You're Next

by Gregg Hurwitz

  The whiteness of Graham’s fingers was momentarily shocking, until Mike realized that he’d donned latex gloves. In his right hand, Graham gripped not the service pistol he’d been holding when he’d stepped out of view but what looked like a cheap .22. His right pant cuff was snagged in the top of his black dress sock, revealing the ankle holster from which he’d removed the untraceable throw-down gun.

  Graham stepped over the bodies and paused at the threshold to the kitchen, spotting the open back door. He cursed under his breath.

  The concern in his tone did not match the purposefulness with which he sighted on the open back door. ‘Mike? You okay?’

  Mike had not given his name.

  The sirens were getting louder. In the garage the door to Mike’s truck opened and closed, the noise faint beneath the rising wail of the sirens. Mike bit his lip, drawing blood, but it seemed Graham did not hear. In his crouch Mike was closer to the garage, and he knew the vibrations of the house. He sensed Kat’s approaching footsteps and he readied himself to leap out, but then Graham swore again and dashed out into the backyard.

  Pressing “redial”, Mike left the phone open on the kitchen counter. He swung toward the door to the garage, catching it as it opened and pushing Kat gently off the step. ‘Come on, honey. Back in the truck. We gotta go.’ He turned her, commanding her back into the dim light of the garage.

  ‘What’s—’

  ‘Listen to me, Kat. Get back in. We gotta go.’

  She climbed in. ‘Daddy’ – she only called him that when she was scared – ‘you changed your shirt.’

  ‘Yeah, the other one got stained.’

  ‘With what?’

  As he smacked the wall opener, sending the garage door shuddering up, he noticed a trail of blood curling from his pinkie to his elbow. Light was streaming in, a veil lifting. He grabbed a rag from a shelf and turned away, scrubbing at his arm.

  Was he really leaving his wife’s body alone? The image of her, still and cool as alabaster, nearly sent him sprinting back inside. He had to see her again.

  An echo of Annabel, her dying request. Leave . . . with her . . . now. Promise me.

  Kat peered out from the massive truck, her voice tremulous and thin. ‘Daddy? Daddy?’

  ‘Hang on a sec, honey.’ Staggering backward to the driver’s door, still swiping at his arm, he didn’t recognize the timbre of his own voice. ‘Be right there.’

  Dropping the rag, he fell into the driver’s seat. The key waited in the ignition, left there to keep the TV on, and he twisted it violently and reversed out, nearly skimming the roof against the still-opening door. He braked with a screech and peeled forward.

  The sirens were screaming now. Couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.

  Hidden behind the row of cypresses at the property line was Graham’s car.

  A dinged-up, black Mercury Grand Marquis. Just like the car that had followed him leaving the Promenade.

  Mike skidded up beside it, grabbed his Leatherman from the glove box, and hopped out, unfolding the longest blade from the compact tool. Crouching so Kat wouldn’t see, he jammed the blade through the front tire, ripping forward. Hot air hissed across his knuckles.

  Faintly, from the backyard, piped the melody of ‘The Blue Danube.’ Growing louder.

  Stuffing the tool into his pocket, Mike rushed to check out the back license plate. Sure enough, preceding the numbers, an E with an octagon around it jumped out at him – the “exempt” mark carried by cop cars and G-rides. Beyond the cypresses, the side gate banged open, and Mike bolted before he could memorize the number.

  He jumped back into the truck and floored the accelerator before he got his door closed, that E sizzling on his brain like a brand. Rick Graham was a cop or an agent. He was involved in Annabel’s murder. He wanted to kill Mike and was willing to off an eight-year-old girl as well just to keep it clean. How many other officers were in on it with him? How deep did this thing go? And where could Mike take his daughter that would be safe?

  Kat’s face bobbed up in the rearview mirror. ‘What’d you just do?’

  Through the back window, he saw Graham jog out into the street and crouch by that front tire. He tugged off his gloves, took a few steps away from the curb, set his hands on his hips, and stared after Mike’s truck. He was too far away for Mike to read his expression, but his posture showed equal parts amusement and exasperation.

  No pulse.

  ‘I had to . . . do something to that car.’

  He turned the corner, and they passed an ambulance and a line of cop cars, lights flashing, the noise splitting the air, loud enough to make him cringe. His head jerked to keep the vehicles in sight – windows, side mirror – as they rocketed past.

  Kat sat rigid in the backseat, a departure from her usual loose-limbed flopping. Dread had turned her voice hoarse. ‘Where’s Mom?’

  Again came the nightmare repetition, except this time it was not from his father’s mouth but his own. ‘She’s not . . . here.’

  He was trying to watch the road, trying to grip the wheel steadily, trying to keep himself from flying apart. It took everything he had, and still he was coming up short.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’

  ‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘The light’s green.’

  ‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Why are you breathing funny?’

  Chapter 29

  Kat had retreated into a ball of fear and resentment in the back-seat. He needed to get them somewhere private before he explained to her about her mother. At least that’s what he told himself. Maybe he was just at a comprehensive loss for how to break the news. While driving he’d done his best to make his voice work and comfort Kat, but she was smart enough to take his generic reassurance as worse news, so finally he’d shut up, locking down his body to keep his grief from exploding out of him.

  He pulled into a gas station, a dark voice needling him: The last time I filled up my tank, I had a wife. Taking a few steps from the truck, he flipped open his phone to call Shep. There Annabel was in the screensaver picture: the photo he’d snapped of her in the kitchen the morning he’d found out about Green Valley. He remembered the warmth of the sun across his shoulders, how she’d rolled her lotioned hands in his.

  What?

  Your hair. Your eyes.

  The last quiet moment they’d shared before the PVC pipes, his decision to indulge the governor’s lie by lying himself, the hell that choice had brought down on them.

  For the benefit of forty families, think you can smile for a few cameras?

  That smile had cost him Annabel.

  His thumb twitched, wanting to call her. Catching the instinct – and the blast of reality that came with it – was a fresh hell. It couldn’t be real. He couldn’t do it without her – navigate through this threat, parent, live.

  He hauled his attention back to the eight-year-old waiting, needing him to take care of her. Shep. Game plan. He realized he had to use the sleek black Batphone, so he swapped them before dialing.

  Shep picked up on the first ring.

  ‘My wife is dead.’ Saying it caused Mike’s face to break. He turned away from the truck, did his best not to double over.

  Shep said, ‘What?’

  Mike glanced over his shoulder, but Kat was still buckled in, staring blankly into space. He forced the words out. ‘She’s dead. William and Dodge made a threat against Kat, and I took the bait. I went running to her and left Annabel open. I left her alone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A guy, William’s brother or cousin. I killed him.’

  The memory set Mike’s teeth on edge. The vibration sent from the man’s skull through the omelet pan had left his arm throbbing, the kind of bone-deep ache you felt getting jammed by a fastball. The sound was inhuman. It was a construction-site noise, the complaint of material yielding. He had taken a man’s life. He had no remorse and would do it again unflinchingly, but the hard fact of it extinguished something in his
chest.

  Shep had spoken – ‘How do you know he’s related to William?’ – and it took Mike a long moment to retrieve the question.

  He thought of that grainy Kodak of his father at the age Mike was now. How Dana Riverton had laid it beside the newspaper photo that had announced Mike to whoever had been waiting for him to appear. ‘Resemblance.’

  ‘He planned to kill Annabel?’

  ‘She fought.’ The man’s words played again in Mike’s head. You couldn’t just listen and sit on the couch and wait for him to get here. ‘He wanted to kill me, not her.’

  ‘So why misdirect you to Kat?’

  ‘So he could . . . I don’t know . . . have time to set up in the house. So it would be quiet and no one would know. Maybe he wanted them there for leverage. To get me to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What happened after you killed him?’

  ‘A cop showed up – Rick Graham. They were in on it together. Graham called to warn him I was coming.’ Mike explained about the incoming call and how he’d phoned back. ‘Graham came in to kill me, I think. To clean up. I grabbed Kat and took off. So I’m probably wanted by the proper authorities now, too, because of how I left. I don’t know who I can trust.’

  Shep said, ‘Money.’

  ‘I can’t think about that right now. I haven’t even told Kat yet. Later we can—’

  ‘There won’t be a later,’ Shep said.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’

  ‘You have your gun?’

  ‘No. That’s the one Annabel—’

  Shep cut him off. ‘You need to turn off your cell phone – not this one but your original one. It’s under your name, and they can track it if you leave it on too long.’

  Mike powered it down, glancing around. Vehicles flew by on the busy intersection. Two underage kids smoked by the drive-through car wash. A woman left her VW Beetle at the gas pump behind him and waddled to the convenience store.

  Shep was talking. ‘—and your truck.’

  ‘My truck?’

  ‘You’ve got satnav, right? That means they can track you down through your own GPS system. Get rid of it.’

  Discarding the truck seemed like losing a last, essential part of himself. The passenger seat still retained Annabel’s settings – slid forward toward the dash, slight recline, headrest low on its prongs. Crumbs from a PowerBar she’d eaten en route to the award ceremony were still caught in the leather seam.

  ‘Right now?’ The gas pump clicked off, and Mike tugged it from the tank.

  ‘They’ve gotta deal with a private company for the trace. It’ll take them some time to pull a warrant. Money first. Go.’

  Shep hung up.

  Mike crouched in a private office at the bank, moving stacks of hundreds into a black vinyl bag the prim-mouthed bank manager had provided. Kat was waiting in the driver’s seat in a front parking space, locked in, one hand at the ready on the horn.

  ‘Can we provide some other service, Mr Wingate, to make you reconsider?’

  ‘This isn’t about your service.’

  ‘It seems a shame, given your recent influx, to—’

  ‘Why can’t I withdraw more?’

  ‘I think under the circumstances, our producing three hundred thousand dollars cash on zero notice is rather impressive. With computerized banking we don’t stash as much cash in the vault as we used to. As I said, I’d be happy to arrange for a transfer of the balance to any—’

  A cautious knock on the door, and then an attractive woman in a crisp pantsuit opened the door a crack. ‘Excuse me, sir. You have a phone call.’

  ‘You know very well, Jolene, that when the door to the back office is closed—’

  ‘I was told it’s very important.’

  A red light blinked on the telephone sitting on the corner desk.

  The manager stiffened. He nodded at Mike and turned for the desk.

  Mike threw the remaining bundles into the bag and walked briskly out.

  ‘Daddy, why are we here? These people are scary.’

  ‘We’re going to catch a ride out of here in a second, Kat.’

  ‘Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am. Soon.’

  South of Devonshire in Chatsworth. The shortest distance to the shittiest neighborhood. Weeds rose through cracked sidewalks, vining their way through fallen chain-link. Kicked-in front doors were spray-painted with blood reds and metallic greens: INS with a Ghostbusters bend sinister through it; gang symbols; the see-no-evil monkey with his two cronies. Clustered in doorways, meth heads vibrated, skeletal arms poking from puffy jackets, blackened fingers working toothless gums. Falling dusk gave the whole stretch of sordid real estate a haunted-house vibe.

  Mike was horrified that he’d brought Kat here. But he was more horrified of what might happen to her if he allowed whoever was chasing them to catch up.

  The gleaming Ford crawled along, drawing stares, a few people shouting at them, their words blurred to senselessness by the purr of the engine. A knock on the back window startled Kat into a shriek. A bony face loomed, caved cheeks and suppurating smile, the outside door handle click-clicking against the lock.

  Mike accelerated, the bony face falling away, and turned the corner. An elderly man backed an ancient Volvo out of a driveway and Mike pulled tight behind him, blocking him in. The man climbed out indignantly to meet him, scraggles of gray hair fringing the drooping line of his jaw.

  ‘Boy, don’t you think you can intimidate me. I been living here since before your daddy’s—’

  Mike held up three hundred-dollar bills. ‘This is for you to wait for us. Two minutes. We’ll come back. I’ll pay you double this to give us a ride.’

  ‘I was born at night, boy, but not last night. You want more’n a ride for that money.’

  Mike stuffed the money into the man’s wrinkled hand. ‘Just a ride.’

  He drove back to the worst run of meth houses, stopped in the middle of the street and climbed out, leaving the driver’s door open and the engine running. Slinging the bank bag over a shoulder, he scooped up Kat from the backseat as he used to when she was an infant. Terrified, she buried her face in his neck. He jogged with her, her breath steaming against his throat.

  Reaching the quiet intersection, he looked back. Stick figures circled the pickup, flickering past the bright beams, heads cocked. It would only be a matter of time. And Dodge or William or Graham could spend the night running down a junkie joyride while Mike got Kat somewhere safe.

  He turned and jogged to where the elderly man stood waiting.

  He and Kat cut across Jimmy’s ragged front lawn, dodging car parts and a rusting lawn mower that had deteriorated into the brown grass. Mike had asked the old man to drop them off several blocks away, and they’d run to cover the distance.

  Kat hid behind Mike’s back as he rang Jimmy’s bell.

  Jimmy tugged the door open, facing away toward the interior. ‘—get the damned armchair off the front lawn.’

  A disembodied feminine voice. ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘Because I ain’t havin’ no duct-taped La-Z-Boy on my lawn, that’s why.’

  Shelly appeared in the hall, pale slender fingers forked around an ash-heavy cigarette. ‘You’re a credit to your race.’ Her gaze shifted, taking note of Mike before Jimmy did, and then she pinched her bathrobe closed and trudged back out of sight.

  Jimmy’s head swiveled. ‘Wingate? What the hell you doing here?’

  ‘I need help.’

  ‘Fight with the wife? Shit, I don’t blame you. Ever since Shelly and I got back together . . .’ Jimmy growled a low note of frustration. ‘You know when she wants to have sex? Tomorrow. That’s when.’

  Kat moved into view behind Mike, and Jimmy said, ‘Shihoot. Hi, sweetheart. Didn’t see you.’

  Mike said, ‘I need something to drive.’

  ‘You want your truck back?’

  ‘I’m in
trouble, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy looked from Mike to Kat, seeming to register the severity of the situation.

  A minute later they were in the quiet of Jimmy’s garage. Mike settled Kat into the passenger seat of the Toyota, the familiar smell of his old pickup a badly needed piece of comfort. He pointed at the toolbox mounted over the wheel well. ‘We need to empty that?’

  ‘Nah,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s all your shit anyways.’

  ‘Can I switch the plates?’ Mike asked. ‘With the Mazda?’

  ‘It’s Shel’s car, but hell, I pay the note on it.’

  He helped Mike replace the plates, and then Mike shook his hand. ‘Thank you, Jimmy. I’ll make this up to you.’

  ‘Nothing you haven’t done for me already.’

  Jimmy stood and watched as Mike backed out. ‘Going to find Just John?’ he called out.

  Mike drove off thinking, I guess I am.

  The Days Inn required a credit card, so they’d wound up closer to the city in one of the run-down motels across from Universal Studios. From what Mike gleaned, the place catered to thrifty tourists and people looking to rent a bed in hour intervals. A single-story strip of rooms lining a narrow parking lot, it was the Bates Motel sans taxidermy victims. Car exhaust and the screech-and-honk of Ventura Boulevard two blocks away assailed the senses. The front-desk clerk, a collection of tattoos shaped like a man, was only too happy to take a cash deposit.

  The overnight parking form asked for a vehicle license number, making Mike glad he’d switched the plates in Jimmy’s garage. In the room he dropped the bag of cash in the corner and emptied his pockets onto the bedspread. Two cell phones, money clip, change, a half-used ChapStick he carried for Kat. He closed the blinds. An internal door connected to a room next door, which he’d also rented so Kat would have somewhere to sleep undisturbed while he conducted whatever grim business the night would hold.

  Kat lay curled in the fetal position on the bed, and he sat to pet her head. She made a little noise and shifted so she could hug him around the waist. He bent and gathered her clumsily into his arms, smelling her hair, taking her in. Her warmth. The tiny fingers. The fragile stalk of neck. That smooth skin – not a crease, not a wrinkle. He looked up to keep his tears from falling, did his best to freeze his chest so she wouldn’t sense the shift in his breathing.