Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  “Hell of a world,” Duncan said. “That’s why ever since I could, I haven’t relied on anybody else to take care of my family and friends, except for me.”

  Duncan’s left hand went off the steering wheel and down to his side.

  Zach started to move.

  twenty-three

  Louis and Jean-Paul cut through the woods and through a neighbor’s backyard, and then into Duncan Crowley’s yard, SKS rifles at their sides. There was a kids’ swimming pool in the rear, some hedges, and a swing set. On the rear deck was a barbecue gas grill and a picnic table. The two of them went around the garage, past the Toyota RAV4, and to the front door.

  Unlimbering his SKS, Louis said, “This is how it’s going to run. We get her to the door and blast our way through. I’ll take the lead.”

  “Why the fuck should you take the lead?” Jean-Paul said.

  “Idiot like you, you forget your battery charger, you think I’m going to let you take lead?”

  “Hey, that’s—”

  “Shut up. Stand to the side, so she can’t see you.”

  At least Jean-Paul did that. He moved to the left, near a small juniper bush, and Louis turned so his body was blocking the view of his SKS. He rang the doorbell, waited, and then rang the doorbell again.

  His heart was thumping but he was taking long, deep breaths, getting into the zone. The SKS felt so damn good in his strong hand.

  From inside, a shadow approached, jelling into the figure of a woman. She opened the door slightly, smiled as he opened the glass storm door. She was a good-looking piece of flesh, big smile, shoulder-length red hair, just a bit of make-up, nice rack in a white buttoned-lace blouse, tight jeans.

  “Mrs. Crowley?” Louis asked.

  “Yes?” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  Still smiling he pounced, lowering his shoulder so he punched right through the open door. She fell back, stumbled, her face startled, screaming, and the door swung open so hard it hit the wall. He raised up the SKS, pointed it at her, and said, “Sit the fuck down! Sit the fuck down now!”

  Jean-Paul was right behind him and keeping the rifle up, pointing it at her impressive chest.

  Louis said, “Jean-Paul! Close and lock the door.”

  “Got it.”

  Louis heard the door shut behind him, looked down at the woman, splayed out on her butt, holding herself up by her manicured hands on the floor of her fine and clean kitchen. He liked the way she looked, down beneath him. Took a breath. “Is anybody else here?”

  She shook her head, bit her trembling lower lip. “No.”

  “You sure? I send my pal around, he’s not going to find your husband, or kids, or anything else, right? ’Cause if he does, we’ll hurt you, sweetie, we’ll hurt you good.”

  Another shake of the head. Her voice quivered. “I’m here alone. I was getting ready to go to work.”

  Jean-Paul was standing nearby, rifle at the ready. Louis said to him, “To the living room. Tell me if it’s clear or not.”

  Jean-Paul went to the living room, adjacent to the kitchen, where the attractive Mrs. Crowley was sitting on her ass. “Clear, Louis.”

  “Good.” He motioned with the rifle. “This is how it’s going to work. You’re gonna slide back across the floor to the living room, up on the couch. You’re not going to stand up. You’re not going to crawl. You’re not going to scream. You’re gonna go right up to the couch.”

  The woman did as she was told, Louis moving in time with her, scanning around, taking in the living room, the view from the rear deck sliding glass doors, seeing two couches, two comfortable-looking easy chairs, a big-ass television on one wall, a couple of bookcases, some potted plants, and kids’ toys on the floor.

  Her face scarlet, breathing hard, Mrs. Crowley got up on the couch. Jean-Paul stood next to her, the SKS just a couple of feet away.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  Louis smiled. “You’ll find out. First, I’m the one asking questions. What’s your first name, hon?”

  She paused, swallowed. “Karen.”

  Louis nodded. “Karen, your husband has been a true prick. We need to talk to him. So we’ll start with that.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Guess we know that, Karen. So where is he?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. We own a few businesses. He likes to go around, visit them, see how they’re doing.”

  “Like your pot farms? Or the places you store your booze and cigarettes from smuggling?”

  Karen said defiantly, “Wherever he is, he’s not here.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “Probably dinner time. Just after six. Unless he calls to say he’s running late.”

  Louis said, “Yeah, running late. Running late ’cause he’s whacked a couple of our friends. Why the hell do you think we’re here? To make a flower delivery? We’re here ’cause your hubby’s got a lot of blood on his hands.”

  Again, defiance in her voice, Karen said, “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Good for you. Look, we can’t wait all fucking day for him. So you’re gonna call him, have him come over.”

  She said, “For what reason?

  Louis said, “Shit, I don’t know. You said you were heading out to work. Call him up, tell him you got a car problem. Flat tire.”

  “It’s a new car,” she said, looking to him and Jean-Paul.

  “Don’t give a shit,” Louis said. “You can tell him a fucking volcano erupted in the backyard, sweetie, we’re going to need him over here, like now.”

  “What for?” she said.

  “What for?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Remember what I said earlier, about asking questions? Not your place to ask questions.”

  She crossed her arms, he saw her hands were shaking. “I get him over here, I’m no fool, you’re going to hurt him. Or worse.”

  Jean-Paul stepped in, pushing the barrel end of the SKS into her right tit. “Tell you what, sweetie, you don’t get him over here, I’ll shoot your right boobie off, and then we’ll try again.”

  Louis admired Jean-Paul’s creativity, but he was disgusted to see that Jean-Paul was tent poling in the crotch of his jeans.

  Tears started pooling in her eyes. She clasped her arms tighter. “All right,” she whispered. “There’s a portable phone on the counter.”

  She got up from the couch, and Louis said, “Park your ass down. Jean-Paul, go behind me. See if there’s a portable phone there. If so, bring it back.”

  Jean-Paul moved past him and then returned with the phone. He waited, and Louis nodded to him. “Okay, give it to her.” She took the phone.

  Louis said, “Jean-Paul, stand in front of her. Honey, I’m going to take a seat here, next to you.” Louis took the seat, put the SKS on safe—just in case she went nutty and tried to grab it—and said to her, “I’m going to be right here, you’re going to put that phone up to your ear, then you’re going to make that phone call. I’m going to be listening in so I know you’re not calling the local Officer Friendly or sheriff’s department. You call your hubbie, say the car won’t start, can he please come over here and help you out. If everything’s fine, we’ll just sit still and wait for him to show up.”

  He shifted his weight on the couch, got closer to her, smelled her perfume. It was nice. He said, “But if you try to say anything more than that, if your voice isn’t your usual cheerful tone, if you try to pass along a code word or phrase that raises questions, then I’m going to wait here with you. But my friend Jean-Paul over there”—and Jean-Paul offered a creepy smile—“he’ll depart. He’ll go to the school where your kids are, and he’ll pull a fucking Columbine on them. Don’t think he won’t. Have I made myself clear?”

  She was crying silently, face red, tears running down her cheeks, and Louis smelled
ammonia, looked down, and saw the fine Mrs. Crowley had peed herself in her tight jeans. “Just … just give me a second to compose myself … all right? Just a second.”

  Louis looked at his watch. “I’ll give you thirty, honey. Then you’ll make the goddamn call.”

  Duncan opened the truck door and noted Zach jerking in surprise, like he thought Duncan was going to come up with a pistol and blast at him in the truck. This guy was good, no doubt about it, and as he stepped outside, he was trying to go through the options. He had thought maybe he’d just take the guy into the deer butcher shop, get him secured, start talking to him straight.

  But how to get him secured?

  Get him into the butcher shop first, then worry about the interrogation process later.

  But damn, the guy was good.

  “Come on,” he said to Zach. “I’ll show you around the remotest part of the Crowley business empire.”

  Zach almost went to his piece when Duncan’s hand went down, but the guy was only opening up the truck door. Zach did the same and joined him outside, and they started walking to the gun shop across the gravel and dirt lot. Duncan said, “A bit out of the way, but the tourists and flatlanders, they love coming up in the summer and fall seasons, see us rustic rubes with all our guns.”

  “That they do.”

  “You hunt?”

  “Used to, back in school. Lost my taste for it once I got into service. Plus I was busy going to other places.”

  Duncan gestured to the deer butcher shop. “You ought to come inside with me over here. There are some great trophy racks in there.”

  Zach looked to the tiny concrete and wooden building with no windows, one door.

  He knew he would put a couple of .32 rounds into Duncan’s chest before getting within ten yards of going into that place.

  Duncan saw Zach hesitate, instantly knew it wasn’t going to work. This guy in front of him wasn’t going to go easy into the butcher shop, no matter if he told him that the place was holding a host of hot nymphos from Brazil. He had his 9mm Smith & Wesson in the truck under the front seat and was carrying a backup piece in a waist holster—a .380 Bersa—and he’d have to move quick, to get the drop on him, and not in a way he wanted to do it—

  His cellphone rang.

  Louis sat close to Karen, enjoying her scent, the touch of her leg against his, and seeing how Jean-Paul’s idea of having some playtime was pretty attractive. Not the kids—fuck that shit—but man, he wouldn’t mind tearing off a piece of her before they got everything all wrapped up.

  The phone rang once and he could hear the guy’s voice nice and clear. “Karen? What’s up?”

  She said, “Oh, Duncan, you wouldn’t believe it. I don’t know what’s wrong but the damn RAV won’t start up. And I’m late for work. Any chance you could come pick me up?”

  Duncan sighed. “You sure? None of the girls from the shop can help you out?”

  “I tried but they’re wicked backed up. Come on, honey, you know I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Jean-Paul grinned nastily, and even Louis felt a stirring in his groin. He abruptly felt jealous of the man who got spend time with this woman here, in this handsome house. Louis’s own quarters were a cheap rented condo unit where he could hear kids screaming and loud televisions through the thin walls, where his own kitchen was filled with greasy pizza boxes and empty Molson bottles. And the women … sure, he had tasted the talent at the Slippery Pussy, but shit, they were pros, either with lots of tats, bad teeth, or faded track marks on their arms and thighs. Not like this classy piece of ass sitting next to him.

  A slight burst of static followed by a chuckle. “Yeah, I know you always make it worth my while. I’m at the gun shop. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Bye.”

  The soon-to-be-late Duncan Crowley hung up the phone, and Karen handed the portable over to Louis. He took it—the receiver warm from being held in her hand—and she said, “There. I did it.”

  Louis got up. “Glad to hear it.”

  There was a noise, as Karen loudly exhaled. “All right, I did that for you, and I want to know one thing.”

  “I said no questions, sweetie.”

  Karen said, “Not really a question. Just looking for confirmation. You’re Louis”—pointing to him—“and you’re Jean-Paul, am I right?”

  Louis said, “Yeah, you’re right. So what?”

  Even though her face was flushed, jeans stained, and tears were in her eyes, her voice suddenly grew strong. “Because, you damn fools, once my husband kills you both, I want to tell him who you were.”

  twenty-four

  Duncan snapped his cellphone shut, made a production of putting it a little leather case on his belt. “Need to go rescue my princess of a wife. Car won’t start and she needs to get to work. Care to go for a ride?”

  Zach seemed to relax. “If it’s not a bother, I don’t see why not.”

  Duncan nodded, started back to his truck. “Great. Maybe we’ll catch an early lunch or something.”

  Zach kept quiet as Duncan got in, started the truck up, and circled around the dirt lot and back down the paved road. He was disappointed he hadn’t been able to slide Zach into the butcher shop for a bit of creative Q&A, but the day was still young. Once he got Karen squared away, then maybe he’d take Zach over to the Flight Deck. The restaurant had a deep, quiet basement that just might work. If the questioning didn’t work out for his former classmate, well, Zach could stay in the basement for a while. And if things did work in Zach’s favor, then the both of them could have an early drink while discussing employment possibilities.

  Options. Duncan was always in favor of them.

  Zach kept quiet as Duncan drove up Old Mill Road, heading to the Crowley household. He was embarrassed at feeling like he was back in high school again, since he was going to see Karen for the first time in nearly twenty years. What an unexpected pleasure. He was sure his buds from the Guard would be laughing their nutsacks off if they knew what he was feeling. Zach had gone and done many things in the service of his country, and had bedded a fair number of women—including one extraordinary evening in Marseilles with two female Air France attendants—but bedded was the key word. He had never had a real, long-time relationship with a woman, and despite what he knew of Duncan and his criminal history, he still envied the man.

  His relationship with the young Karen Delaney had been a spring fling of cuddles, kisses, exploration, and mutual vows of love and eternity—until he had gone off to work that summer as a counselor at a camp on Conway Lake. When he had come back, Karen had found someone to keep her company over those few months: Duncan Crowley, star baseball player, a pitching phenom in the Granite State even in his junior year.

  Duncan said, “Old homestead is up ahead.”

  “You got kids?”

  “Two,” he said. “Lewis and Amy. Lewis is a sports nut like his dad, and Amy is a strong-headed handful, just like her mom.”

  For the second time in two days, Zach noted the fine house, not a McMansion or anything overwhelming, but a solid, pleasant house, a great place to have a family and raise kids.

  While also running a county-wide criminal enterprise.

  Duncan turned into the wide driveway, parking to the right of the disabled red Toyota RAV4. He left the truck’s engine running and said, “Be back in a sec. Hey, you dated Karen a few times back in school, right?”

  Zach tried not to smile. “I sure did.”

  Duncan got out. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you, catch up on old times.”

  “That’d be great,” Zach said, and he meant it.

  From his vantage point, kneeling behind the couch where Karen Crowley sat, Louis had a brief glimpse of a pickup truck with an extended cab pulling into the driveway, and then his view was blocked by the Toyota. Jean-Paul was standing near the large television set, hidden fro
m sight by anyone coming through the front door, SKS held at the ready.

  Karen’s voice wavered. “Can … can I go to the kitchen? Meet him as he comes in?”

  Louis laughed. “What? So you can make a break for it? Not hardly, hon. Nope, you’re going to stay right here until your dear hubbie comes through that door. Tell me now, is he right-handed or left-handed?”

  “Why do you care?”

  He poked the back of her neck with the business end of the Chinese semiautomatic rifle. “Again with the goddamn questions. Just answer mine. Right or left?”

  “Right-handed, you bastard. He’s right-handed.”

  “Glad to know. You let him in and get the door shut, and don’t say a goddamn thing before then, or Jean-Paul ducks out the rear door and goes to the local school.”

  A shape appeared at the door.

  Duncan was thinking about Zach, back there in the truck, also thinking about getting the RAV4 fixed, so he was pretty darn occupied when he opened the storm door and main door, going into the kitchen. Karen was sitting on the couch, eyes red-rimmed, hands in her lap, not saying a word. He instantly knew he was walking into disaster.

  His hand flipped back to his waist holster, knowing with a black hardness he was too late, as a man rose up behind the couch, holding an assault rifle. He was bulky, with a shaved head and a beard, and said quietly, “That hand keeps moving, your wife’s brains are going to be splattered over this fine couch.”