by Ben Sanders
Keller hadn’t moved, but he was looking down at the bar, the sushi train with the plates coming around. Bobby followed his gaze, and finally saw the play—three things lining up right in front of him, and the shock was like a fall into cold water:
He saw that plate with its silver dome coming past on its third or fourth circuit; the Asian raffle guy staring at them panicked, as if Bobby and the cop had some massive bearing on his life; and he saw, too, that the silver food dome had a ticket trapped under it, the order number printed bold:
68.
It chimed with something from a minute ago: the fucking raffle man, asking if they had ticket sixty-eight.
The number was a signal for Keller—
Bobby had his jacket pushed back and a hand on his gun by the time Keller lifted the dome, and he saw a snub-nosed revolver lying on the plate. Keller grabbed it clean and found his aim, and the bangs were so close he didn’t know who shot first.
Miles Keller
Maybe the audiobook inspired him—all that Stephen Hawking physics—but he’d had a speech in his head about electrons, how they needed quantum energy to go up a valence. Then with that explained, he could’ve told the guy he needed to jump a level as well: that he and Miles were in different orbits. But it was kind of long-winded and unfriendly, and in any case he’d got the message across.
The room wasn’t packed, so people cleared out fast. Chairs toppled. A yanked tablecloth made a racket of broken dinnerware: a rich acoustic, everything from tinkle to smash. He rolled on his side and got up on his hands and knees, saw people running hunched for the door. It was just the two of them left: Miles and his thwarted killer. Even Kenny had split. He saw the hat man’s hat upside down, its owner nearby but much worse off, splay-limbed and faceup, covered in blood. He’d taken two in the chest.
An alarm sounded: soprano pitch, ear-bleeding wattage.
Speaking of blood:
His shirt was scarlet—the whole left side. Nothing he could do now, though.
Get out and fix it later.
He found Kenny’s revolver and pressed the frame and the grips against the guy’s limp hand. He needed to confuse the prints. He doubted people saw his gunplay, and the cleanest story said the hat man had two weapons—Miles was just lucky to overpower him.
He got to his feet and limped for the door. His chest ached with each breath, keeping him on sips of air.
Broken ribs?
Internal bleed—
Don’t think about it.
The doors parted, and the alarm grew even louder as he stepped out. He could see people ahead, running up the path toward the parking lot.
Parking lot—
He needed the car keys.
The doors were closing again, almost tripping him as he went back into the restaurant. The hat man was in a pool of blood, creeping wider. Miles knelt and pat-checked him, tugged the SUV keys from his trouser pocket, and then got the hell out of there.
In the parking lot two cars tore past him for the road, and he saw half a dozen people at the clubhouse portico, ducked down by an SUV.
He limped across the lot, saw Stanton and Kenny by Kenny’s van. Stanton was sweat-drenched, shaking, standing with his hands on his head.
“Oh, God, you’re okay. Man, look, he’s okay.”
Miles tossed the keys to Kenny. “Open the back for me.”
The words came out as a wheeze. He limped to the van and slid the passenger door open, torso blowtorched with the effort. The Coveys’ money and Stokes’s murder weapon were in the duffel on the rear bench. He’d made the swap from Stanton’s car earlier.
Stanton said, “Whaddya want me to do? Whaddo I do?”
Miles said, “Get in the car.”
The bag seemed twice as heavy since he last moved it, and he had to drag it two-handed for the SUV. He saw Stanton wipe his palms down his shirtfront, and then jump in the Chevy’s passenger seat. He was talking to himself, strange mutterings of comfort: “It’s all good, we’re fine, it’s all Stanton…”
Miles hauled the bag up over the rear fender and into the load space of the SUV. He slammed the door and felt a burn down his abdomen.
The van revved.
Miles jumped in, and Kenny had it rolling before Miles’s door was closed. He wrenched it shut with his good arm and fell back in his seat panting.
Kenny hit the end of the driveway and braked hard. Stanton braced himself off the dash. “Ken, gentle, gentle.”
Kenny said, “Where to?”
Miles said, “Right.”
“Freeway’s left—”
“Turn right.” He tried to shout, but didn’t have the wind.
Kenny got the message though, spun the wheel and floored it, leaving the club with a howl. He said, “When am I getting my thirty grand?”
Miles took shallow breaths, fueling up to talk. He said, “How do golf clubs hold a legal raffle? They give it all to charity or something?”
Kenny said, “Yeah, dunno. Probably. He didn’t know though, did he?”
Stanton said, “You okay back there? You sound real wheezy.”
“I’m bleeding a little.”
“Oh shit, really?”
The van rocked as Stanton heaved himself around in his seat and stretched for the dome light. He clicked it on and said, “Oh man, it’s all coming through your coat. We need to turn around.”
“No, keep going. I’ll tell you where to go.”
Kenny swiveled his mirror for a better view, and the van swerved in the lane when he took his eyes off the road. Stanton grabbed the wheel and straightened them up. “Shit, Ken.”
“Wynn, he’s bleeding bad—look at him.”
Miles said, “If you turn around, your money’s forfeit.”
Both of them shut up.
Money. It was in their source code, way down at base-instinct level. Profit was everything.
Kenny put his foot down and leaned over the wheel.
FORTY
KINGS POINT, NY
Lucy Gates
She wondered if Nina was getting agitated. They hadn’t been gone long, Miles and the Bobby guy, but being sole-charge on a hostage job was probably bad for the imagination. She’d be seeing all kinds of grim endings, wondering what she’d do if Bobby didn’t come back, what she’d do if she saw blue and red lights through the window. Whether she’d have the guts to shoot the hostages and then clear out.
By the look of her, maybe she did have the courage. She was still sitting on the couch, relaxed and comfy, like this was the tail end of a pleasant evening. Mostly she watched her captives, and every now and then she checked what Kevin Spacey was doing on the mute TV.
Lucy said, “Is this one of those hostage setups where you let us go at the end?”
It sounded casual, but she didn’t feel relaxed. One of those hostage setups. Like she’d done this before.
Nina said, “As opposed to what? The kind where I shoot everyone at the end?”
Lucy said, “Well, you know…”
And Nina inclined her head, half-smiling, like she was interested in hearing an opinion, like it might change how things went.
Lucy said, “I guess you could shoot us both and lock yourself in the bathroom, like you said. But that’ll only work if Miles is dead. Same as if you shoot us and leave: he’ll come looking for you, unless your Bobby’s shot him.”
Nina said, “Why are you giving me all these options where you end up dead?”
Yeah, good point. She turned her head so she could see more of Caitlyn, but she wasn’t holding up well: eyes shut, clenched hands white at the knuckles.
Lucy said, “Because they’ve been gone long enough, it seems like something’s wrong. So when you get picked up as well, probably best you don’t leave two dead bodies behind.”
Nina smiled. “I don’t worry about any of that.”
Lucy said, “Well can I make you an offer anyway?”
Nina sat up a little straighter, like preparing to be open-minded. “Pleas
e do.”
Lucy said, “Be nice if I made some money out of this, too. So how about I help you get away, and you cut me in on the profit?”
She saw Caitlyn’s head move—a stiff-neck turn through a few degrees—but Nina stayed still. She said, “And what do you have in mind?”
Lucy said, “We can keep it simple. How about I drive, and you sit in back, counting money? Ten percent of whatever’s in the bag, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
She wasn’t exactly jumping at the idea.
Lucy said, “I used to be a police informant, but they let me go because I was holding things back. There’s more money in keeping quiet and doing as you’re told.”
Nina didn’t answer, but the pitch was well timed: a three-second pause, and then sirens were audible. Nina sat there for a few howls. They weren’t getting nearer, but they were out there for someone.
You had to hand it to her, though: Nina’s composure was immaculate. She stood up—no rush, leaving in her own time—and said, “Where are the keys for that Porsche in the garage?”
They both looked at Caitlyn.
“I hope we haven’t lost her.” Nina clicked her fingers. “Earth to Caitlyn. Where are the keys?”
For the first time she had the gun horizontal, aimed at Caitlyn’s face as she came toward her. She grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head back, pressed the gun to her throat—smooth and blue by TV light.
“There we are. We’re awake now.”
Lucy saw tears on her cheeks, and with stretched vocal cords, Caitlyn’s voice came out breathy and cartoonish: “In the study. In the desk drawer. Or maybe in the kitchen, in that bowl on the counter.”
“Where’s the study?”
Under pressure, she really had to think about it. “Right of the entry. First door.”
Nina, dangerously sweet, said, “Lucy, would you please fetch the keys? We’ll be right here. If you take off, Caitlyn’s getting a bullet. Or if you feel like a drive, you can have your ten percent.”
FORTY-ONE
KINGS POINT, NY
Lucy Gates
They had to walk around Stanton’s car to get to the Porsche—Lucy, and then Nina with her bag of money and the ever-ready gun. They’d left Caitlyn in a downstairs bathroom with a chair under the door handle.
“Porsche” had made her think sports car, but this was one of those seven-seat SUVs, built like some chrome-and-polish tank. She clicked the remote, and the garage went orange as the turn signals flashed. She opened the driver’s door, climbed up into full leather and new-car smell. Maybe there were built-in reservoirs that leaked the scent, made every journey like the first drive off the lot.
A door thunked behind her, and Nina slid across the rear seat, towing her bag.
Lucy started up and hit the lights, pressed the button on the remote unit clipped to the sun visor. The door behind them began to rise.
Nina propped the gun on the passenger seat and leaned forward. “Just because I’m paying you doesn’t mean I’m trusting you. Keep to thirty, or it’s lights out.”
The door was halfway up. Lucy dropped the car in reverse. The atmosphere was very male: gun oil and new car. There must’ve been six cows’ worth of leather on the seats. But there was a pink air freshener clipped to an AC vent, so surely this was Caitlyn’s ride. No male human with an SUV-size ego would ever buy pink plastic.
Lucy said, “Should’ve used Caitlyn as your chauffeur, that way nothing looks suspicious if you’re pulled over.”
Nina sat back, gun upright on her thigh. “Yeah. Except me sitting here, with a pistol and a bag of cash.”
The door motor quit. Lucy turned around, laid an arm along the passenger seat as she steered in reverse. They dipped down off the slab onto gravel. She could see taillights fading off up the road, but no flashing blues or reds.
Lucy said, “We can stop at the golf club—drop me off with my cut, pick up Bobby.”
It was a nice thought, but between the black muzzle and the look in Nina’s eye, payment seemed unlikely. They were still crunching backward across gravel, heading for the Roman fountain, Cupid lit bloodred.
Nina said, “A minute ago you thought Miles would kill him. So what’s made you reassess?” She was more relaxed—absence of police soothing her anxiety.
Lucy dabbed the brake and brought them to a stop. “He’s too nice. He’ll avoid it if he can.”
“He didn’t mind about Jack Deen.”
Lucy touched the gas again and got them rolling. She said, “Yeah, because he was only covering for me. He didn’t kill Jack—I did.”
She floored the pedal and heard gravel pinging off the undercarriage. Nina twisted in her seat to see the back window, the statue looming crimson.
They hit the fountain wall doing thirty miles an hour.
FORTY-TWO
KINGS POINT, NY
Miles Keller
He said, “It’s just on the right.”
“You want me to turn in?”
“No, stop here. Let me out.”
Stanton said, “Man, you sound like you’re a ghost already.”
“Stop the car.”
Kenny slowed, and leaned in over the dash. The driveway was a hundred yards away, blue solar lights picking out its edges, the house with its glowing windows standing just beyond the statue—more like a gargoyle in its night shadows.
Kenny took it all in, checked his mirror to see his bloodstained passenger pale and clench-jawed, an arm across his midriff and a red right hand to his wound. Finally some other instinct—something attuned to human well-being—fought past the dollar signs, and he said, “Miles, this is fucking stupid.”
“Just let him out.” Stanton was ready to call it a night. He was checking his mirror as well, less worried about Miles than who could be behind them.
Kenny said, “Fuck it,” closed his eyes as if putting better judgment on hold, braked, and then skidded the last few inches. Stanton braced himself off the dash. “Ken, gentle, gentle.”
Miles already had his door open.
Kenny said, “We’re not waiting. This shit’s too hot.”
He didn’t answer. He was running—or trying to, at least. The van took off with its door still open, Stanton looking back across his shoulder and Kenny watching in his mirror, both of them probably wondering if this was good-bye or Good-bye.
He ran in the grass alongside the driveway, not wanting to make a noise on the gravel. His breath came wet and desperate. He could see the garage door rising, red light within. Not Stanton’s car. It must be that Porsche—
You don’t have a plan, and you’re bleeding. You should’ve stayed in the van.
He was only halfway there. The Porsche rolled out in reverse and stopped, white smoke in eddies at its heels.
Miles sprinted, panic hitting some last-ditch lever in his mind, numbing him for his final dash.
The car’s taillights dimmed, and the vehicle surged backward, nose sitting low, all four wheels spraying gravel.
He tried to shout but couldn’t.
The SUV cut a straight line to the fountain and smashed it hard. He heard the whump of the airbags, and the concrete wall cracked and gushed water. The car alarm wailed, like it knew the damage bill.
He heard a bang, and the Porsche’s windows flashed yellow. He closed the last few yards tasting blood, shouting, “Lucy,” in a hoarse whisper.
The driver’s door opened and he rounded the hood, a hand on the grille for balance, and there she was carrying a smoking gun. “Oh man, you’re bleeding.”
That gun, that smoking gun: he’d seen it when he visited before, the pistol in the new husband’s hand. Now it had been put to good use—
He staggered to her buckle-kneed, but didn’t quite make it. A hand on the car broke his fall.
“Oh, God.” She cupped his face cool-handed. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Hold on.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them she was running, chasing her long shadow to the hous
e, the car’s headlights white on her back. He was soaking wet. Another door opened, and he heard feet on gravel, a scuff motion that sounded geriatric. He turned his head and saw Nina, back against the car and sliding slowly to earth.
It went dark for a moment, but he came back with Lucy’s shaking. She was crouched over him, pressing on his wound, and Caitlyn was there as well: hand in her hair, pale and bleary-eyed as she stammered at a phone. He couldn’t quite hear her, and she talked so fast it was like she knew this would happen—like this was vindication of years of midnight worry. He turned his head and saw that Nina was still there with him, wide-eyed and openmouthed, like she’d finally been taken by surprise.
Her lips were bright red.
She said, “Well. Almost.”
* * *
He said, “Everything will be okay, but you have to listen.”
Caitlyn said, “Okay.”
He heard a man’s voice in the background, telling her hurry up.
Miles said, “You’re not on speaker?”
“No.”
“Okay. Listen carefully, and just answer yes or no.”
“Okay.”
“Is there a gun in your bedroom?”
“No.”
“Is there a gun in the study?”
“Yes.”
“Is it in a safe?”
“No.”
“Is it in a desk drawer?”
She said, “Yes.”
“Is the drawer locked?”
Pause. “No.”
Miles said, “Okay. Put Lucy on.”
The man’s voice cut in: “That’s enough of a reunion.”
Caitlyn again, muffled, like she had the phone to her shoulder: “He wants to talk to Lucy. He needs to know she’s okay.”
Words he couldn’t catch, and then crackle, and then Lucy said, “Hey. I’m okay.”
Miles said, “Only answer yes or no. I’m going to get you out. But there’s a gun in an unlocked drawer in the study. Do you know where the study is?”
“Yes.”
“Your best option is just to run. Don’t go for the gun unless you absolutely have to.”
* * *
He woke up in the ambulance, and knew he’d be all right. No one leaned over him with the paddles. There were two paramedics looking like bored churchgoers, sitting side by side and hunched, smartphones instead of Bibles. A machine was beeping. He wasn’t going to die. He felt something in the crook of his elbow. He raised his arm to look at it, but his wrist was tethered to the gurney by a handcuff.
