by Tony Wiley
The door slammed open with a bang into the inside wall. Nothing else happened. No sudden hailstorm of bullets. No excited cries.
He just heard a few muted thumps nearby. Three or four, tops. They vaguely came from Mike’s office. Or from the sitting room next to it.
The blond asshole had used the opportunity to move.
Was he still in the office? Had he managed to make it to the sitting room?
Morrison had no idea.
But he knew the asshole was close.
Blood rushed in huge gushes through his temples. His heart pounded like a pneumatic drill in his chest. He told himself to focus and crept past the TV room. Drew closer and closer to the office door.
There was a problem.
He couldn’t do the same thing here. The door was closed, and the handle was on the far side. Morrison pushed himself off the wall. Craned his neck to have a peek at the next door. The one for the sitting room. Shit. It was also closed.
He pressed his back to the wall again.
Think, Morrison. Think.
The blond asshole was either in the office or in the sitting room. Both doors to the hallway were closed.
If he had to bet, he’d go with the sitting room—the one closest to the kitchen and its staircase. That had to be the blond guy’s main objective, if he had half a brain. And Morrison knew he had.
The kitchen …
Morrison had an idea.
The doorway to the kitchen was twenty feet down. He took a long hard look at the hallway. It was so quiet right now. But also so dangerous.
There was no way to avoid it.
He had to get to the kitchen.
So he pushed himself off the wall and positioned his feet so that they were perpendicular to one another. In full contact with the floor. A steady position to launch a massive sprint.
He darted ahead.
In two strides, he passed Mike’s office.
The third one made him clear the sitting room door.
When he initiated the fourth one, two shots were fired in quick succession from inside the sitting room.
The blond guy must have seen his shadow obscure the finger of light under the door.
As he rushed into the kitchen, Morrison patted himself on the chest, on the arms. He wasn’t hurt. At least he didn’t think so.
The blond asshole had reacted a fraction too late.
Morrison skirted around the island. Ducked for cover behind it.
His heartbeat thundered in his head, as loud as a helicopter on take-off. He was as high on adrenaline as he’d ever been.
He pointed his guns ahead. Rested the butts on the cold granite countertop, covering the spacious room with an open angle as he took a sweeping view.
There was a closed door between the kitchen and the sitting room after all.
That’s where the blond guy was headed. He knew it.
With one gun still pointing at the sitting room, Morrison opened the cabinet door under the sink. He took a quick peek. There it was. What he’d hoped for: a chemical fire extinguisher. A pretty big one. Twenty-five pounds. No wonder there’d be one, with the big gas stove that was outfitted in the kitchen.
He tucked one of his guns back under his belt and took the fire extinguisher with him. Removed the safety pin.
Then he moved in silence to the left of the sitting room doorway, stuck the tip of the hose under the door and pressed on the handle.
Morrison felt the tremendous rush of densely packed chemicals explode out of the red cylinder into the sitting room.
A loud cry rose from inside, accompanied by heavy fits of coughing.
Half a second later, a mighty sound of shattering glass followed, with some scraping and bumping.
Morrison waited two seconds.
Then he let go of the extinguisher and pushed open the door to the sitting room.
There was white dust everywhere but no trace of the blond guy.
He had broken through the window and fled the room.
Morrison cupped his left hand over his mouth and rushed through the white cloud to the window.
The blond asshole was running away in the grass.
Morrison fired three shots in his direction. Not to hit him. Just to make him run faster.
After that, he left his position to go back to the hallway, and he sprinted to the front door.
There, he saw the blond guy come around the corner of the house and reach his Navigator. He let the asshole get into the car, start the engine and get it in gear. Then when he saw the SUV start moving, he opened the front door and took some further shots at him.
Again, he didn’t want to hit him.
Just to make him go away.
As the Navigator started barrelling down the driveway at full speed, Morrison stopped shooting. He took his prepaid phone and dialed Sheriff Sanford’s number. She was expecting his call.
“There’s a blond guy leaving Mike Palmer’s property in a black Navigator right now. He will be on the main road in about three minutes. He has just killed Mike,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “Now tell me where the other dead body is.”
He had already mentioned the dead slicked-back hair guy to her in their previous conversation, but he had withheld the important details. Now he was ready to reveal them. He told her the exact location where Mike’s guy had been executed and buried.
For Sanford, this would be a great operation. Her county would be rid of a big drug trafficker, and a dangerous criminal would soon be locked away and charged with two counts of murder. All thanks to her investigative skills and sheer dedication to the job. Not a bad result. Not a bad result at all in the eyes of the public. Especially with the elections just a few weeks away.
Morrison hung up and rushed back inside.
He called out for Laura. “It’s safe, Laura! You can come out of the room! Bring your things and join me in the kitchen!” He didn’t want her or the baby to see Mike’s dead body in the foyer.
He took the gun he had used to kill Mike and wiped his prints off it. Then he dropped the weapon in the hallway and dashed to the office.
There was six point seven million dollars left on the table: his duffel bag along with Mike’s and Tommy’s cuts. He hurried and stuffed part of their money in the duffel bag, used another bag for the rest and left the room.
In the kitchen, Laura stood at the foot of the steps with her baby. She had a black tote bag in one hand.
“Quick,” he said, “let’s get out through the back.”
They went out through the patio door. As usual, the Jeep was stationed in the back. He loaded the money into it and helped Laura with the tote bag. Then he started the engine and put the Jeep in gear. “Brace yourselves,” he said. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
He gunned down the Jeep at maximum speed along the packed dirt path. Since he had gone down that way and back a few days before, he could anticipate the sharpest turns and the worst bumps. But still, it was a very rough ride.
He knew that the path led to another quiet county road at the other side of Mike’s property. He pushed the Jeep as hard as he could push it without crashing. He reached his destination in a little less than ten minutes.
When he joined the two-lane county road, he saw Cowgirl’s white van and pulled up to her. Then he stopped the engine and turned to Laura.
“I’m going to leave you the Jeep and Mike’s cut from our last operation,” he said. “That’s two point four million right here. Plenty of money for you and your daughter to go away and start a new life.”
Laura’s haunted eyes suddenly lost some of their gravity. Her face seemed to relax a little. A thin smile crept up from the dark shadows.
She had found her way out. She was just starting to realize it.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “I just don’t.”
Morrison opened the door, picked up the duffel bag and stepped out. Before he aimed for Cowgirl’s van, he leaned into the Jeep and said,
“Hop in the driver’s seat and go away. That’s how you’ll thank me.”
She nodded.
He smiled to her and her baby. “And have a good life.”
Chapter 61
The next two days were very busy.
After sending Laura and her baby on their way, Morrison climbed into Cowgirl’s van and they immediately drove away from Acton. Mike’s place would be swarming with deputies. There would be spots of Sanford’s raid on the local news. Follow-up stories in the papers. It was better to leave all of this behind, at least for a while. Let things cool off.
On their way to Albany, Morrison called up Harris to suggest he do the same. But he should have known better. When he took his call, the wily old fox was already past Syracuse on I-90, on his way to Buffalo, his money safely traveling with him.
Morrison and Cowgirl had left Acton with more than six million dollars with them in the white van. Their own personal cuts plus Tommy’s.
Over the following two days, they set about stashing it away in a slew of safe deposit boxes all over the state. They made multiple stops in Troy, Albany, Schenectady, then did the same in Utica, Syracuse and Rochester.
They never left more than one hundred thousand dollars in any bank. Safe deposit boxes were only so safe. They knew this better than anyone else. Still, it was the most convenient way to hide hot money—beat a bedroom mattress any day.
After all the tension and the drama of the last few days, that was exactly the type of task they needed to do. Something easy and mundane that kept the body busy without requiring too much of the mind. It allowed them to gradually get off that high-adrenaline cloud and get back to a form of standard reality.
Of course, they would never experience everybody else’s normality. Theirs was a different world with different rules and a different outlook. They had grown accustomed to it. It had become their normality.
At the end of the second day, their money was sprinkled all over the place. Their work was done. They checked into a good hotel in Rochester with only a few thousand dollars each on them.
Morrison spent a great night with Cowgirl. They enjoyed a fabulous five-course dinner. Drank two wonderful bottles of wine. Then they retreated more than a bit tipsy to their comfortable room to make love. A great night. But also bittersweet. They knew it would not be repeated any time soon. As they always did when they finished a job, they would have to stay away from each other for a period of time. It was even more important now that Mike was gone.
Morrison had not enjoyed killing Mike. Not at all. Even though the man had turned into an obscene, irrational and violent scumbag. Even though he knew that Mike had to die if Laura and her child were to stand any chance of leading a safe, normal life. After all, it had been two lives against one. Not even close.
Still. It rattled Morrison.
He hated violence. He hated having to exercise it even when it was completely warranted.
In the morning, they went their separate ways, Cowgirl behind the wheel of the white van to Ogdensburg to pay a visit to Tommy in prison. She was going to explain that his money was safe. That they had stashed it for him. That she would provide him with all the necessary details to retrieve it when he was released in a few months. She would also explain why Mike had to go. What he’d done. And if he had a problem with that, they would deal with it in time. Cowgirl, Harris, Morrison and Tommy. All of them together. But Morrison wasn’t too worried. Tommy wouldn’t spit on two million bucks. Not over a guy like Mike. Not a chance.
As for Morrison, he rented a car and finally got to head to his destination.
The place he’d been dreaming about every single day during his three years in prison.
He was going there alone, so there was no need to keep his brass key hidden under the insole of his shoe anymore.
Still, when he dressed up in the morning, he didn’t want Cowgirl to see it. So he went to the bathroom to extricate it and stowed it in his pocket.
It was a beautiful day. Clear and sparkly like only spring can be. On the highway, he rolled down the window of his nondescript white rental car and rested his elbow on the opening. It was great to feel all that warm air rush into the cockpit. It was great to move about so freely.
He drove on for hours, stopping only for gas in Ticonderoga.
Shortly afterward, he crossed the Lake Champlain Bridge into Vermont. Such a wonderful state. Whenever he came here, he always felt like he was coming home, even though he’d never lived here.
He continued to push his way through a succession of quiet country roads, enjoying a lush scenery of green rolling hills.
An hour and a half later, he finally arrived in Ennis Falls, a small village nestled in the middle of Franklin County. Way up north, near the Canadian border.
He checked into the Hummingbird, a motel he had used a couple of times before. Paid for his room with cash, like he usually did. It allowed him to dispense with the need to provide identification.
After he dropped his clothes in room number seven—a good omen if he’d been superstitious, but he was not—he left again and drove out of the village.
It took him only five minutes to reach his destination.
Ennis Self Storage.
A small complex of two lowlying buildings covered with corrugated steel. They housed rows of lockers back to back.
He nosed into the lot. Drove past the first building. Skirted around the second and then parked in the back. His unit was approximately in the middle. Four feet wide, seven feet tall.
He got out of the car, fished the brass key out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock and rolled up the door.
The sight brought an instant smile to his face.
Chapter 62
There were three things in there.
His black and blue carbon fiber bicycle. An Orbea Orca. A light and stiff, mean racing machine. Handmade in Spain’s Basque country by absolute bike fanatics.
A sports bag with all his cycling gear: helmet, bibs, gloves, jerseys, shoes, tire inflator.
And a stiff cardboard filing box. His planning box. Where he assembled ideas and data for future operations.
He didn’t want his partners to know about that locker because he didn’t want to give anything away. Whether he’d include any of them in one of these operations was his prerogative only. The last thing he wanted was for them to crash his party. Another reason why he didn’t want them to know about it was due to its location, so far out north, almost at the Canadian border. His partners could have tried to read something into this. A place to hide money from them? A base of operations with Canadian partners that excluded them? The reality was that there was nothing to read. He had rented that locker in Ennis because that’s where he liked to ride his bike. Period. Whenever he had some time on his hands, he would come here with the latest items to file away and enjoy a quiet couple days of riding.
On the day of his release, it had been his absolute priority to get here. One of the operations consigned in the box was almost ready to be carried out. He had continued to work on it during his incarceration, committing all the new details he refined during these three years strictly to memory. He had wanted to launch it as soon as possible to remake himself. But in light of the recent days’ events, it was not so urgent anymore. For he was no longer broke. In fact, he had plenty of money, enough to see out the coming months and fund further initiatives alone if he wished to do so.
No, what he really felt like doing now was to ride his bicycle on the beautiful roads of Franklin County. Nothing else.
So he changed into his gear, dusted off the bike, inflated the tires and he was good to go.
The ride was even more glorious than he had dreamed, his machine as slick as ever. The components operated like smooth clockwork over roads undulating and quietly scenic, with names like Pleasant View, Mineral Brook, Watertower, Stagecoach.
After a loop of forty miles, he was famished. He came back to Ennis Falls to have an early dinner.
There wa
s a nice café on Main Street, with a few tables on a terrace outside. He had been there on a number of occasions. They served good food, mostly sourced locally.
He left his bike leaning against a chair and went inside to use the bathroom. It was down the dining room to the right, past the window where the waitresses picked up the orders from the kitchen.
When he turned the corner, he saw one of them reaching for a pair of large plates ready to be served. A redhead. She turned around with the plates. When he saw her face, he froze.
Her? Here?
She did the same when she took in his presence. She froze too. Just stood there with her eyes widened and the two plates going a little saggy in her hands.
Sara.
It was so unexpected. She was the last person he would have thought he’d bump into here. The last place he would have thought about if he’d been searching for her. Even if he had already brought her here before, during a weekend bike excursion.
He could tell she was as surprised as he was.
But hers had a different quality. It was no ordinary surprise. To him, it felt like some sort of rehearsed surprise.
Not so much a surprise to see him.
But to see him now.
She snapped out of it first. A trace of worry appeared on her face. She furrowed her brow, ever so slightly. Then she turned her head to the side, toward a booth. An instinctive, natural move. A protective move.
He followed her gaze.
A child was sitting alone drawing with crayons. Totally absorbed by her task. Very young, something like two and a half years old. She had fabulous red hair.
Just like her mother, obviously.
The girl was humming softly as she drew. She was very calm. Seemed very contented.
When she raised her head, Morrison stopped breathing.
He felt this tremendous rush.
His life, he knew, had just changed in a fundamental way.
She was a beautiful child. One of the most beautiful he’d ever seen. And she had the most beautiful eyes.
One brown. One hazel green.
THE END
