Shoot the Woman First

by Wallace Stroby

  Nancy frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I want things to seem as normal as possible. And I don’t want anyone coming out here looking for you.”

  “Normal? Are you serious?”

  “No one got hurt,” Crissa said. “That’s the important part. Please, just do as I ask. Get some clothes together, quickly. You all need to get out of here as soon as you can.”

  “Are they coming back?” Claudette said.

  “I don’t think so. I just want to be safe.”

  “Are you coming with us?” Nancy said.

  “No,” Crissa said. “I have some things to do first. I’ll call you on that cell later. But you need to get moving.”

  When they were at the front door, overnight bags in hand, Haley in her mother’s arms, Crissa said, “Wait a minute.”

  They looked back at her. She stood on her toes, reached, caught the string, pulled the balloon down from the ceiling. She carried it to Haley. “Don’t forget this,” she said.

  Haley looked at it for a moment, then grasped the string. “Thank you.”

  “Remember, hold on tight,” Crissa said. “Don’t let it get away.”

  “I won’t.”

  Crissa rubbed her back. “Go on now. I’ll see you later.”

  She stood at the door, watched as they drove away. Then she took out the Glock, checked the magazine, saw it was full, a round in the chamber.

  She went around the house, making preparations, turning out lights. Then she pulled on her gloves, sat down in the darkness to wait.

  TWENTY-TWO

  They were doing forty, the car seeming to ride on a carpet of mist, when Burke said, “God damn it!” and slammed on the brake.

  The car slewed to the side, brakes screeching, came to rest half on the shoulder, headlights pointing off through trees. He’d narrowly missed the guardrail. There was a steep embankment beyond, then swamp.

  “What the fuck?” Mapes said. He’d been counting the money in the open bag at his feet. Now the banded stacks were scattered on the floorboard.

  Burke squeezed the wheel, looked out through the windshield, bit his bottom lip.

  “What are you doing?” Mapes said. “Why are you stopping?”

  Burke looked at him. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “She punked me back there. Punked me good.”

  “What’s the difference? We’ve got the money, that’s what we went there for, right?”

  Burke slammed the shifter into park. There were no streetlights on this stretch of road, and they hadn’t passed another car in ten minutes.

  “It wouldn’t bother you that, after all this, she’s still walking around somewhere, would it?” he said. “After everything she did, all the shit she pulled?”

  “But we got the money.”

  “Yeah, we did. Now put it back in the bag.”

  “How come?”

  “It needs to go in the trunk. We can’t be driving around with it up here.”

  When Mapes had the money in, the bag zipped shut, Burke said, “Get out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m tired of your shit. I’m going to pay you off. Get out.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t leave me out here, middle of nowhere.”

  “Out.”

  Burke took the bag from him, got out, left the engine running. He went around to the trunk, opened it. Mapes got out of the car slowly. “Why are you wigging?”

  “How much do you need?” Burke set the bag in the open trunk, unzipped it. “Is twenty enough?”

  “What?”

  “Twenty thousand. To cut you loose, leave you on your own right now.”

  “There’s almost eighty in there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Your cut is twenty. You take it, then you start walking. About a mile or so back, you’ll hit a place with some phones. You can call a cab.”

  “And what am I supposed to do then?”

  “Up to you. But I’m done with you.”

  “Why do you have to be that way?”

  “Twenty grand. Take it or leave it.”

  Mapes came up beside him. “I should get more.”

  “Right,” Burke said, reached into the trunk, past the bag with the money, into the one beside it, drew out the Mossberg.

  “Hey,” Mapes said. “Wait—” and Burke brought the shotgun up between them, fired. It blew Mapes back, and Burke held the trigger down, worked the pump. The second blast knocked him over the guardrail and down the embankment.

  Burke looked around. No headlights, no sign of a house nearby. He leaned over the guardrail, saw Mapes facedown in the wet grass, legs tangled. Too dark to go down there, check on him, make sure. He aimed at Mapes’s motionless back, pumped and fired, pumped and fired. The noise echoed through the trees.

  He put the shotgun back in the tac bag, shut the trunk lid on the money. Then he got behind the wheel, swung the car around in a wide U-turn, and headed back the way he’d come.

  * * *

  She was sitting on the couch, the Glock in her lap, when she heard the squeal of tires outside. Headlights swept across the living room.

  She got up, went to the side window. He’d pulled up into the driveway, behind her rental, cut the engine. The headlights went out. She couldn’t see him but heard the car door open, shut, footsteps on gravel. He was alone.

  * * *

  Just her car here now, as he’d expected. She’d sent the civilians away, was waiting inside for him, all the lights off. The backyard dark, too, where it had once been floodlit. Fog hung in the trees, but the sky was clear and full of stars, a half-moon shining.

  He took the Browning from his belt, checked the magazine, the round in the chamber, clicked off the safety. He thought about taking the shotgun, but it wouldn’t be right. Not this time.

  He got out of the car, looked around. Two lots away to the west, the house there was dark. To the east, through a screen of trees, was another house, but only a single second-floor window showed light.

  He started up the slate path.

  * * *

  She heard him coming, went to stand by the open door, the Glock at her side. She would only be a silhouette here through the screen door, a darker mass against a dark room.

  He’d stopped on the path, maybe fifteen feet away, watching her, not moving, a gun at his side. Mist covered his feet.

  “You surprised to see me?” he said.

  She shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “No.”

  “All this time, all the miles I’ve come, you think I was just going to walk away like that?”

  “You could have.”

  “Not me.”

  “Where’s Roy?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Was it worth it?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Everything.” She waited, watching him, the gun in his hand.

  “Honey,” he said, “that’s not the point.” He brought the gun up and fired.

  * * *

  One second she was there, a dark shape in the doorway, outlined there, his finger tightening on the trigger, the gun jumping in his hand, and then she was gone.

  It should have been an easy shot at this range. But he hadn’t heard her fall or cry out. She was just there, and then she wasn’t. The crickets had gone silent with the gunshot. After a moment, they started up again. He looked at the houses on both sides. No more lights had come on, no faces at windows. The fog had helped muffle the sound.

  He lowered the gun, looking at the doorway. She had the gun she’d taken off Mapes, but hadn’t tried to return fire. She’d just turned away, gone deeper into the house, left him nothing to aim at but darkness.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. If he wanted to follow her, end it, he’d have to go through that door, take his chances, knowing she was waiting on him somewhere inside.

  He took a breath, looked at the car, thought about the money there in the trunk. It’s
all yours, he thought. All you have to do is drive away.

  He looked back at the house. Still no movement inside. She was hiding somewhere in there, waiting on him, his decision.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and started for the door.

  * * *

  She heard him on the porch, heard the door open. She moved farther into the house, holding the Glock in both hands. In the hallway that led to the kitchen, she stopped, her back flat against the wall. The screen door shut, and she knew then he was inside. He’d come for her.

  She ran.

  * * *

  He pulled the screen door open, pointed the gun into darkness, moved fast into the living room, finger tight on the trigger, looking for a target. The room was clear. The door shut behind him, and then a shadow broke from the others up ahead, moved fast down the dark corridor toward the kitchen. He took the shot, fired straight down that hallway, the muzzle flash bright.

  He heard a gasp, and then the sound of the back screen door swinging open and slamming shut again. He ran toward the sound. Once out in the yard, she’d go for the trees, and then he might lose her. He had to end it before she got there.

  He ran into the dark kitchen, feet skidding on the floor. He caught his balance, kicked the screen door open, pointed the Browning out into the yard, hit the light switch with his free hand. The floodlights went on, bathed the yard. Empty.

  He looked down at his feet then, saw what he was standing on. Two shower curtains laid out on the floor, joined by a long strip of duct tape. Turning then, realizing the mistake he’d made, and there she was on the other side of the kitchen, the Glock in a two-handed grip, and he tried to bring his gun up, already knowing it was too late.

  * * *

  Her first shot hit him high in the chest, knocked him back against the screen door, surprise in his eyes. His gun came up, and she fired again, lower this time, correcting her aim. The third shot put him through the door and out onto the steps. A shell casing clattered into the sink behind her.

  She let out her breath, watching for movement, her gun still up. Started slowly forward.

  * * *

  Burke looked up at the bright stars, the half-moon. He lay on cold concrete, his feet higher than his head, his gun gone. He couldn’t move.

  She filled the doorway above him, the gun still in her hands. He coughed, and there was blood in his mouth. He looked down at his chest, at the holes there, and saw a blood bubble rise from one of them. Sucking chest wound, he thought. Through the lungs. You’re fucked.

  He looked up again, saw a streak of light cross the sky and disappear into blackness. He tried to take another breath, but there was nothing there this time, just fluid. He looked at the moon, felt a coldness rise up inside him. Closed his eyes to meet it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Crissa looked down at the man at her feet, the Glock pointed at his bloody, ruined chest. He lay on his back on the steps, eyes closed, his gun in the dirt a few feet away. She saw a red bubble rise from one of the holes in his chest. Then the bubble popped, and no more came after it.

  There was no time to waste. She didn’t know how far the sound of the shots had traveled. She set the Glock on the counter, then took his ankles, dragged him inside and fully onto the shower curtains. No blood on the concrete. She went past him and down the steps, got his gun and came back inside, set it next to hers. The air still reeked of gunpowder.

  She flipped the wall switch, and the yard went dark. Kneeling, she touched a gloved finger to his carotid artery. No pulse.

  She stood then, and her legs went weak. She reached a chair, sat, drew air deep. The night was silent except for the crickets.

  When she could trust herself to stand, she rolled him facedown onto the curtains, took out her penlight. She pulled the wallet from his back pocket, found his driver’s license. Francis Xavier Burke, with an address in Detroit. She’d never heard of him. A couple of credit cards, a concealed-carry pistol license, fifty dollars in cash. In his jacket pockets were a pack of Newports, a silver lighter. That was it. She took the lighter, put everything else back.

  Keep moving, she told herself. Don’t stop to think.

  His keys were in the car. With the headlights off, she swung the car around past hers, then reversed up the driveway and into the backyard.

  When she opened the trunk, the sports bag with the money was in there. Below it were two tactical bags, and she saw they were matches for the ones Charlie Glass had gotten in Detroit. The first held guns, including the shotgun, and ammunition. The second was full of cash. She put all the money into the sports bag, filling it. She zipped it shut, carried it into the house, stowed it in a downstairs closet.

  Using the penlight, she searched for shell casings. She found her three in the kitchen, another in the hallway. A final one on the slate path out front.

  There was a spent slug on the hearth in the living room. It had gone through the screen door, the back of the couch, hit the fireplace mantel and bounced off to land mostly intact. She picked it up, then traced a path with the penlight beam along the hallway wall, saw the splintered trim where his second bullet had hit. With her penknife, she dug out the mushroomed slug. She put it in her pocket with the casings.

  Back in the kitchen, she rolled him into the curtains, bound them with duct tape. She took a breath, then dragged him out the door feet first, down the steps and into the dark yard. She was winded by the time she got to the car. It took all she had to get him up and into the trunk.

  Time to move. She shut the trunk, got behind the wheel, went down the driveway with the headlights off, turned at the road. She heard the thump of something rolling in the trunk, braked to listen. It didn’t come again.

  She drove for a half hour, the mist reflecting the headlights back at her. She passed through a town with a brightly lit shopping plaza, the lights haloed in the fog, then onto a long stretch of dark road alongside a river. At the first bridge she came to, she pulled onto the shoulder, put her hazards on and got out, looked over the concrete railing at the dark water below. She took the Browning and the Glock from her pockets, unloaded them, wiped them down with a handkerchief, then disassembled them by the light of the bridge stanchion. Everything went into the water. She listened for each splash, then dropped in the shell casings and slugs.

  She drove another ten minutes, found a dirt road that led out into woods. She took it as far as she could, until the road ended at a wooden barrier, nothing but darkness beyond. It would have to do.

  She powered down the windows for ventilation, shut off the lights and engine, used her penlight to check the car a final time. She found a banded pack of cash under the passenger seat—five hundred dollars. She put it in a jacket pocket. There might be more in the trunk, but she wasn’t going to open it again.

  The swamp smell was strong here. She could hear water just beyond the barrier. She opened the rear door, used her penknife to slice through the seats, then pulled out chunks of cushioning. She took a road map from the glove compartment, ripped it into pieces, stuffed them down into the torn seats, then uncapped the can of charcoal lighter she’d taken from the kitchen. She doused everything, the acrid smell of the fluid rising up, dropped the empty can on the floor. The gas tank had been three-quarters full. It would be enough.

  Way out here, with no lights around, the sky was bright with stars. The moon gave enough light that she could see the dirt road, the shape of trees on both sides. She could hear the bellowing of frogs, then the sound of something big moving through the water.

  She tossed the keys out past the barrier, heard them splash, then used his lighter to set the map on fire, backed away as the flames rushed up the upholstery, licked at the back window. If it burned long enough, it would reach the trunk, then the gas tank. It was the best she could do. She started back up the road.

  She’d just reached the main road when she heard the muffled explosion. She looked back, saw a glow through the trees, heard faint popping. The ammunition going up. She walked on. />
  A half hour later, she came to the bridge, dropped the cigarette lighter into the water. No cars on this road, but she could see the distant lights of the shopping plaza ahead. She’d find something open, call a cab, have it drop her a few blocks from the house. Go through the place again, looking for any traces Burke and Roy might have left. Then make that phone call.

  She walked on under the stars, and tried not to think of what she’d done.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “This is more than it was,” Nancy said.

  “Yes,” Crissa said. There was an even hundred thousand in the sports bag now, rebanded and neatly packed. “Remember what I told you about banks.”

  They were in Nancy’s bedroom, the bag open on the bed.

  “And nobody’s going to come looking for it?”

  “Not anymore,” Crissa said.

  “What happened here last night, after we left?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Nancy looked at her, then at the money. “Part of me does. And part of me thinks I’m better off not knowing.”

  “Maybe that’s best.”

  They could hear Haley outside, singing to herself. Crissa went to the window, looked out on the backyard. Haley was sitting on the rear steps, iPod in hand, earbuds in her ears, kicking her heels lightly against the concrete.

  “She seems okay,” Nancy said. “I was worried. But it’s hard to tell. She doesn’t talk much. She’s trying to forget it all, is the sense I get.”

  “If she’s lucky, she will.”

  “I’m going to have to keep an eye on her, talk with her if I can.”

  “You’ve got that cell,” Crissa said. “And in a few days, I’ll call, give you a PO box as well. Anything comes up, you need to reach me, you’ll be able to.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Soon as I’m packed.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” She zipped up the bag. “Just remember to be careful with this.”

  “I will.”

  “Take some of it, get Claudette into a program, a good one.”