Shoot the Woman First

by Wallace Stroby

  “I know. And I need to thank you. For everything you’ve done.”

  Crissa locked the back door, touched the light switch beside it. The yard lit up all the way to the woods.

  “Let me tell you something,” she said. “From experience. The tough part hasn’t started yet. You’ll be in a strange environment, doing unfamiliar things, and doing them clean. It’s like you said, you’ll want to go back to what you know, what’s comfortable, even if it’s killing you. That’s the way it works.”

  “I don’t think I could ever go back,” Claudette said. “Not after what’s happened.”

  “You caught some bad breaks along the way,” Crissa said. “But it doesn’t have to be that way for Haley. She has a chance. Don’t fuck it up for her.”

  “This isn’t all my fault, you know, everything’s that happened.”

  “No one said it was.”

  Crissa went out to the living room. Haley was still on the floor, crayons and coloring book spread out in front of her, the television blaring. Crissa stood in the doorway, looked down at her.

  She’s not yours, she thought. And she’s never going to be. She’s got her own family, her own life, and you’re no part of either. You’re stalling, because you don’t want to go back to an empty house, and a town full of strangers.

  Claudette came into the living room. She sat beside Haley on the floor, said, “Hey, sweetie. How you making out with that?”

  Haley slid over to make room for her. Neither of them looked up as Crissa walked past them, out the front door and into the dark.

  TWENTY

  Burke parked at the curb, looked at the house. It was the right address, the one he’d gotten from Black’s rap sheet. He read the notice on the door, said, “Son of a bitch.”

  All this way and no one here. It had taken him a day and a half to drive to Florida. He’d stopped in Kentucky the night before, then driven the rest in one shot. He’d left the Impala in a parking garage in Orlando, rented the Buick from a local agency, not wanting his Michigan plates to attract attention. He’d transferred the two tac bags to the trunk.

  It was almost dusk. He got out, went up to the door, rang the bell, heard it echo inside. He tried the knob. Locked. The window, too. He went around back, and the door and windows there were boarded. But the plywood on one window hung loose at an angle. He slid it aside, saw a dark empty room inside, trash on the floor, a bare mattress and a camping lantern, a crack pipe. The room smelled of sweat and pot smoke.

  He let the plywood swing back, saw the two nails on the ground. He picked them up. The heads were weathered, but the shafts shiny. It hadn’t been long since they’d been pried loose from the wood.

  He went back to the car. He’d go find a room somewhere, get something to eat, come back later, see if anyone showed up. It wasn’t much to go on, but he’d come this far. He’d play the cards he was dealt.

  * * *

  At nine o’clock, he was back at the house, watching from across the street. The ashtray was full. He’d slept an hour, eaten, and felt better now. It was too warm for the coat he’d brought, so he’d bought a zippered jacket at a store nearby.

  At first he thought it was just fatigue, his eyes playing tricks on him. A glow of light in the dark window of the house, bright for a moment, then dimmer.

  He lit another cigarette, saw a shadow pass by the window, someone moving around inside there.

  He got the Browning from under the seat, tucked it into his belt, zipped the jacket up over it, pulled on his gloves.

  He’d wait, let them get their smoke on in there, if that’s what they were doing. He finished his cigarette, then got out of the car, went up the side yard of the house. He could hear TV noise from an open window of the house next door, caught a glimpse of a living room, a gray-haired woman eating a bowl of ice cream, intent on what she was watching, not noticing him as he went by.

  The plywood still hung loose. He could hear whispers inside, the hiss and sizzle of a pipe. The lantern was on low, lighting up the floor and the man and woman sitting on the edge of the mattress. He had a ponytail, wore a torn flannel shirt with the sleeves buttoned. The woman was thin and blond, in a dirty tank top and cutoff jeans. When the man handed her the crack pipe, Burke saw the star tattoo on the side of his neck. She fired the bowl with a plastic lighter, drew on the pipe.

  He took out the Browning, wanting to get this over with, find out what he could and move on. With his other hand, he pulled back the plywood, heard it crack. It swung free, and the two inside looked up. He pointed the gun at them, said, “Police. Don’t move.”

  The woman dropped the pipe.

  “Up,” Burke said.

  The man stood slowly, unsteady on his feet. He raised his hands. “It’s cool, man. It’s okay. I used to live here.”

  The woman stood, too, looked at the doorway.

  “No, really, it’s cool,” the man said. “We didn’t break in. This was my house.”

  “That so?” Burke said, keeping the gun on him. He looked at the woman. “What about you?”

  “I just came here to party.”

  “Get out.” When she didn’t move, he nodded at the doorway. “I said go on, get out of here.”

  She looked at him, then bolted from the room. He heard her fumbling at the front door.

  “What’s your name?” Burke said.

  “Roy.”

  “Roy what?”

  “Mapes.”

  “You say you used to live here?”

  “Yeah, man. This was my house.”

  “Come out here, Roy,” Burke said, “and talk to me.”

  * * *

  They were sitting at a table outside a fast-food restaurant, Mapes working on his second hot dog. Burke had sent him to the counter with a twenty-dollar bill, told him to get what he wanted. Now Burke smoked and watched him eat.

  “What they did,” Mapes said when he was finished. “It wasn’t right.”

  “No,” Burke said. He’d heard most of the story on the way here. “You deserved better than that.”

  “You’re goddamn right. Can I get one of those?”

  Burke put the pack in front of him.

  “You scared the shit out of me back there,” Mapes said. “When I saw that gun, I thought it was all over.”

  “Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful, right? You want another coney?”

  “A what?”

  “A hot dog.”

  Mapes shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “So you have no place to go now?”

  “Can’t go back to the motel. Don’t have enough money to go somewhere else. That bitch fucked up everything for me.”

  “Maybe we can do something about that.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “This woman you’re talking about. I think she’s the one I’ve been looking for.”

  “Why?”

  Burke didn’t answer.

  “That’s okay,” Mapes said. “None of my business, right?”

  Burke took a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, folded it and stuck it under the paper plate. “That’s for your trouble.”

  Mapes looked at it, then at him.

  “Go ahead,” Burke said. “Take it.”

  Mapes slid it off the table, put it in his shirt pocket.

  “Tell me,” Burke said. “You ever see this money they were always talking about?”

  Mapes shook his head. “She had it someplace else. I don’t know where.”

  “And she took it with her when they left? All of it?”

  “That’s what pissed me off. They could’ve left something for me, right?”

  “Should have, definitely. You get a sense how much there was?”

  “No, but it was a lot. She had plenty with her to spend.”

  Burke watched a stray dog trot through the parking lot, sniff at an overstuffed trash can.

  “You ever hear a last name?” Burke said.

  “Just Crissa. That’s all. Maybe she told Clau
dette her last name, but I never heard it.”

  Maybe not such a pro after all, Burke thought. Hanging around, telling people she had money for them, when she should be holed up someplace, spending it. It didn’t make any sense.

  There was a fading bruise on Mapes’s cheek. Burke touched his own face in the same place, said, “She do that to you?”

  “No way, man. If she’d tried to touch me, I’d have beat her ass good.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I don’t ever let a woman put her hands on me.”

  “She really got to you, huh?”

  “I was taking care of shit. I had things all worked out, a plan. And she fucked it all up.”

  Mapes sat back abruptly, arms crossed, let out smoke, looked away.

  Burke slid the pack toward him. “Keep them.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He put them in his shirt pocket. “Why you looking for her?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “Somebody needs to set her straight, you know what I mean?”

  “I do. Exactly. Can you help me do that?”

  Mapes sniffed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “There’d be more money, if you’re interested,” Burke said. “Maybe a lot.”

  “Whose money?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “That money belonged to me as much as Claudette.”

  “Good reason why we should find it, then. You might end up with a piece of it after all.”

  “How?”

  “She’s got it. I want it. You help me find it, you’ll get a share.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends how much you help, doesn’t it? And how much we find. But it’ll be enough to set you up for a while. You can find a decent place to live, not that rathole vacant back there. Get some new clothes, clean yourself up.”

  “Get organized.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “You know where they went, right? When they left here?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then there you go. Tell me.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Mapes said. “I’ll take you there.”

  * * *

  Driving north on I-95, Burke watched thunderclouds gather on the horizon. Dark gray at first, then turning black, lightning pulsing inside.

  “Gonna storm,” Mapes said.

  Burke shifted in his seat. He was tired, but the adrenaline was keeping him going. Mapes had talked nonstop for the first hour in the car, Burke nodding, but hardly listening. Every once in a while he’d shut up, and Burke would look over to see him nodding out. Then his eyes would spring open, and he’d start talking again as if there’d been no break.

  It started raining when they passed Daytona, thick drops that spotted the windshield. He watched for signs. He’d turn off on U.S. 1, take it north up along the coast, find a place for both of them to stay that night. He wanted to be awake and alert when he reached St. Augustine.

  He rolled his neck to ease the stiffness. He needed coffee and a night’s sleep, but there would be time enough to rest soon. He was closer than he’d ever been before, to the woman, to the money. Before tomorrow night, he might find both.

  Mapes began to snore. Burke looked at him. His head was against the passenger window, eyes closed.

  Thunder boomed above them. Mapes snorted, didn’t wake. Burke made a pistol with his right hand, touched the index finger to Mapes’s left temple, said, softly, “Pow.”

  He didn’t stir. Burke took his hand away, drove on under the black sky.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On her third day there, Crissa took Haley into town, found a Target, let her pick out school supplies. She was mostly silent while they shopped, but she held Crissa’s hand without protest. At the register, Crissa bought her a Mylar balloon with Minnie Mouse on it.

  Driving home, the balloon bobbing in the backseat, they passed a park on the edge of town, saw a petting zoo set up inside a fenced-in area.

  “Horses,” Haley said, and pointed.

  “They sure are,” Crissa said. “Let’s go say hello.”

  She slowed, turned down a side street and into the entrance to the parking lot. Haley was unbuckling herself before the car came to a stop. “Easy, angel,” Crissa said. “Wait for me.”

  Inside the fenced area were two ponies, a pair of potbellied pigs, and three sheep, all in separate pens, attended by teenagers. Four-H’ers, Crissa guessed. The five-dollar admission benefited a local children’s hospital. Crissa paid for Haley, then slipped a fifty into the donation jar on the folding table.

  There were food carts and benches underneath an oak tree, Spanish moss hanging down. Crissa sat, watched a teenage girl lift Haley onto a long-haired Shetland pony, lead her slowly around the pen. She was scared at first, clung tight to the saddle horn, but by the second circuit she was grinning. She looked back at Crissa and waved, then leaned forward to stroke the pony’s hair.

  Leave tomorrow, Crissa thought. Return the car, catch the train back north. The longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to leave, for both of you. In time, with luck, Haley might forget what had happened, start a new life here.

  But she felt no rush to get back. There was nothing waiting for her there, nothing she needed to do. Maybe it was time to go away, someplace warm, like Jimmy had said. Do a little forgetting of her own.

  The sky was red in the west, the sun sinking behind trees. The air smelled of cotton candy and popcorn. A shift in the breeze brought the scent of night-blooming jasmine. She closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, one of the teenagers was leading Haley out by the hand. She was laughing, Crissa realizing then it was the first time she’d ever seen that.

  Crissa stood. “You have fun?” she said. “Ready to go home?”

  Haley nodded, ran toward her. Crissa swept her up in her arms and carried her back to the car.

  * * *

  It was almost dark by the time they got to the house. Nancy’s SUV was still in the driveway. She hadn’t left for the hospital yet, must be running late. Crissa pulled alongside it so as not to block her in.

  She shut off the engine, and Haley undid her harness, reached into the backseat for the balloon.

  “Hold on to that tight,” Crissa said. “Don’t let it get away.”

  Crissa went around and opened the trunk, got out the red and white Target bag. Haley ran toward the house, the balloon streaming behind her. The front door opened, and she disappeared inside.

  She shut the trunk, carried the bag across the lawn, and up onto the porch. The door was ajar. She shouldered it open, went in, and there was Roy, standing in the middle of the living room, holding a gun, Claudette and Nancy on the couch behind him.

  Haley stood in front of him, empty-handed. The balloon was on the ceiling.

  Crissa dropped the bag, stepped toward him, felt cold metal against the back of her neck.

  “Easy there,” a voice said behind her. “Just stay calm. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

  Claudette put out her arms, said, “Come here, sweetie.” Crissa could see the fear in her eyes.

  Haley looked back at Crissa.

  “Go on,” she said.

  Haley went quickly around Roy, into her mother’s arms. Claudette hugged her, tears streaming freely down her face now. Nancy was watching Roy, anger in her eyes.

  “Step forward,” the voice said. “Slow. I don’t want this thing going off by accident. That’s something nobody’ll forget anytime soon.”

  She took a step, half-turned. The man behind her held a pistol-grip shotgun. He was in his forties maybe, dark hair combed back, black nylon jacket.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  He took a pair of flexcuffs from a jacket pocket, tossed them on the floor, said to Roy, “Take those two in the other
room, the girl, too. There’s only two cuffs, but you can handle a six-year-old, right?”

  Roy sniffed, looked at Crissa. “I want to talk to her.”

  “Later,” the man said. “Go on, take the others. Keep them quiet.”

  Roy moved to stand in front of her. His eyes were sunken, the pupils dilated.

  “All that money go up your nose?” she said, and he leaned forward, spit in her face. She hit him without thinking, drove the heel of her right hand into his nose. It snapped his head back, sent him stumbling. The man behind her said, “Hello!”

  Roy raised the gun, and the man aimed the shotgun at him and said, “Take a deep breath, boy. Later for that shit. Do what I say.”

  Roy glared at Crissa, touched his nose. A single drop of blood came from the left nostril. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Go on,” the man said to him. “What did I tell you about starting shit?”

  Roy wiped the blood away, sniffed, bent and picked up the flexcuffs. He looked at Claudette said, “Get up. Let’s go.”

  “No,” she said. Haley’s face was buried in her shoulder, eyes closed.

  Roy pointed the gun at them, and Crissa saw now it was a Mini Glock.

  “You should listen to me,” he said, “You know, shit could get real ugly in here.”

  “Go on,” Crissa said to her. “Nancy, you, too. Everything’ll be okay. We’re just going to talk.” Wanting Haley out of the room if there was shooting.

  “Listen to the woman,” the man with the shotgun said.

  “Come on,” Roy said again, angry. Nancy stood, said, “Claudette, let’s do what he says.”

  Claudette rose, Haley holding on tight. “Roy, why are you doing this to us?”

  “Why did you do what you did to me? Get in there.” He waved the gun at them.

  “Stay with them,” the man with the shotgun said. “Make sure there’s no phones they can get at, anything like that. Go on.”

  Roy walked them into the downstairs bedroom. Crissa wiped the spit from her face. The shotgun muzzle flicked her ear. “Hands,” the man said.

  She raised her hands, and he put the muzzle under her chin, bent her head back, patted her down with his free hand. It was thorough, professional, his hand never lingering too long in a single place.