The Carrier

by Preston Lang

  “Holy Jesus.”

  “Look at that.”

  She knew a little about gold, and this looked real to her.

  “I did it,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “I went out there and picked up the package. I mean—that’s what happened.”

  “Where’s the—the guy, your friend Danny?”

  “He’s—somewhere else.”

  “Marcus, just tell me everything.”

  “No, I can’t do that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just got all of this gold. It’s for us.”

  Marcus turned the bag upside down, and the bars came crashing onto the couch.

  “Stop. Keep it quiet,” Saida said, but she couldn’t help from laughing excitedly as she picked up a brick in each hand.

  “These are heavy.”

  “You know how much it’s worth?” he asked.

  “This is real? This is all real?”

  “It better be.”

  Saida started to put the gold back, stacking it carefully in the bottom of the bag. Marcus just stood watching, standing there in his jacket, Willow’s gun poking out of the left pocket.

  “Whose gun is that?” Saida asked, freezing for a second.

  “I don’t know.”

  Marcus could have a gun if he wanted—he wasn’t going to hurt her.

  “We are really good,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later, Marcus was deep asleep, out for the winter. Saida was too excited for that. The gold was real, and life was about to get a whole lot sweeter. She watched him for a minute, the slow rise and fall of his huge body. Then she put together a small bag—soap and a toothbrush, underwear and socks. She tossed it in the duffel bag on top of the gold, hoisted it all on her back, and walked out the door. There was no reason to leave a note.

  ***

  Twelve hours later when he woke up around dinnertime, Marcus assumed that Saida was at school. He was a little disconnected and cotton-mouthed, but otherwise he felt pretty good about himself. When he realized the duffel bag wasn’t on the couch, he didn’t panic. It was smart of her to put it away. But where? A closet, under the bed? Very quickly he searched the small apartment—nothing. Still he wasn’t worried; Saida must have gone to sell the gold. She must know how to cash it in, and she’d be back with enough money to start a new kind of life in a few hours. He called her twice and got no answer, but maybe she was in class or at the jewelers or something. Midnight, one AM, two AM. She still wasn’t back, and it started to dawn on him that she might not love him anymore.

  Still, he held out hope all night, the next day. Maybe she’d been in an accident, or maybe she was in lengthy discussions with one of those We-Buy-Gold guys. He went to Saida’s college that evening. He couldn’t get into the library without ID, and the small security guard seemed genuinely afraid that he’d actually have to deal with this huge, half-crazed menace, but Marcus withdrew.

  “I’m sorry for losing my temper. I’m going home,” he said.

  When he got back to the apartment that evening, he didn’t notice anything off about his door or the lock, and he didn’t notice that some of the pictures were crooked or that the kitchen was messier than usual. He simply walked inside and slumped on the couch.

  CHAPTER 39

  Duane felt very alone. He lived by himself and discouraged friendship, but this feeling rarely hit him with any force. When he saw a tableful of friends at a restaurant or a bar laughing like animals—look at how much fun we can have—he felt nothing but scorn and embarrassment. Right now, he just wanted to be alone with enough heroin to stay relaxed for a full day—maybe two. Because what he was going to have to do now was really tough: track down the gold. It was probably far away, stashed somewhere smart and safe—completely untouchable. But despair was not a useful emotion, and Duane did have somewhere to start: Danny Chin. Probably he was dead, but at least he was a point of entry. Somehow this Danny Chin had figured out when Cyril was making a serious pickup.

  Duane searched for murders in Iowa and very quickly found what he was looking for—an unidentified Asian man shot to death on a deserted road. There were no details released beyond one man, approximately thirty years old, shot twice at close range. No leads, no mention of cars or fingerprints. There was no mention of a girl or any evidence that another body had been there. Let’s hope your luck holds up, Cyril. An Iowa crime blogger was already speculating: Chinese espionage in the heartland.

  Danny’s address was easy to find, thanks to the sex offender registry, so Duane made his way up to Massachusetts. Five hours later he was sitting in Danny’s apartment. It was a part of New England that seemed to have no history and no natural beauty. There were no minutemen or colonial houses, just bare weedy lots set next to strip malls and cheap housing. Someone had spray painted the letters SL on the side of the building. Duane couldn’t tell if it was graffiti or instructions to a contractor. Either way it looked like it had been there a while.

  Duane had no problem walking right to Danny’s apartment and forcing open the lock. Danny wasn’t there, of course. Once inside, Duane quickly searched the place. There was some paperwork from the Department of Corrections and a few bills, but other than a clarinet and a red cape there was nothing that really indicated this was the residence of a pervert. In fact, there was nothing interesting at all, certainly no money or drugs.

  So who was the big white guy? Danny hadn’t lived in this place long—that was clear—and there wasn’t much to indicate who his friends might have been. There were no phone bills or pictures with buddies—no computer, no cell phone. Finally Duane found a coaster with a phone number and the name Max written on it. Duane dialed, and a woman’s voice answered.

  “This is Max.”

  Max was a girl?

  “Hey there. This is Danny. You remember me?” Duane said.

  “Danny? Where do I know you from?”

  “You’ve forgotten already?”

  “Oh. From the supermarket?” Max asked, her voice a little wobbly.

  “Yeah.”

  This was a dead end.

  “What took you so long to call?” she asked.

  “I don’t know—business.”

  The girl giggled.

  “So you want to get together this weekend?” she asked.

  Duane hung up. It was just a silly female Danny had picked up in frozen foods. Poor girl would never get her date with Danny Chin, deceased sex offender.

  Finally, back in the kitchen, Duane found an old pizza box on the counter, hard cheese still clinging to the inside. Attached to the box was the order slip with the name Marcus. Okay, that was something. Marcus could be a big white guy. He’d come over for pizza and they’d planned the whole thing. It was the best guess he had, so he called the pizza place. A teenaged voice answered.

  “This is the sheriff’s office calling. Can you put the manager on the phone?” Duane said.

  “Uh. Sure.”

  About thirty seconds later a slightly older voice came on.

  “Hi, yeah. What can I do for you?”

  “This is Don Olsen from the sheriff’s office. We’re hoping you can help us out with something.”

  “What’s—that?” the young man was inexperienced and nervous; if they kept records, this was going to be easy.

  “We investigated a break-in a few nights ago. Now it appears that the burglar was stupid enough to order a pizza after he robbed the place. Sort of add insult to injury.”

  “Oh—okay. What—we would have no way of knowing if there—you know—”

  “Relax, you’re not in any trouble. I’d just like to see if you keep a record of the orders.”

  “We—yeah. How long ago was this?”

  “Within the past week. We expect the burglar knew the victim would be out of town for an extended stay. The name used was Marcus and the address was 1704 Kelvin. Do you have a record of that?”

  “I should be able to find that. Please hold just a m
oment. Won’t take long.”

  The kid was into it now—like he was busting the bad guys himself.

  “I really appreciate it.”

  He came back inside a minute.

  “Monday night, Marcus to 1704 Kelvin.”

  “Is there a phone number attached to that?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, there is.”

  When Duane called Marcus’s phone he got a message—you have reached Marcus Koneke. I’m not here now.

  Marcus Koneke? Duane called information to get an address: 1704 Kelvin 2E. Marcus lived just upstairs.

  CHAPTER 40

  Duane knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he picked the lock and walked inside. All these locks were an absolute joke. The whole complex was one of the shoddiest Duane had ever seen. Whoever had put these buildings up had cut all kinds of corners. As soon as he turned on the lights in the apartment, he was sure he had the right man. The pictures on the wall were of a big, blond lunk with a short Black girl. Marcus usually held the girl from behind while she put on a fake smile. Sorry, man, she’s not in it for the long haul.

  Duane got to work quickly. Unlike at Danny’s place, here someone was likely to come home at any moment. The living room was messy with papers littering the table and clothes hanging to dry from a rack. The bedroom was a little neater. The gold wasn’t in the apartment. He found a phone bill and a few other documents, which told him the girl’s name was Saida Brown. She called a few places in the 718 area code with some regularity. She was taking some college courses in what looked like a really pointless subject, and she liked to read novels about women with SUVs and lots of jewelry. There was only one toothbrush in the bathroom.

  So there was nothing to do but wait. Duane watched the news. Maybe there would be something useful, but dead people in the Midwest were not likely to make the news in Massachusetts. Finally, he heard heavy footsteps approaching. He shut off the TV and walked behind the kitchen counter, taking out his gun—Tony’s gun. Marcus entered the apartment and sank, exhausted into the couch.

  “Where’s the gold?”

  Marcus popped up on his feet. He was a very big guy. So what?

  “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Marcus said. He was not a man who could fake innocence very well. Duane held up the gun, not too rough yet.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Marcus sat back down on the couch. It was covered in plastic. Duane guessed that was Saida’s idea.

  “Just give me clear and honest answers. That’s in your best interest. Where is the gold?”

  Marcus’s eyes gave a single flicker of deceit, but it died quickly.

  “It’s gone,” he said quietly.

  “Where did it go?”

  “It’s just gone.”

  “Okay, who took it? You got it in your car and drove it back here from Iowa. Then what?”

  Marcus said nothing.

  “You stashed it somewhere. So you have to tell me where. Otherwise I’ll start to hurt you.”

  “I lost it.”

  “Where did you lose it?”

  “I just lost it.”

  Duane believed him, but that wasn’t good news for Marcus.

  “Your girl took it?”

  “She—no. No, she didn’t.”

  Well, Marcus had a touch of deception left in him after all.

  “What’s her name, and where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got some of it.”

  “Some of what?”

  “Some of the gold.”

  Marcus reached into his pocket.

  “Slow, you do it very slow.”

  Marcus took out a brick of gold and tossed it on the ground toward Duane.

  “Did I tell you to throw anything at me?” Duane asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Duane picked up the brick. Things were looking a little brighter. This was worth something like thirty thousand dollars. Duane put it in the deep inner pocket of his jacket.

  “Now. The girl,” he said.

  “Her name is—Esther Jones. And she left with the rest of it.”

  Jesus, this guy was stupid.

  “Esther Jones? Where’d she go, Marcus?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

  “Where’s she from, Marcus?”

  “California. Maybe she went back there.”

  “Why’d she leave you, Marcus?”

  “Had enough of me. And then she just took the gold and left.”

  “Okay, this is really your last chance to help yourself out. First of all, remember, she took the money. She fucked you over. You don’t need to protect her. Now, give me the address of her family.”

  “I don’t know the family address—out in California. She’s got a sister named Wendy.”

  “What does Esther Jones look like?”

  “She’s a tall, blond girl.”

  “Not a short, Black girl?”

  Marcus was all out of ideas. He turned around and looked at the wall and the pictures of him with Saida. Duane got him hard in the knee with his metal baton. Marcus toppled forward onto the ground. He looked ready to throw up from the pain.

  “Where is Saida Brown? Where would she go?”

  “Look. All right. Hold on.”

  Marcus was scared and in pain, but Duane knew he had to look out for the whole wounded bear act. He really didn’t want to have to deal with a charge from this animal.

  “Okay, you see her in the picture. So that’s what she looks like,” Marcus said.

  “Where’s she from. Do not lie?”

  “She’s from New York—New York City.”

  “Not California?”

  “No.”

  This was progress. It felt like the truth. But it wasn’t too much of a betrayal to admit that Saida was from a city of eight and a half million people.

  “You have an address for her family back in New York?”

  “An address?”

  “Yes, is there a—”

  Marcus made a leap for Duane. It was an awkward, desperate thing, not the massive charge that Duane feared. Marcus stayed low and seemed to be going for Duane’s legs. But Duane took a step back and kicked him in the face. Were they making too much noise? He would be able to slip out the window—gone the back way if cops came in the front. There was only one window in the apartment. That couldn’t be legal. There were so many code violations in this place—it was just wrong whoever let it happen. He hoped they weren’t paying too much rent.

  Now Marcus was crying.

  “Kill me, now. I don’t care,” he said.

  “I’m not going to kill you—now. Tell me where she is, and I’ll let you live.”

  The offer didn’t make any sense, but it was surprising how often it was a useful thing to say. Marcus made an inarticulate sound—there’s nothing worse than a big man sobbing.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said—she left me.” Marcus got himself back under control. “She never loved me.”

  “Then why don’t you want me to find her?”

  “Jesus. I don’t know. I love her.”

  That was the truth. He loved the girl that had betrayed him. There were ways to turn this crank.

  “If I don’t get the money back, I’m going to kill you. You do get that?” Duane said.

  “Yeah. That’s why I told you to kill me.”

  Duane had seen this bluff before. There were people in the world who wanted themselves dead—that’s pretty obvious. But no one liked getting kicked in the face over and over.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Duane said, pulling out his duct tape. It was probably a good idea to get Marcus under control before he needed to do anything really difficult, and Duane was willing to bet that the fight was out of the big man, at least temporarily. For now he was all about self-pity and martyrdom. Marcus hesitated, but he put his hands behind his back. Duane wrapped the tape around Marcus’s wrists quickly. He came to the end of the roll sooner than he wanted,
but it was enough for the time being. He took out the baton again.

  “Tell me where to find her. Tell me anything you can think of that would make it easier for me to find her. Just start talking. If you don’t, it’s going to hurt.”

  Marcus let out a scream, higher pitched than you’d expect, almost like a woman. Duane hit Marcus over the head with the pipe and stuffed a sock—a lady’s sock—in Marcus’s mouth. Then he secured it in place with a pair of pantyhose that he tied behind Marcus’s head. Marcus didn’t move for about a minute, but he was breathing.

  “Sit up.”

  Marcus slowly worked himself upright, and Duane held out a pencil and a takeout Chinese menu.

  “Write down her address in New York.”

  Marcus looked up confused; his arms were taped behind his back. Duane felt stupid and gave defenseless Marcus two more shots to the knees.

  “Okay, now bring your arms under your body to the front.”

  It was some ugly gymnastics, but Marcus managed to get his taped hands in front of him.

  “Do you know how to write?” Duane asked.

  Marcus nodded.

  “Good. You look stupid, so I asked. You need to tell me where Saida went.”

  Marcus started to write, slowly, holding the pencil in a hand that was bound at the wrist. The note looked like what a first grader would write under a picture of a rainbow, except it said NoNoNo.

  The hardest case Duane had ever had was a Peruvian woman who just spat in his face through the whole thing. She spat right through a mouth full of duct tape. He hadn’t gotten anything out of her. It hadn’t ended well.

  “NoNoNo? Do you want me to kill you? What about Saida? What should I do to her?”

  Marcus, again with great difficulty, started to write. He wrote carefully for nearly two minutes. He seemed to think it was very important: You are going to hell.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Duane didn’t have this guy pegged for a tough nut, but you never really knew. People liked to say the biggest guys were always the biggest pussies, but that wasn’t an absolute rule. He honestly didn’t know what to do. Was he going to improvise some serious pain on Marcus? Small knives on teeth and nipples? He just didn’t feel up to that, and it wasn’t clear there was any more to learn. Duane felt pretty certain that the money was with the girl, and the girl hadn’t told her boyfriend where she was going. Top would tell him he had to be thorough, but you know what, fuck that guy. Duane clubbed Marcus savagely on the side of the head until the big man stopped moving.