by Mark Pryor
All around me, crickets and cicadas shredded the peace and quiet of the woods, upping my adrenaline as I scanned the brush around my feet for slithery movement. I saw nothing, heard nothing more, and kept going. In less than a minute, the tree loomed familiar, it's gaping U shape a welcome sight. I looked around before dropping the bags behind it, kicking them into a narrow ditch that might once have been a stream. There were enough leaves to cover both bags, and I threw a few sticks on top and tried to make it look as natural as possible. But I didn't have much time.
I hauled myself into the bend in the tree and leaned over to get the camera but froze as a dark silhouette moved between the trees no more than fifteen yards away. The figure stopped, but I couldn't tell if he was facing me or the other way. My hand moved slowly toward my trouser pocket. Another movement, and a second figure, a little shorter, joined the first and their heads came together for a moment. I stayed where I was, hardly daring to breathe, not wanting to kill anyone else. After a few seconds, the silhouettes separated just a little and moved away from me, deeper into the woods.
Young love, I thought. All three of us getting lucky.
Once I'd pulled the camera down, I went back to the bags and put it inside, then re-covered them a little more carefully. I almost sprinted back to the car and about fell into the driver's seat.
“Jesus, Dom, let's go.” Tristan was sweating and, quite literally, sat perched on the edge of the passenger seat. “I don't understand why that was even necessary.”
“Look, what I said to you before, about the cops letting me go if they stop me? That's out the window now. That shit works if I'm speeding, and maybe the cop'll give me a ride home if I'm driving drunk. If I know him. But if they've got reports of two people shot and a description of this car leaving the scene, my badge means something very different to a cop who pulls us over.”
“Like what?”
“Like he'll be extra careful about how he does his job. We match any kind of description, we'll be out and in handcuffs while they search this car. Thanks to me, they won't find a damn thing.”
I fired the engine and spun the wheels in the dust, bouncing from the dirt track of the mobile-home park onto the main road. Once on pavement I slowed, driving carefully all the way home, sticking to the speed limit and signaling each turn and lane change.
Like every good criminal should.
As soon as we were safely away, Tristan turned to me. “What the fuck was the deal with Otto?”
“Meaning?”
“Did you know he was going to be there?”
“Working there? Hell no.”
“He wasn't part of your little plan all along?”
“No. Of course not. Why would I hide that from you?” I glanced at him, trying to look outraged. “And why are you so pissed anyway? We should be glad he showed up; that dude saved our bacon.”
“Maybe.” Tristan looked at me a while longer, and I knew he wasn't sure whether to believe me. Eventually he turned and stared out of the window. We didn't talk the rest of way home, although every now and again he muttered You said no guns, no guns. But he didn't seem to want an argument, so I kept quiet except to tell him to keep an eye out for cops. He seemed happy for the distraction, and I used the quiet to put myself in his shoes, and Otto's, to think about how they might feel. It was hard, because I knew they were terrified of being caught, but they'd also feel something about the two dead men. That, of course, was the part I had trouble with. The fact that both had weapons and would have merrily used them on us was all the justification I needed, and I didn't need much. They'd escalated the situation, turned a simple theft into a double homicide. I hoped my chums would appreciate, in the midst of feeling sorry for themselves, who was left lying in the dust.
Otto's car was already parked outside our apartment building, and he was pacing the hallway inside, his head down, muttering. When he heard us, he looked up, and his face looked like it had melted, a sweaty mix of wide eyes and slack jaw, relief and terror.
“Gentlemen,” I said quietly, “I believe you know each other.”
“Yeah,” said Otto, “and we're a little past polite introductions.”
I unlocked the door to the apartment, and they both rushed in, like the answers to all our problems were laid out on the coffee table. Tristan collapsed on the couch, and Otto went into the kitchen, where he opened and closed cabinet doors for no obvious reason.
“Need something?” I asked.
“A drink. Fuck, you don't drink, do you?”
“No, but Tristan does. Try the cabinet over the microwave. Brandy, I think.”
He poured himself a tumbler, more than I wanted to see him drink, but I didn't say anything.
“So what the fuck is going on?” Otto demanded. He looked directly at me and gave a minuscule nod that said, “I'm back to the script.”
I played along, too. “It was supposed to be a theft. Just a simple, easy theft,” I said. “Take a couple of things from that guy's van and be on our merry way.”
“Who were those people?” Otto asked.
“One of them owned a bunch of trailers, in that park and elsewhere. He fleeced immigrants for rent money, let his trailers basically fall apart, but he still made his tenants pay. He was a worthless piece of shit.”
“Yeah,” Tristan chimed in. “A worthless piece of shit who collected his rents in cash once a month.”
Otto shook his head. “I never took you for a thief, Dom.”
“It's a good chunk of money, Otto, and you don't need to worry about my motives.” I cocked my head. “What the hell were you doing there?”
“A new security job.”
“So what the fuck do we do now?” Tristan said. He stared at me, like this was my fault. “We just committed murder. We killed two people, and that's murder.”
“Capital murder, technically,” I said.
Otto moved from the kitchen into the living room. He looked up from his glass. “How can you be so fucking calm? Tristan's right, we're in deep shit.”
“No, wait. You're the ones in deep shit,” Tristan said. “I didn't kill anyone. You two did.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but we're all in this together,” I said, irritated. “It's called the law of parties, Tristan. Everyone involved in a crime is responsible for what happens, even if they didn't pull the trigger. Like the getaway driver at a bank robbery. Same thing, so if we're in the shit, we're in it together and we need to stay together. Got it?”
“Sure. But how can you be so fucking calm?”
“A touch more sensible than panicking, I would think.”
Otto sat on the couch beside Tristan, his elbows on his knees. He was back to staring at his drink. “I can't believe that happened.”
“Yeah, well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Otto. And just in case you're thinking you can bail out of this, it's a little late.”
“You sure about that?” Otto asked. I wasn't sure if he was still play-acting, so on the off chance he was seriously wondering whether he could save himself by frying us, I laid it out.
“You shot a man during a robbery. You can tell people you didn't know what was going on, but we'll both tell it differently. And given your financial situation, the fact we know each other…” I shrugged. “And the kicker is that you fled the scene and met us back here, after disposing of your weapon.”
“But you told me to give it—”
“What happened and what it looks like to the police, Otto, are not the same thing. You're in it now, so I suggest you start looking on the bright side. We got away, and you're a whole lot richer.”
“That's true,” he muttered.
“In theory,” I added.
“What does that mean?”
“I hid the money in the woods before we left. Couldn't risk being caught with it, plus there was blood on some of the notes.”
“You hid it? What the fuck is this, Treasure Island?”
“Calm down, Otto. We'll go back in a couple of da
ys; it'll still be there.”
“So what do we do now?” Tristan asked.
“We lay low. Do nothing, say nothing. Act normal, or as normal as possible.”
They didn't respond, just sat there in silence, staring at the floor. I felt a sudden rush of annoyance. Not only had we avoided being killed out there, but we'd just gotten away with money and murder, free and clear. I took a deep breath and instead of yelling at them, I tried a pep talk. “Look, we didn't leave any evidence behind. There are no finger prints, there's no DNA, no surveillance cameras. All the cops have is a couple of dead bodies in a shitty mobile-home park. For all we know, they'll assume they shot each other. If that's the way they want this to look, maybe that's the way they'll interpret what little evidence they have.”
“No way, man,” Otto said. He shook his head slowly. “No way. I mean, the only evidence they have is ballistics. Once they dig the bullets out of those guys, they'll compare them with the guns and see two other people were involved.”
“Yeah, we should have taken their guns.” I cursed myself for that oversight, then had a thought. “Maybe the scavengers who live at that place will help themselves to the guns, and the cops won't be able to make that comparison.”
Otto's brow furrowed and he studied me for a moment. “Why do you hate them so much?”
“Who?”
“Poor people. Or is it Mexicans? Maybe all South Americans?”
“No idea what you mean.”
“Bullshit. This isn't the first time you've talked shit about the people who live out there, in places like that. Like they're animals or something.”
“Relax, Otto, I don't care about them one way or the other. I'm sure many of them are wonderful people just trying to make a living.”
“Don't bullshit me, Dom. You don't think that at all.” He sat up straight, and I pictured his spine finally growing in. “So which is it, poor people or Mexicans you don't like?”
I held his eye for a moment. “Like I just said, Otto, I don't dislike anyone. I don't give a fuck who's poor and who's not, and I know you're part Mexican and I don't give a shit about that either. So if you're looking for a fight, you won't get one from me. Not about that, and sure as hell not right now.”
He looked at me for a second longer and then took a drink. He sat back and spoke to Tristan. “What do you think we should do?”
“About what?” Tristan asked.
“About not getting caught.”
Tristan nodded toward me. “Like he said, I guess we just act normal. And hope for the best, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Also a good idea not to be seen together too much. Tristan and I are probably okay as we live together, but Otto you need to steer clear of this place and us for a while.”
“Yeah, sure,” Otto said.
“Good. Now, as you're a security guard there, the police will want to talk to you, find out if you saw anything. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah. I was supposed to knock off at ten, so I'll tell them I left before it all went down. I can handle that.”
Tristan spoke up. “What about your friend Gus. Can you handle him? Do we need to worry about him going to the cops?”
Otto looked at me. “Who the hell is Gus?”
“A friend of mine. This whole thing was his idea in the first place, only he backed out so Tristan stepped up.”
Otto's eyes widened. “Someone else knows about this? Oh my God, we're done, we're finished. As soon as he sees the news, he'll call the cops.”
“No,” I said. “Not at all. I'll keep an eye on him, but there's no way. I promise, he's cool.”
“He'll be cool about a double murder, are you kidding me?”
“He's my best friend. Trust me, he won't call the cops.”
“You better be right about that. And just make sure you do,” Otto said. “Keep an eye on him, that is.”
“I said I would. We can go back in a couple of days, once they clear the crime scene. Maybe I should go alone. As a prosecutor, I'd have a reason to be out there.”
“We'll go together,” Otto said. “Or meet there. Not that I don't trust you, I just need to look out for myself, you know?”
“No, I don't know, Otto.” I glared at him. “We need to be smart, not greedy, right now. How're you going to explain being out there if it's not your shift?”
“So we go when I'm working.”
“I'm going too,” Tristan said. He looked at Otto. “Man, you adjusted to this very quickly. You just killed a guy and all you're thinking about is the money.”
“So? What's done is done. And with the money I can get the hell out of here. What do you care?”
“You're scaring me a little, is all. Both of you. I know the money's important, but two people are dead. Fucking dead. Neither of you seem to care about that, which is stone fucking cold and it scares me a little.”
And that suited me perfectly.
Tristan holed up in his room. I watched the eleven thirty news by myself, and the shooting already was the lead story. The footage consisted of a lot of flashing red-and-blue lights, and nothing of the crime scene. The reporter spoke in that excited calm reporters are taught, that earnest intensity, and gave the same few details three different ways: two bodies, both shot and declared dead at the scene. APD homicide detectives on the scene. No suspects in custody. No indication of motive or gang activity. Rinse and repeat.
When the weather guy appeared at 11:53, I got up to make myself a sandwich, my stomach reminding me I'd not eaten since lunch. I was halfway through it and an episode of The Simpsons when someone knocked on the door.
I did a mental inventory of my evening, the one I'd agreed with Tristan; basically, we'd spent the evening at the apartment. The building didn't have security cameras in the parking lot, so if anyone said they'd seen us drive out, it'd be their word against ours. Otto had potentially complicated things a little with his presence, but that was unavoidable. I hoped this wasn't him on a return visit.
Tristan was quiet in his room, so I went to the door and looked through the peephole. I smiled as I opened the door.
“You keep showing up,” I said.
“Oh, I think you know why I'm here.” She wore black jeans and a white tank top, that luscious hair falling all over her shoulders, and I itched to run my fingers through it. She breezed past me and stood in the middle of the room, checking the place out, a clutch handbag under her arm. “And, if you don't like it, you can kick me out, I guess,” she added.
“No, I forgive you.” I pointed to the sandwich on the coffee table. “I was just having dinner. Care for anything?”
“Water's fine. Thanks.”
“Absolutely. Have a seat.”
“Is anyone else here?”
“My roommate. In his room.”
She cocked her head and said, “Then let's go to yours.”
I was the one to knock people off their game. I did it with charm and wit and by being overly, overtly forward. I didn't trick girls into bed, I basically told them where things were headed and either they went along or I moved along. James Bond–style. Girls didn't lead 007 by the nose, not even into the bedroom, so I hesitated, not so much wary as unaccustomed.
She raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, you can kick me out.”
Given the two options, I made up my mind and left my sandwich for later.
My room was a good size, but I'd put a single bed in there intentionally, a simple wooden frame with a headboard of slatted pine. It was something a poor student would have, and a discouragement to anyone wanting to stay overnight with me. For the first time, I regretted not having something larger.
“It's like a little boy's room,” she said.
“Glad you like it.”
She smiled finally, and looked at me. “I saw the news.”
“That so?”
“Yep. Seems like someone went out to the east side of town and did something pretty bad.” She clicked open her purse and pulled out a pair of steel ha
ndcuffs. “I thought maybe these would be appropriate. Why don't you come over here?”
We made a lot of noise but ignored Tristan when he banged on the door, and after a while he gave up. So did the neighbor who slept just the other side of my bedroom wall, a geek who lived his life between headphones anyway.
She hadn't been kidding about me being bad, and she used my own belt on me, attaching me to the bed with her cuffs, teasing me when I winced and laughing when I cried out. When I was ready to break the slats, and her, she stopped and lay her naked body on me, whispering that she was sorry, and then she made me use the belt on her. She laughed and screamed, and the geeky neighbor made his way to our door to yell at us, as Tristan cowered in his room. She kissed me, a lot and all over, but she didn't let me fuck her. I got close to taking her anyway, oh, so close, but I saw in her eyes that even though she wanted me to put a hand on her throat and another in her hair, that was all she wanted. That girl was like quicksand, drawing me in and holding on to me, squeezing me with her grip and making me cry out in frustration. I struggled and gave in, then struggled some more. When she finally let me go, I was soaking wet, exhausted, and utterly disoriented.
I fell asleep around 4 a.m., nestled into her thighs, stomach, and breasts, her arms locked gently around my chest. When I woke four hours later, she was gone.
Tristan was gone, too, or extremely quiet, but because I didn't know which, and I didn't like the idea of him popping out of his room again like a sneaky jack-in-the-box, I tapped on his door to make sure. No answer.
I made a cup of tea in my undershorts and drank it while watching the news. The information looked to be the same, but the TV crews were all over the mobile-home park, talking to residents and taking angled shots of the crime scene, which was back to being a dirty patch of ground. Every time the shot was right, my eyes were drawn to the line of trees, and I was pleased to see a distinct lack of activity in that direction.
