Good People

by Marcus Sakey

  If he did, he did. One thing at a time. The vent was high on the wall, just shy of the ten-foot ceiling. “You have a screwdriver?”

  Tom said nothing, but his wife was smarter, said, “There’s a cordless in the toolkit.”

  The toolkit. He’d noticed it downstairs, in the hallway. Of course. That was where the knife came from. Tom had seemed so cowed, Jack had figured him for a wimp. Turned out the guy had a backbone after all.

  Focus. “Do you have one up here?”

  She hesitated, then said, “There’s a regular one in the kitchen drawer.”

  “Get it. Quickly.”

  She nodded, her eyes on his as she backed toward the counter. A good-looking woman, seemed smart. A shame. Jack looked back and forth between her and Tom, his adrenaline running, tuning him up. He could feel the faint ache in his toes, the heat in his armpits. City sounds came through the windows, the bark of a dog, a faraway siren.

  “You,” he said. “Drag the table over to the wall.”

  Tom grimaced, then took the edge of the table in his right hand and scraped it across the floor. A faint line dug in the hardwood marked the passage.

  “Get up on the table. Anna?”

  She was still rummaging through the drawer. “I know it’s here.” She threw a handful of delivery menus up on the counter, dug back in with both hands.

  Jack stepped away, widening the margin and putting his back to the wall to keep them both covered. “Hurry up.”

  Anna nodded, then said, “Here it is.” Came out with it, started to walk toward Jack.

  “Give it to him.”

  She hesitated, then stretched to pass the screwdriver. When his fingers touched it, it knocked from her hand and clattered to the ground. She froze, then bent, picked it up, shaking. She passed it to Tom.

  “You know what to do,” Jack said. Tom turned to face the wall. With his good hand, he stretched the screwdriver above his head and went to work on the return vent. The table rocked slightly as he moved.

  Jack watched, gun level, mind steady. Probably two minutes, maybe three, since the woman arrived. Figure another few to get the cover off and dig out the money. His ears buzzed in the aftermath of the gun blast, a rhythmic whine that rose and fell. Tell the couple he was going to tie them up, to lie down. With a.45, one shot each would be plenty. Collect the brass. The guy had the vent cover off, finally.

  Anna said, “It’s really far back there. You might need a ladder.”

  The guy went up on tiptoes, his arm all the way in. A hollow rumble sounded as he hit the walls of the vent.

  What else? His gloves should cover him on fingerprints. He’d been bleeding up and down the hallway, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The cops could match his 1911 to the one at the club, but it would be going over the Skyway Bridge on their way out of town. The whine grew louder, and he realized it wasn’t in his ears, but outside, sirens. As always, there was that moment of automatic panic, but he put it aside. Chicago was a big city.

  Still, there was something missing. Something right in front of him. Jack stared at Tom, saw the guy digging as far as he could. Looked at the wife. She stared back at him. Why did that seem wrong? Wasn’t it human nature to be looking up at her husband? Especially if he was pulling money out of the wall? It was almost as if she were-

  The sirens stopped, and Jack realized what he’d missed. “Oh, you cunt.” How had he not seen this? Had he been that distracted by pain and surprise? It was only the sirens stopping that triggered him. The cops did that when they wanted to roll up quietly. Screaming sirens to get close, then silence for the final approach. The alarm had a panic code.

  Tom Reed was frozen, his right arm lost to the shoulder, his neck twisted to look down at his wife. Anna stood straight-backed, defiant. Jack sighted down the barrel of the 1911. “I still have time to kill you.”

  Her eyes widened, but she said, “You’ll never get the money if you do.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyes darted over the kitchen, taking in the windows, the rear door. The cops might be a mile away. They might be a block. No way to know. His cell phone rang. Marshall. He grit his teeth.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he said. “Just give me the money.”

  Anna Reed said, “They’ll be here any second.”

  Jack ran.

  14

  THE RETREAT OF IMMEDIATE DANGER was like a break between waves at the beach. Tom had been leaning into horror, bracing himself against it, and the sudden absence left him weightless. He pulled his arm out of the vent, shoulder creaking. Stood on the table he and Anna had bought together at a flea market, staring around his kitchen. Everything the same, only viewed from an angle that made it all strange and threatening.

  “Are you okay?” Anna stared up, eyes wide. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her arms, first reaching for him, stopping herself, almost crossing them over her chest, and finally letting them dangle awkwardly.

  He didn’t answer. Just sank to a squat. His left hand throbbed a warning, and he caught himself in time. Put the handle of the screwdriver in his teeth, then picked up the vent cover with his right hand. Slowly he rose, fighting dizziness. The cover was hard to manipulate with one hand. It had been easy to take it off, but putting it back together was tricky. The way of things.

  “Tom?”

  He managed to fit it into the open hole. The edge of the drywall held it in place just enough for him to let go, take a screw from his pocket and gently insert it. The handle of the screwdriver was slippery. He slotted it and began to turn, rightie-tightie.

  “Tom, don’t bother with that now. We have to think. The police are coming.”

  A dozen twists, and the screw was sunk. He pulled the other and went to work on it.

  “Honey-”

  “Why did you take the money?” He kept his eyes on the vent. The table rocked lightly as he moved.

  “I didn’t.”

  He laughed.

  “I mean, I didn’t take it. I just moved it.”

  “Why?”

  “I was afraid you would give it to them. The police. Trying to protect me.”

  He nodded, habit more than anything else. Now that the adrenaline was fading, everything was starting to hurt. Warming up like an orchestra, all discordant and garbled. His hand led the way, hot swelling throbs of brass-thick pain. Right behind it, his head, a metronomic ache from the blow of Jack’s gun. His back and stomach hummed and warbled, and across his body came a hundred faint stabs and ripples like the twinkling of flutes. He grit his teeth and worked on the screw.

  “Tom, we have to get ready for them.”

  A final twist, and the cover was in place. For a moment he badly wanted to unscrew it, take it off, and then put it back on again. To repeat the process all day long.

  “Honey.” Her voice pleading, strained. “We have to think.”

  “You lied to me.” He tucked the screwdriver in his pocket, dropped to the edge of the table, and stepped to the floor.

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t think anything like this would ever happen. How could I know?” Her eyes pleading. “I’ll tell you everything, answer any question you like, but right now we have to talk about the police.”

  Tom looked away. “What about? We tell them the truth.”

  “We can’t.”

  He snorted. Gripped the edge of the table with one hand, began to pull it back where it belonged.

  “Tom, listen to me. Would you just-” She grabbed the other side, pulling away from him. “Just stop.”

  He yanked harder, and she braced herself to resist. The table came off the ground, wavered back and forth. He glared, and she glared back. All of it spilled out between them, the lies, the pressure, the slow tectonic shifts of their relationship exploding in a tug-of-war over a table.

  Then a buzzer sounded, loud and insistent. The doorbell from downstairs. The police.

  He dropped his side, started for the hallway, where the interco
m would open the downstairs door. She was closer, hurried to block the hallway. “Just listen for a second, okay?”

  “Get out of the way, Anna.”

  “Listen.” She spat the word, then took a breath. “There is no way to tell the cops why that guy was here without telling them about the money. No way at all.”

  “I don’t care.” He started to push past her.

  She put an arm against either side of the hall to block him. “Damn it, think!” Her eyes pleading. “Later, we can talk all we want. We can figure out what to do, you can be pissed at me – I don’t blame you – but right this second there are cops coming to our door, and we need to be together.”

  “Why?”

  The buzzer sounded angrily and long.

  “Because if we tell the truth we’re going to jail.” She raised her eyebrows. “We stole that money. We’ve spent a lot of it. We’ve lied to the police.”

  “Better that than face Jack Witkowski again.” He pushed past, shouldering through her arm easily. Two steps took him to the intercom.

  Her voice came from behind him. “How do you know his name?”

  He froze, thumb on the button to open the door.

  “Tom? He wouldn’t have told you that.”

  He opened his mouth. Shut it again. There was no time to explain, to tell her that the things he had kept from her were different, that he had done it for the good of both of them, that he had only been trying to-

  To protect her.

  He felt the anger deflate. The buzzer sounded again. He turned to face her, then said, “Okay. We get through this. Then you and I need to talk.”

  The look she gave him was scared and wounded and sweet all at once. It was like watching something beautiful break.

  He took a breath. Pushed the intercom and said, in as calm a voice as he could manage, “Yes? Who is it?”

  ANNA WAS GETTING USED to lying to the police.

  After Tom had buzzed them up, she’d barely had time to wipe away the blood in the hallway before opening the door and smoothing her expression as if she were icing a cake. Listened to the heavy tromp of their feet. One cop had his gun held at his side, which startled her. “Officer, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault.” She shook her head ruefully. “We just got the alarm, and I’m not used to it yet.”

  “Is this your house, ma’am?” The first cop was a baby-faced blond; behind him stood a tall officer with a graying crewcut.

  “Yes. We just came in, and I punched the wrong code.” She gave him what she hoped was an embarrassed smile. “They taught us about the panic code, but I wasn’t thinking and misdialed. The alarm shut off, so…”

  The older cop relaxed, but the first said, “Do you mind if I look around?”

  “Why?”

  “The point of the panic code is that someone might force you to shut off your alarm.”

  “Officer, I promise, it’s just my husband and me.”

  “Still, ma’am, I’m going to need to confirm that.”

  She hesitated, then shrugged, opened the door wide.

  “Thank you.” The blond officer moved with his gun out, playing at Serpico. Anna slid aside to make room as he swept down the hall. The older cop stepped in casually, hooked his thumbs in his belt and shrugged at her, as if to say, Kids. Anna forced a smile back. “I’m Anna Reed.”

  “Sergeant Peter Bradley.” He glanced around the living room. “Nice place.” It was at that moment that she remembered the bullet hole in the ceiling. She started to look up, caught herself, looked down instead, and saw a brass cylinder, shit, part of the bullet, that part that got ejected from the gun. It lay on the hardwood floor three inches from Bradley’s left foot. She coughed, then said, “Thanks. Can I get you guys some coffee?”

  “That’s all right, ma’am.” He rocked back on his heels, watery eyes calmly taking in the room. Anna found herself wondering about him, imagining his life: an ex-wife, two kids, child support that had him picking up extra shifts working security at a strip club. Strange, random thoughts. The cop shuffled his feet, and she said a silent prayer he wouldn’t kick the bullet.

  Tom came out of the bathroom. He’d washed his face and brushed his hair, and held his left hand behind his back, standing like a politician about to deliver a speech. He smiled, said, “Really sorry about this, Officer.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  They heard the younger cop from down the hall, barking that the bedroom was clear. Bradley shook his head, called down the hall, “Why don’t we get out of here, let these folks get on about their day?”

  “But, Sergeant, I’m supposed to check-”

  “It’s all right, son.” Bradley keyed his radio, said, “It’s a false. Dialed the wrong code.”

  Anna slipped her arm around Tom’s waist. “You sure we can’t get you anything?”

  The blond cop, his gun now holstered, said, “Would you mind if I used your lavatory?”

  She felt the muscles in her smile tighten. She wanted to scream, Get out get out get Out! Instead she said, “Of course, Officer.”

  She stood and willed herself to keep her eyes level, not to glance at either the ceiling or the floor. Reminded herself that these guys were just regular cops, not detectives, not people who knew what had happened in the last week. “I really do feel stupid. You guys must have better things to do.”

  “We were in the neighborhood.” Bradley cleared his throat. “Your security company will bill you for the false alarm, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably about two hundred.” The cop shrugged. “It’s steep, I know, but that’s how they do it.”

  “That’s okay, Officer,” Anna said, remembering Jack sprinting out the back door. “I don’t mind at all.” She heard the toilet flush, the hiss of the sink, and then the other guy came down the hall, belt heavy with gear. As the two turned to go, the corner of the sergeant’s boot caught the edge of the shell casing and set it spinning. She moved fast, stepping forward to silence it with a foot, her smile never wavering.

  When the door closed behind them, Tom said, “Where’s the money?”

  “In the car.”

  His mouth fell open. “You left three hundred grand in the car?”

  “I was going to put it at Sara’s, but I thought…” She shrugged, feeling stupid. “I don’t know. I didn’t really think it through. I wasn’t trying to steal it, like I said. But once I took it out, putting it back didn’t make any sense. I was going to get a safe-deposit box, but with my job, everything.” She shrugged again.

  Tom closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead hard. “Okay.” He held his left hand in his right. Winced.

  “You should get that looked at.”

  “We’ll hit a drugstore on our way.”

  “On our way where?”

  THE W HOTEL ON LAKE SHORE was hipster heaven. Anna dug the décor, the mod chairs and muted colors, trip-hop playing over the lobby sound system. It made her feel cooler than she was.

  When the woman behind the desk asked her name, Anna told the truth. Then she said, “I can give you a credit card. But could you put the room in a different name? My ex-husband…” She trailed off with a meaningful look.

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I understand. What name would you like?”

  “Ummm… Anna Karenina?”

  “You sure? Love didn’t go well for her either.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “How about Annie Oakley? He shows up, you can shoot him, then ride into the sunset.”

  Anna laughed. “Thanks.”

  The room was all sleek planes and Asian light fixtures. Broad windows gave onto the lake and Navy Pier, the Ferris wheel burning bright against indigo skies. It made her want to take off her clothes and order champagne.

  Tom set the duffel bag on the ground, then collapsed into the overstuffed chair beside it. His face was drawn and his lips pressed tight. He rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair so that his hand was above his head. It was swollen
and crusted with blood.

  “How is it?”

  “It hurts.” He said it simply. He wasn’t much of one to complain, would always drive her crazy with his refusal to go to a doctor no matter how sick he was. What’s the doctor going to do? he’d say. I’ll be better by the time I could get an appointment.

  She moved to the edge of the bed. Nervous again, not sure how to talk to him, what to say. “Want me to tape it up?”

  “Let me have a couple of drinks and some pills first.”

  They’d bought a bottle of bourbon at the CVS, along with medical tape, gauze, antiseptic cream, antibacterial soap, Advil, and a splint. She shook out a couple of capsules and passed them to him, then dug the booze out of the bag. She knew you weren’t supposed to mix ibuprofen and alcohol, but against the scale of their current concerns, that rule seemed laughable. She poured three inches into each glass. He took his wordlessly, eyes out the window.

  “I’m sorry, Tom.”

  He nodded, still not looking at her.

  “It was stupid. I should have trusted you. I do trust you. It was just… It was stupid.”

  He sipped his drink. Shrugged. Said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then you want to know the worst moment?” He turned, hit her with an expression hard to read. “It wasn’t when I saw the money was gone. It wasn’t when he stomped on my fingers. It was after all that. I still didn’t believe you’d taken it. Jack told me you had, but I refused to believe it. Until I looked in your eyes and realized he knew you better than I did.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Took another swig.

  “What about you?” She could feel herself on an emotional tightrope, self-loathing on one side, fury on the other. “How do you know who he is? What have you been doing that you haven’t told me?”

  “Trying to save our lives.” His tone was level, uncombative, and it helped steady her on the rope. She said, “What does that mean?”

  “Jack isn’t our only problem.” Tom drained the rest of his bourbon, leaned for the bottle. Anna beat him to it and poured into the glass he held. When she finished, he flashed a smile, nothing much, just a quick thank you, more habit and courtesy than anything, but still. “Someone else is after us as well.”