STIRRED

by Blake Crouch J. A. Konrath

  “Yeah. About that. I forgot to make a trip to the ATM this morning.” Henry teased out his wallet, handed Donaldson some bills.

  “Twenty-six dollars?” Donaldson began to shake with rage. “How far are we supposed to get on twenty-six bucks?”

  “We’ll manage,” Lucy said. She was feeling just as betrayed, but there was nothing they could do about it. At least they still had the Norco.

  “You won’t be reported missing until lights out, in an hour and a half,” Henry said. “You get caught, and mention me, I’ll track you down and end both of you.”

  “You think it’s easy, killing someone?” Lucy said. “Looking them in the eyes as they fade away? Listening to that last bit of air hiss out of their lungs? You know what that air tastes like?” She smiled, knowing it made her look like a skull when she did. “It tastes like cotton candy.”

  “Screw both of you,” Henry said. Then he hurried back to his truck, hopped in, and sped away.

  “I need some Norco,” Donaldson said.

  Lucy did, too. They should ration it, especially since that prick took their vike stash, but right now the pain was so intense it was impairing her ability to think. She carefully unrolled the ball of toilet paper. It was the Norco, thank Christ. It had been a bad piece of luck to lose the Ativan, but losing the Norco would have been far worse. She gave Donaldson two pills.

  “Three,” he demanded.

  Lucy noted a flare of anger, but it immediately subsided. She gave him one more and then took three for herself, chewing hers so they’d take effect faster.

  The powder tasted like battery acid, coating her throat with pointy little bits.

  “Will you look at this piece of shit?” Donaldson gestured to the car. “That asshole.”

  “It’s okay, D. We’re free.”

  He grunted and then opened the driver’s door and located the keys. There was a small plastic frog attached to the ring, and when its belly was pressed, a tiny flashlight beam came out of its mouth. With a moan, Donaldson heaved himself into the seat. Feeling playful, Lucy stuck out her thumb.

  “Give me a ride, mister?”

  Donaldson’s face softened. “As long as you promise not to sing any show tunes.”

  Lucy limped around to the door, climbed in.

  “Take the gun out of the glove box,” Donaldson said.

  Lucy pulled it open, had to dig under the owner’s manual to find it.

  She held the Beretta up under the globe light. “This ain’t its first rodeo. It looks older than shit.”

  “Give it here,” Donaldson said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but Lucy handed it over.

  Donaldson ejected the magazine.

  “Seven damn bullets. That cheap-ass son of a bitch. At least it’s a forty-five.” He tugged back the slide. “Okay, here’s one more.”

  “All we need is one,” Lucy said.

  He popped the magazine back in. It took a considerable effort, but Donaldson opened the door and aimed the Beretta at the nearest tree. The noise of the report filled the car, set Lucy’s ears ringing. It had been ages since she’d heard a firearm discharge. She’d never been a fan of guns. Her beauty, her wits, and sadistic creativity had comprised her arsenal.

  She said, “You just wasted a bullet, dumbass.”

  “No, I’m making sure this piece of shit will actually fire when we need it to.”

  He gave Lucy the gun and cranked the engine.

  Phase one of their revenge plot now complete, it was time for phase two.

  The pain Lucy felt would be nothing compared to the pain they were going to dish out.

  She grinned like a skull as Donaldson hit the gas.

  March 16, Fifteen Days Ago

  Two Days After the Bus Incident

  “Take a few deep breaths, Amena. That’s good. That’s much better. What’s your last name?”

  “My maiden name is Haman. My current name is Haman-Bowers.”

  “Current? How many names have you had?”

  She smiles a smile that twenty years ago would have launched ships. “Always on the lookout for another one, cutie.”

  “That’s a beautiful ring you have on your finger.”

  “Which one?”

  He points to it. “Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, it’s just a four-carat diamond.”

  “Your husband gave that to you, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t come on the trip with you though.”

  “No, we’re divorced.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Another smile. “It’s quite all right.”

  “How about this one. The green stone.”

  “Oh, that’s my emerald. Platinum band. Surrounded by twenty-nine diamonds.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “My second husband, Peter, gave this to me for our first anniversary.”

  “What about that necklace? Those real?”

  “Of course.” She touches the sapphires. “These were from Chance, my fourth.”

  “How many times have you been married, Amena?”

  “Five.”

  “You took them for everything, huh?”

  An elegantly restrained smile. Amena reaches across the table, fingers glittering with bling under the bare lightbulb hanging overhead, and touches his hand.

  Ballsy. He has to give her that.

  Luther can see that she believes she is getting a toehold, perhaps beginning to take control of her situation. This amuses him.

  And even though she’s in the neighborhood of sixty, there’s an undeniable sensuality still present in spades.

  No question, she’s about as smoking hot as a grandma can get. Much rarer than a MILF.

  A GILF.

  “I have money,” she says.

  “Then what were you doing on that shitty bus?”

  Amena doesn’t respond.

  He continues, “Lot of older gentlemen on this bus tour. Maybe you were looking for husband number six?”

  She smiles. Coyly. “Every dime I’ve gotten in a divorce settlement, I’ve earned. I may be older than you, but trust me, hon, I could show you some things.”

  “No doubt, but that’s not what I’m interested in.”

  “Money then?”

  “I already have plenty of money, Amena.”

  “So what do you want? I’m sure we can work this out to our mutual satisfaction.”

  “Actually, you’ve already given it to me. Exactly what I want. The greatest gift of all.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Now it’s his turn to smile. “Confirmation that you’re a gold-digging bitch. And I know just where to put you.”

  March 31, 4:45 P.M.

  I craned my neck, trying to peer into the rearview mirror.

  The angle was wrong, so I adjusted it.

  There.

  Three cars on the street behind us, and I spotted the Monte Carlo McGlade had mentioned, about a hundred yards back.

  “See it?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it Luther?”

  “I can’t tell. Slow down.”

  McGlade tapped the brakes. After a few seconds, the two other cars passed, but the Monte Carlo stayed back, maintaining its distance.

  “Can you get the plate?” McGlade asked.

  “No, they slowed down, too. I can’t even tell how many people are in the car. Turn here, see if they follow.”

  McGlade hung a right, passing an elementary school.

  The Monte Carlo made the same turn.

  “Try pulling over,” I said, “letting them pass.”

  “What if the car doesn’t pass? What if they try something?”

  I tugged my Colt Detective Special out of my purse and spun the cylinder, double-checking that all six chambers were full. “I’d be okay with that.”

  “Rock out with your cock out,” McGlade said, easing over to the side of the road and coasting to a stop on the gravel should
er.

  I eyed the rearview mirror.

  The Monte Carlo had also pulled over, now two hundred yards back.

  McGlade reached under his jacket, pulling out his .44 Magnum.

  He checked the side mirror, said, “You’re a better shot than I am. My Model 29 has a drop-out range of about eight inches from this distance.” He offered me his gun. “You could put a few through the driver’s-side windshield.”

  “I don’t even know who they are.”

  “If it’s Luther, we can end this now.”

  “And if it’s someone else?”

  He shrugged. “Oops.”

  “I’m not going to shoot into a car when I don’t know who the target is.”

  “How about putting a couple rounds in the engine block?”

  More cars passed.

  I didn’t notice any pedestrians, but a ricochet could easily hit someone’s home. “No,” I said. “This is a residential area. Too risky.”

  “Then I’ll do it.” McGlade opened his door.

  “What if the driver has a rifle?” I asked.

  McGlade closed the door. He also scrunched down a little in his seat. “Well, what’s the plan then, Sherlock? Wait here for the rest of our lives?”

  If I’d still been a cop, I’d have called for backup, and they could have approached the car. I could still call Phin or Herb, but it would take several hours for either of them to show up.

  “Nine-one-one,” I said. “Tell them we’re being followed and suspect the individual is armed. Let the local fuzz approach the car.”

  I reached for my iPhone.

  “It left,” McGlade said.

  I checked the mirror, saw the Monte Carlo speeding off in the opposite direction.

  “Now what?” he asked. “Should we troll around?”

  I considered it. “Yeah, do it.”

  I wanted this over and done with. If this was Luther, I’d get the license plate number, call the police, and end this.

  But we circled the neighborhood for ten minutes and couldn’t find the vehicle again.

  “Maybe it was just a coincidence,” McGlade said, finally pulling into a parking spot against the curb in Violet’s townhouse subdivision.

  “Maybe.” But my gut didn’t think so.

  McGlade had his smart phone out. “You see pics of this Violet King chick? Smoking hot. You know I love blondes.”

  He was looking at her on Google Images—Violet’s photo in an old Reuters story from 2003 when she was in pursuit of Andrew Z. Thomas during the North Carolina murders.

  “You love anything with boobs,” I said.

  “She’s a cop?”

  “Used to be.”

  McGlade opened his door as I reached for mine.

  “Why’d she quit?” he asked.

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  March 31, 5:00 P.M.

  After fleeing the neighborhood when Jack Daniels had spotted their tail, Donaldson had returned ten minutes later. They’d spent another five minutes circling, but there was no sign of Daniels’s car.

  “You blew it, D.”

  Lucy’s bitching was starting to get on his nerves. He considered the Beretta. Maybe not killing her, just a bullet somewhere non-fatal. To shut her the hell up.

  “What was I supposed to do? Just sit there while they called the cops? You wanna go back to the hospital?”

  “You shouldn’t have let them out of our sight. That was stupid.”

  “They were going to come after us. That was a new car Jack was in. We’re riding around in a piece of shit from the nineties. They’d catch us, no problem.”

  “Well, maybe you should have—”

  “There! Look!”

  Donaldson slammed on the brakes, and they both moaned in pain as the Monte Carlo jerked to a stop.

  Lucy leaned forward in her seat, staring intently through the windshield. “I don’t see it.”

  No shit. She only had one eye. Donaldson pointed. “Parked over there beside the Dumpster.” He realized he’d driven right past it. The Juke was a small car, and it had been blocked from view by a Chevy Astro the last few times they’d circled.

  “So, how are we going to find which townhouse they’re in?” Lucy said. “There must be like forty of them.”

  “We stake it out.”

  Donaldson drove around to the other side of the lot and parked out of obvious sight. It was the perfect spot. Far enough away from Jack’s car to avoid easy detection, while allowing him and Lucy a clear view of nearly every townhouse in the complex.

  “We don’t want to miss them coming out,” Donaldson said. “So Lucy?”

  “What?”

  “Keep your eye open.”

  March 31, 4:55 P.M.

  Five Minutes Earlier

  I huffed and puffed my way across the parking lot toward a townhouse set off from the others, surrounded by overgrown shrubs that came halfway up the windows.

  There was no name on the mail slot, just the number I’d gotten from Cynthia Mathis—813.

  “Try not to say anything stupid or offensive,” I said as I rang the doorbell. “Tell you what…just don’t say anything at all. If you have an idea for a question, write it on a piece of paper and I’ll consider it.”

  “Sure thing, Mom. Want to hand me my crayons so I can play quietly in the corner?”

  “Like I’d trust you with crayons.”

  The doorbell didn’t work, so I banged hard on the glass door, almost said “This is the police” out of habit.

  I heard a television set blaring on the other side of the door. The rain had begun to pick up again, and I was overcome with a sudden craving for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, and, incongruously, dill pickles.

  I needed to write to Ben & Jerry and ask if they’d make a cookie dough pickle flavor.

  “Did your stomach just say something?” McGlade asked.

  “Pretend you’re still a cop. Act copish.”

  The door creaked slowly open.

  Even before I saw her face, I smelled the smoke and nicotine.

  I smiled. “Violet King?”

  I could only see a thin panel of the woman’s face through the four-inch crack between the door and the doorframe.

  “Who’s asking?” Southern drawl—faint but unmistakable. The sour odor of beer mingled with the cigarette stench.

  “I’m Jack Daniels. This is my partner, Harry McGlade. We’d like to ask you some questions about Andrew Z. Thomas.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

  The woman started to close the door, but stopped. She glanced at my baby bump and then back up into my eyes. Her features softened. “Tell you what…you can come in for a minute.”

  Violet opened the door, and for a brief moment, the bleak, gray light from outside flooded into the front room of her townhouse. A haze of smoke lay upon everything like mist on the surface of a lake. An old-school tube television droned on from the far side of the room—a soap opera, the characters yelling at each other in a hospital room, debating whether or not to pull the plug on someone.

  Violet stood less than five feet tall, but she must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. Her housedress was faded and expansive, and it took Violet more effort to waddle back across the room than it did for me to follow her inside.

  “Is this her?” McGlade said from the corner of his mouth. “Or the beast that ate her?”

  “Be nice, McGlade.”

  The living room was small and cramped and dark. Aside from the illumination of the television, there was only one other light source—a weak lamp on a marble-topped table next to the couch. A cigarette burning in an ashtray sent blue coils up into the dusky light.

  Under the eye-watering reek of new and old tobacco smoke, I detected another, more offensive odor—rot. Spoiled vegetables or meat, or possibly both.

  As my eyes adjusted to the lowlight, I saw the walls were covered in baby pictures—photographs of a cute little b
oy. In many of them, a gorgeous, young blonde held the baby, her smile radiating love and joy. Violet’s hair was still blond, but she no longer seemed to be the woman in those pictures. I wondered if it hurt her to look at them.