Good People

by Marcus Sakey

  He put his hand on the bedroom door and pushed it open. The light was faint and dusty, and the smells stronger. He stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust, vague shapes resolving into a bed, the armoire he remembered hauling, the crib in the corner. He could see the outline of Julian lying within it.

  A pair of legs stuck out from beside the bed.

  Tom took the three steps to them without realizing he was moving. Sara lay facedown amid a pile of junk, postcards and books from the night table drawer yanked out of the frame. In the dim light, the mess of blood and tissue that used to be her back looked almost black.

  Behind him, he heard the snick of metal against leather, the gun coming out, and then Jack said, “It was a nice plan, Tom. But I’ve got a different one in mind.”

  ANNA HATED being helpless.

  Sunlight danced on the dashboard. She watched Tom on the porch, saw Jack lean out the door, look in her direction. Fought the urge to duck lower, knowing the motion would catch his eye.

  When she was a child, she’d pretended her eyes were laser beams, that they could cut and shear everything she saw. Now, pressed against the seat, powerless to do anything but wait and watch, she wished for those laser eyes. Imagined them blasting through the window, spearing into Jack, a beam of light that tore him open, cut him in half.

  Her mind raced, thinking of all the ways this could fail. She had the windows half-open, but the porch was too far away for her to hear what Tom was saying. She stared, watched him rest his good hand against his thigh. After a long pause, he walked forward into the house.

  She let herself breathe again. Good. They had agreed that if Jack pulled the gun, Tom would signal. The fact that he was walking in on his own meant it was working.

  Still, this would be the worst part. Her palms were sweaty and her heart banged and her head hurt. A moment passed, then another. Tom wouldn’t dally, but he might have to calm Sara down, make sure she understood not to call the police. It could be a couple of minutes. On the other hand, if things were going wrong, every second she didn’t call was one more he might be getting hurt. She counted breaths, her thumb on the button.

  She was just about to press it when there was a knock on her window, and she turned to stare down the barrel of a gun.

  FOR A MOMENT, the world was just visual, nothing but images flashing against his eyes. The slippery ruin of Sara’s body, wet tissue exposed, the smell rising, an animal smell, copper and worse, and then he remembered the way she used to laugh, throwing her head back, and how she gave the best hugs, her arms tight around his back, and thought of what that would feel like now, and his stomach seized up. Something awful and bitter slid up his throat, in his mouth and nostrils, and he fought the urge to vomit. His eyes cataloged details he didn’t want: the pool of blood spilled across the cheap carpet, the wood of the drawer splintered and torn, a flash of metal, something shiny he couldn’t make out just beneath the bed.

  “It’s hard, isn’t?” Jack spoke from behind. “To see what we really are. You can go your whole life knowing somebody, and then.” He sucked air through his teeth. “I’d say I’m sorry, but then, it’s not my fault, is it?”

  Sara. Oh God, poor Sara. Then another thought hit, and he whirled, took a step toward the crib. Julian lay on his back. His eyes were open. Tom’s whole being shook, something inside him gathering itself into a howl that made no sound.

  And then the boy blinked and gurgled, staring up at Tom.

  “The kid is fine,” Jack said. “Your sister-in-law, well, she tried to run. Chose the wrong direction.”

  Tom turned, started forward. He was going to beat this fucker to death with his bare hands if he had to, for what he’d done to Sara, to their lives.

  Jack raised the gun faster than Tom would have thought possible, leveling it square on his forehead. Against his will, he froze. His good hand balled into a trembling fist. When he spoke, his voice came in tatters. “Anna is calling 911 right now.”

  Jack shook his head, smiled. “I’m afraid not.”

  ADRENALINE LIT HER UP, and she yelped, not quite a scream, more startled than anything else.

  Halden stood outside the car door with his gun pointed at her, the same gun that had caught her eye every time she’d seen him, the one she’d wondered what it would be like to lift and hold and point, only now it was aimed at her.

  “Set down the phone and get out of the car,” he said.

  She stared, swallowed, blinked. “You don’t-”

  “Get the fuck out of the car.” His voice was commanding, and she found herself reaching for the door handle. He stepped back, the gun level. “Slowly.”

  “Detective, this. Tom, he’s inside that house, with – you have to get out of sight. If he sees you-”

  “Get out of the car, turn around, and put your hands on your head.”

  “But-”

  “Now.”

  She stared into eyes gone cold and professional, realized that all he saw was a criminal, someone tied up in the death of a cop. Worse, a woman who had lied to him, embarrassed him. The thought made her heart sink in her chest. There was nothing more stubborn than a man humiliated. Somehow she had to calm him down, explain what was going on in the house. Tom could be bringing Jack out any minute. If he saw a cop here, everything would fall apart.

  The best thing would be to go along, put him at ease. She opened the door, stepped out, keeping her hands at chest height. “I’m not going to do anything. You don’t need the gun.”

  “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

  Her mind raced. Tom was depending on her. “Listen to me. Jack Witkowski is in that house” – she nodded with her head – “that was him that called me. I’m sorry we ran, but he has my sister.”

  He shook his head. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to cuff you, and then I’m going to cuff Tom. Then you two are going to tell me where the money is. I’m going to walk into the station with you in one arm, Tom in the other, and that cash slung on my back.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” She stared at Halden, realizing that it wasn’t just a professional distance in his eyes. He had the same fixity of vision she’d only recently overthrown. For her the blindness had centered on the money; for him it was something else, maybe, but the intensity was the same. She had to reach him. “Listen to me. Jack is here. He’s here now.”

  The cop said, “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

  Then there was a sound, a strangely familiar shhk-chhk sound, loud and to her left.

  That got Halden’s attention, his eyes widening as he spun fast, the gun leading the way, and she turned in the same direction, saw a figure, a man, oh Jesus, the other guy from the mall, a shotgun pointing right at her.

  The blast was louder than she would ever have imagined.

  A ROAR CAME FROM OUTSIDE, loud and sharp and close. A gunshot, and then another.

  Anna. She was out there alone. And she didn’t have a gun.

  Tom knew right then that she was gone, and nothing else mattered.The howl that had been building inside broke in a terrible roar, and he threw himself forward. The rage was stronger and crueler than anything he had ever known, and he lowered his head and charged, slamming his shoulder into the man’s gut, straining forward with every muscle and sinew, the breath whistling out of Jack’s lungs, and something falling, the gun, shaken loose, and Tom kept pushing, slamming him up against the door frame. He hammered a punch into Jack’s stomach, then wound up and did it again. This close he could smell sweat and after-shave, could see the texture of his shirt, the perfect straps of the empty shoulder holster. He would tear him apart, yank his arms from their sockets and twist his head off his body. Jack brought his elbows down on Tom’s back, the impact like lightning, but he wasn’t letting go, he would never let go, he’d take everything this fucker could dish out. He threw another furious blow into the man’s side and was rewarded with a sharp gasp, and knew that he was going to win.

  Then Jac
k’s right hand squirmed between their bodies to find Tom’s left. He gripped the bandaged fingers and jerked them back, and Tom’s legs gave in a flash of white agony.

  THE WAY HALDEN stepped backward into a shaft of sun, it looked like the light had speared him, like the sun had turned him red and wet and yanked his insides out. His mouth was open as if surprised. Anna stared, one hand reaching, like if she could catch him, she could somehow put him back together, and then there was another roar and his body spun and splashed and the pistol fell from his hand and she turned back to see the man from the mall with a shotgun raised to his shoulder, turning now toward her.

  She ran.

  There was another roar, and the windshield exploded in a rain of sparkling prisms. Her foot hit the edge of the curb and she stumbled, nearly fell, but got her balance and lunged forward, aiming for a narrow path that ran between two buildings. Her brain was on automatic, an animal desire to get away, she was every hunted thing that had ever run through the forest, and the corner of the building blew up, brick chunks flying, one of them touching her face with razor edges, red dust like sand, and then she was down the path, her arms pumping. Behind her she heard a curse, and the sound of heavy footfalls.

  THERE WAS NOTHING but the roar of blood in his ears and the pain shivering up his nerves, the agony so sharp and hot it seemed to blend senses, to be something he could taste and smell and hear. Tom told himself to get up, that he’d been winning, but Jack got hold of his little finger, the broken one, and wrenched it sideways, and the air sucked out of his lungs.

  A fist smacked into his nose, the blunt intimacy stunning, stars popping behind his retinas. He felt Jack let go of his hand, and rocked forward, hugging it to his chest, fighting for breath. His head was inches from Sara’s body, and he imagined what the bullet would feel like, how he would fall across her, and he welcomed it.

  He told himself to move, but his body didn’t respond. Darkness beckoned, and from it, Anna.

  IN HIS HURRY, Marshall hadn’t seated the shotgun properly, and the stock had twice punched his shoulder like a giant’s fist. Adrenaline muted the pain, but the mistake had caused him to miss two easy shots on the woman.

  It didn’t matter. When he’d played ball, he could clock a sprint to first faster than anybody. He raced after her, holding the Remington one-handed.

  The path between the buildings was narrow, maybe three feet, and by the time he’d hit it, she was rounding the corner. He leaned into his run. There was a rattle of wood and metal, and he burst into a back patio just in time to see her drop to the other side of a wooden privacy fence. He charged it dead-on, planted a foot and let the momentum carry him enough to grab the top one-handed, then rocked over and down to the concrete of an alley. He raised the Remington, but she was already spinning down another path, heading back the way they’d come.

  A mistake. As long as she’d zigzagged and used the cover, he would have had to run her down. But now she was heading back toward the street. Jack had said she was the smart one, but the silly cooze wasn’t thinking, because the street was wide and clear, and a magnum slug was accurate to a hundred yards.

  Marshall took the corner with his left hand against the edge to keep his velocity, and then poured it on for the length of the path.

  Rehearsed the moves in his head: break clear, stop, spread his feet, seat the shotgun properly.

  Anna Reed had maybe ten seconds to live.

  A FIST HIT HIM AGAIN, this time in the cheek, and Tom’s head snapped sideways. The world was wobbly and wet.

  “Fucker,” Jack said above him, his voice guttural. “Mother-fucker.”

  A boot cracked one of his ribs. In his crib, Julian cried, his voice thin.

  “I bet you wish you were back in your safe little life now,” Jack said. “I just bet you do.”

  A strange calm had settled over him. Everything hurt, but the pain, like the fear, was too large to grasp. He almost welcomed the blows. Anna was gone. The harder Jack beat him, the sooner he would be with her again. That was all that mattered. His vision was screened by cotton, but when he looked at Sara’s face, he thought he saw a strange peace in it. Idly, he wondered why she had run in here, where she would be trapped. Trying for the phone on the night table, maybe.

  He saw Jack bend over, push through the junk on the ground, then come up with the key. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Jack said. “There aren’t that many storage lockers in Chicago. I’ll find it eventually.”

  The thought of Jack winning brought anger, and a keener pain than his injuries. But it wasn’t enough. Not without her.

  ANNA’S FEET HURT, and her face where it was cut. She could hear the man behind her. She didn’t think he was any closer, but he hadn’t fallen behind, either.

  Almost there. You have to make it. Tom needs you.

  She tore down the path, one hand tracing the edge of the building. The street lay just ahead. Safety. The man’s footfalls grew louder as she burst into sunlight. She’d ended up right where she’d hoped to.

  Funny, the way the thing had drawn her eye from the first moment she’d seen it, weeks ago. Like she’d known even then. It was heavier than she’d expected, and felt wonderful.

  She turned around and leaned across the hood of her car, arms braced on broken safety glass, hating the seconds passing, the time she wasn’t able to help Tom. The fear for him and the frustration and the hatred all boiled up in her like a scream.

  When Marshall came into sight, she let it go, and yelling words she didn’t hear, Anna pointed the gun she had taken from Halden and pulled the trigger again and again, until his chest was pocked with red, until he fell backward and slid down the wall with an expression of disbelief frozen on his features, until the pistol stopped kicking in her hand.

  THE PUNCH SHUT HIS LEFT EYE with a sick feeling. The end was coming soon. Tom knew it, could see by the look on Jack’s face as the man squatted in front of him.

  “Okay, Tom. Save me the trouble. Tell me where that storage locker is, and this will all stop.”

  What difference did it make? Jack would find it sooner or later. And a bullet was all that stood between him and Anna.

  Then he remembered that Jack had killed her, had killed Sara, had torn their life apart. Had taken everything that mattered to them. All for money. Bits of colored paper. He straightened as much as he could, his body barely under his control. Forced a smile, tasting blood from the broken nose. He coughed and then said, “Fuck you.”

  The man stiffened, and Tom braced for a blow. But Jack chuckled, said, “You know, it’s funny. I kind of like you. You and her both. You’ve got spunk.” He laughed again, then reached out to pat Tom’s cheek in a soft slap. “It’s good that you’re being a man about this. Taking responsibility.” He stood up, stepped back. “Took you long enough.”

  And as Jack moved out of the way, Tom saw what Sara had been going for. The flash of metal he’d seen earlier. A gun. A snub-nose pistol inches from her hand, just under the bed.

  He blinked, shook his head. The gun was still there. He willed himself forward.

  His limbs hung heavy. His body throbbed. He couldn’t move. Jack walked back to the wall Tom had driven him into earlier. Where he had dropped his own gun.

  Tom stared. Knew he wouldn’t make it. He’d taken too much, been hurt too badly. And Anna. If he did kill Jack, he wouldn’t get to her. His sweet girl, gone.

  Then came a series of cracks, gunshots, one tumbling after the other. They were loud and fast and obscene. But he barely noticed them. Because above them, he heard Anna. Shouting his name, over and over, like a prayer. She was still alive. His wife was alive.

  Tom crawled forward, his ribs stabbing, world wobbling, but none of that mattered, he put it all aside, and then he had the pistol and was turning, spinning on his knees, just as Jack came up with his own gun.

  WHEN SHE HEARD THE SHOTS from inside the house, Anna screamed. Her legs seized up. The empty pistol fell to clatter against the concrete.


  Too late. She was too late. Nothing mattered now.

  Later, lying awake at night, listening to the steady rhythm of Julian’s breathing, she would remember this moment, unspool it like thread. The moment everything changed. The impossible sunlight against her back, the shifting sounds of leaves, all of it going on as though nothing had happened. The way the world didn’t notice that it had ended.

  Time lost its grip. She stood still, wanting to disappear, wanting to run into the house, but not moving. She could hear sirens growing closer, police responding to gunfire on this quiet residential street. A bird sang above.

  None of it mattered.

  A sound from inside drew her attention. Something was moving. A figure, a shadow in the dim light. A man with a pistol in his hand. Moving slow. Coming her way. She decided to stand right there and let Jack kill her.

  And then she saw that it was Tom.

  It was like being born again, the two of them newly made by the heat of a terrible fire. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then, as police cars swooped down the block, all force and fury, she ran to him, and they came together, gripping each other to keep from falling, and she swore, in that moment, that she would never let go again.

  Ever.

  21

  “… ACCORDING TO POLICE SPOKESMAN Patrick Camden, investigation into last week’s fatal shootings in a Lincoln Park mall has been closed. The two men responsible have been identified as Jack Witkowski, age forty-three, and Marshall Richards, thirty-nine, both killed in a shoot-out later that day that left several others dead, including a decorated police officer. After leaving the mall, Witkowski and Richards allegedly killed Sara Hughes, a single mother living nearby, and hid in her home for several hours.