breath, the aftermath of the day’s events dragging on him like an anchor. His mind was a tilted whirlwind, his thoughts racing and barely coherent, and when he noticed the digital readout on the stove—11:55 P.M.—he could scarcely credit all that had taken place in the last eighteen hours. It felt like days had passed since he’d flown to the outpost cabin, the intervening hours seeming more dreamlike than real. He’d never felt so exhausted, so physically and emotionally drained.

  Some birthday.

  And with that thought, two thing occurred to him in sequence: the first was that all three of the Stokes boys now shared the same birthdate; and the second was something his maternal grandmother used to tell him whenever his life went askew: “It’s the outcome that matters.”

  He was alive. He’d survived a plane crash, a violent encounter with professional assassins, had staged a rescue mission in his own home that had ended in gales of laughter...and he was a dad again, the father of two sweet boys.

  Not bad for a day’s work.

  As curious as he was about what Dale and Sanj were talking about in there, Tom set the glass of water on the counter and opened the fridge, his stomach grinding so hard on him now the room was starting to spin. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his head was pounding.

  “Oh, my,” he said, peeling back the tinfoil on a baking pan of leftover meatloaf, already sliced into nice thick wafers. He picked one up and took an enormous bite, the stuff delicious even cold.

  Then he felt something knuckle-size and hard press against his kidney from behind and heard a woman’s husky voice say, “Nice table manners, man,” and when he startled the voice said, “Easy, motherfucker, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Tom felt the muzzle of the gun jabbed hard into his flank, then it was gone and he heard the woman’s boot heels clock against the tiles as she took two steps back. Sounding amused, she said, “Now turn around and do it slowly.”

  Still holding a wedge of meatloaf, Tom turned to see a heavily made-up woman of maybe twenty-eight aiming a gun at his head, her index finger hooked firmly around the trigger. Even standing still she appeared to be in motion, vibrating, on the verge of doing something violent, too swift for the eye to see. His glance drifted to the gun he’d left on the counter and the woman said, “Funny. You don’t look that stupid.”

  Abandoning the idea, Tom said, “Who are you?” and the woman said, “Call me Ronnie.” She said, “Are you gonna eat that?” and Tom shrugged, only now noticing the speck of white powder on the tip of her nose which, given her wired demeanor, could only be cocaine. She said, “Then give it here,” and Tom gave her the chunk of meat, watching with petrified fascination as she gobbled it down like a ravenous chimp. “Mm, shit,” she said, crumbs of meatloaf raining to the floor. “Delicious.”

  Then she was waving the gun at him, wanting him to move. “Quietly now, big fella,” she said. “Time to have a chat with those fuckweeds in the other room.”

  * * *

  For the past few minutes Dale had been listening to Sanj ramble on about his brother and the dark path they’d chosen, but he had no idea where the guy was headed with it. Was it some sort of ploy to make him feel guilty and maybe cut the crazy fucker loose? If so, it was never gonna work. Truth was, all Dale could think about right now was getting the hell out of here before the cops showed up.

  He was about to suggest to Sanj that he get to the point when the man said, “So in light of recent events, I’ve decided to testify against your brother and Randall Copeland. My cousin Raj does their bookkeeping and they’ve never been anything but rude to him. With Raj’s help, I can put them both away for a dozen lifetimes.”

  “Do that,” Dale said, “you won’t last a day on the inside.”

  “Oh, I won’t be going to prison,” Sanj said. “I’ll be going home to India and taking my cousin with me.”

  “All the people you’ve killed, you think they’ll let you walk?”

  “Believe me, if I testify, they’ll buy me a first class ticket.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  “What I’m telling you is, if you keep your head down for a while, you’ll be free of them both.”

  Dale said, “Why would you even care?” the words barely out of his mouth when a gunshot made his ears pop and the chair Sanj was sitting in flipped over backward, blood from the wound in the man’s chest speckling Dale’s shirt as a familiar voice said, “See if they fly that to India, you piece of shit.”

  In the background, muted by the whine in Dale’s skull, he heard Mandy scream. Then Ronnie’s voice again, speaking to him now, Ronnie standing in the doorway behind Tom with his hands raised, Ronnie looking perplexed, peering at him over Tom’s shoulder saying, “Now who the fuck are these people and why are you here?”

  All Dale could think to say was, “Ronnie. I thought you were dead.”

  * * *

  Moments after the gunshot—Tom had actually felt the muzzle blast through his shirt, the woman taking the shot from right next to his waist—Tom heard Steve call out from his room above the office—“Mommy?”—and by instinct tensed to run to him.

  Ronnie pressed the gun to his kidney again, freezing him. “Put it out of your mind,” she said. “Go sit with the missus. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Tom obeyed. Incredibly, their infant son was still sound asleep. In her usual unflappable way, Mandy whispered, “He’s gonna be a good sleeper,” and Tom squeezed her warm hand, praying the cops would get here soon and put an end to this mayhem.

  Ronnie was still in the doorway with the gun raised, eyes shifting from side to side, saying to Dale now, “Where’s the other Paki?”

  Dale said, “He’s dead.”

  “How?”

  He looked away from her. “I shot him.”

  Ronnie said, “Dale? Look at me, Dale,” and Dale did. She studied him for a moment, sitting there hunched in his chair, as if to assess the likelihood of his claim, then smiled and said, “Well, god damn. Finally grew a pair.” She strode over to him and kissed him on the mouth. “Miss me?” she said.

  Then Steve’s voice from upstairs again: ”Mommy.”

  Mandy said, “May I go to him, please?” and Ronnie said, “Nobody’s going anywhere.” Tom stood and Ronnie swung the gun on him. “Did I say you could move?”

  Tom raised his hands and kept going, heading for the desk. Keeping his left hand raised, he used his right to slide open the narrow center drawer and heard Ronnie cock the pistol. He picked up a bright yellow walkie talkie and showed it to her, easing his way back to the bed now, doing his best to show her he was no threat. He said, “My son has the other one upstairs, okay? I don’t want him coming down here.”

  Ronnie waved the gun at him. “Get it done.”

  Tom turned on the device and spoke softly into its grille: “Hey, bud, can you hear me, over?”

  There was a long pause, then
Steve’s voice, tinny and alarmed: “Hi, Dad, what was that noise?”

  Tom said, “Sorry, pal, that was my fault. I turned the TV on too loud, right in the middle of a gunfight. Did it scare you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well it’s nothing to worry about, okay? You go on back to sleep now.”

  Ronnie said to Tom, “Get it over with,” and glanced at Sanj, motionless and bleeding in his overturned chair.

  Steve said, “Can you come upstairs?”

  “Not right now,” Tom said. “Soon, though, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Glaring at Ronnie, Tom said, “Goodnight, chum,” and turned off the walkie talkie.

  Ronnie said, “Toss it on the floor, evil eyes,” and Tom complied.

  With the gun still aimed at Tom, Ronnie returned her attention to Dale, saying, “Where’s the stuff?”

  “In the SUV.”

  “Why the fuck would you leave it out there? Did you lock the doors at least?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Jesus, Dale, you’re like a lost pup.” She looked over at the Stokes family, huddled together on the sofa bed. “Now please don’t make me ask you again: Who are these people and why the fuck are you here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Ronnie said, “All right. Let’s get this over with, then. Go see your friend in Montreal. You can tell me all about it on the road.”

  Turning her back on Dale, Ronnie started toward the bed, the gun aimed at Mandy now.

  Behind her, Dale got to his feet. “Ronnie, what are you doing?”

  Ignoring him, Ronnie said to Mandy, “You got a crib or something to put that in?”

  Afraid the woman was actually going to shoot his wife, Tom took the baby from her and tried to shield them both with his body. He said, “Look, Ronnie, you don’t have to do this. Why don’t you just take your stuff and go.”

  “Sure,” Ronnie said, still inching toward them. “And maybe you should snap a few Polaroids before we leave, hand ’em out to the cops as souvenirs. Or better yet, why don’t I just jot you a forwarding address?”

  “We have nothing to gain by talking to the police,” Tom said, sorry now that he’d taken the baby, thinking that if the crazy bitch got just a few feet closer he could rush her, knock her on her ass even if she put a bullet in him. “I just want you gone. You have my word.”

  Ronnie aimed the gun at the baby and said, “Get the kid out of the way.”

  * * *

  Dale cocked the gun in his hand, aimed it at Ronnie’s back and said, “Put it down, Ronnie.”

  Already smirking, Ronnie did a slow pirouette and aimed her gun at him, her manic green gaze ticking to his trembling gun hand before fixing on his eyes.

  “Oh, this is rich,” she said. “You’re going to shoot me now?”

  “If I have to.”

  Ronnie shook her head and laughed, and in what Dale realized was a classic feint started lowering her gun...

  He thought, Oh, fuck, here it comes—”, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  On the verge of dropping Dale and saying to fuck with him, Ronnie heard the bitch housewife say, “Don’t—try it.”

  Keeping the gun trained on Dale, she shifted her gaze to Mandy, who had a snub-nose semi-auto aimed at her now in a very professional, very confident looking grip. Hubby had gotten to his feet and was moving away from the bed with the baby in his arms.

  Mandy said, “I’ll be happy to play Wild West with you, Ronnie, but before we get to all that, I want you to have a look at those trophies over there.”

  Ronnie glanced at what looked like a bunch of shooting trophies shelved in a glass case by the wall—gold and silver figures, all female, rifles and handguns raised and ready—then returned her attention to Mandy, a little more warily now.

  “They all have my name on them,” Mandy said. “So before I turn that greasy forehead of yours into a ten-ring, tell me, how would you like to proceed?”

  The coke was seething through her now and Ronnie scowled at Dale, wanting so badly to destroy him for his betrayal, but totally unsure of little Miss Mandy over there.

  “Please, Ronnie,” Dale said, and in spite of herself Ronnie felt a twitch of genuine affection for the guy. “Let’s just take the stuff and go. No one has to get hurt.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, thinking that maybe she’d do just that.

  Then she swung the gun on Mandy. “Little bitch.”

  “Ronnie, no.”

  * * *

  Mandy squeezed the trigger and saw a neat round hole appear in Ronnie’s forehead. Either by reflex or intent, Ronnie got a shot off as she fell, the round ripping through the ceiling above her head.

  Steve’s room.

  Mandy looked at Tom in alarm. Tom handed the baby back to her and left the room running. Still holding his gun, Dale stood staring at Ronnie’s body; the finger he’d slid the engagement diamond onto was fluttering.

  His sleep broken at last, the baby started crying and Mandy cooed to him, offering her breast, Sanj’s backup piece still wafting gun smoke on the pillow beside her.

  * * *

  Tom charged into Steve’s room to find him sitting on the edge of his bed in the light of the bedside lamp, clutching his teddy and staring at the bullet hole in the floor. Surrounding it were the remains of the glass hood from his ceiling light.

  Tom sat beside him and hugged him tight.

  * * *

  Tom returned to the office a few minutes later to find Sanj alive and semi-conscious, Dale applying a pressure dressing to the wound in the man’s chest. The bloody sheet from the baby’s birth had been draped over Ronnie’s body and Dale kept glancing at it, a dazed, quizzical expression on his face.

  With a nod at Mandy, Tom moved to assist Dale. The baby was feeding peacefully now, bundled in a blanket in Mandy’s arms. She said, “Steve’s okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Tom said, helping Dale snug wide strips of adhesive across the already bloody dressing on Sanj’s chest. “Poor little guy’s so exhausted, he thought he was dreaming. Went straight back to sleep.”

  Seeing how distraught Dale was, Tom said, “It’s okay, man, I got this.” Dale stood, nodding gratefully. Tom said, “You better take off before the police get here.”

  Dale said, “You mean it?”

  Tom smiled. “Just make sure you leave the drugs in the SUV. There’s a pickup truck parked in the laneway outside; I spotted it from Steve’s room. I’m assuming that’s how your girlfriend got here. You should grab the keys and take that.”

  “What are you going to tell the cops?”

  Standing, Tom said, “I’ll think of something.”

  The men shook hands.

  Dale found the keys for the pickup in Ronnie’s jacket pocket, then shrugged into his coat. “I’m sorry about all this, Mandy,” he said.

  Mandy smiled and said, “What was it your Granny used to say, Tom?”

  “It’s the outcome that matters.”

  Mandy said, “Exactly.” She paused a moment to glance at her newborn son, then said, “Can I give you some advice, Dale?”

  Dale said, “Of course.”

  “Find a new line of work.”

  Smiling, Dale left through the office door.

  43

  The pickup truck was a brand new Chevy Silverado, and as Dale belted himself in he couldn’t help wonder what it must have cost the poor son of a bitch who owned it to allow Ronnie into the cab with him. Probably his life.

  Dale could smell her perfume in here, a deeply erotic scent tinged with cigarette smoke that never failed to arouse him. Those first few weeks they’d spent together had been the most intimate and exciting of his life, like being invited into the revved up world of some magnificent supermodel, the kind of woman who, before Ronnie came along, would never even have given him the time of day. She was a wild, fearless creature and he knew he would miss her. Well, certain things about her, anyway.

 
He backed down the hill to the main road and headed east with no particular destination in mind, the seat radiating a comfortable warmth into his tired ass, Trang’s leather briefcase making a nice hand rest on the seat beside him. Leaving behind the heroin—all of it—had been tough, but it was the only thing Tom had asked of him and he owed the man at least that much...and, he realized now, he owed it to himself as well. He’d gone off the stuff cold turkey numerous times before and knew he was in for a couple of wretched days of withdrawal; but he also knew he could handle it.

  He decided then that the first north-south route he came to he’d head south, plug along at the speed limit until he got too sick to drive, then hole up in a motel somewhere and sweat the shit out. After that, who knew?

  Someplace warm, he thought, tuning the radio to a classic rock station. Someplace hot.

  In the oncoming lane two police cars crested a hill and approached him at speed, dome lights twirling. His first instinct was to let up on the accelerator, but he was already doing five klicks under the limit and aborted the urge.

  Just hold ’er steady...

  The cruisers bore down on him without slowing...and blew past.

  Dale breathed.

  The tail lights on the trailing car flashed in his rearview for a beat, then went dark. A few seconds later Dale crested the hill. His gaze for the next few minutes kept ticking to the rearview, but there were no cops coming after him. There was no traffic at all.

  With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Dale turned the radio up and settled in for the long drive ahead, a new artist whose name he didn’t catch rockin’ out a tune called “Lie Machine.” The lyrics made him think of Ronnie.

  Saturday, January 18, 8:12 A.M.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  “Come on, big guy,” Tom said, playing airplane with a teaspoon brimmed with pink goo the baby had no intention of allowing into his mouth. The highchair tray already looked like an autopsy slab. “No birthday goo tonight if you don’t eat your breakfast goo now.”

  Lightning quick, the little guy shot out a chubby hand and turned the hovering spoon into a catapult, spattering them both with Beech Nut Country Breakfast. A dab of it got into Tom’s mouth and he nearly gagged. “Okay, bud,” he said, “I get it now.” He flashed a pleading look at Mandy, but she only smiled and continued stirring her coffee. Steve liked feeding his baby brother, but he was away on a sleepover.