Callie was happy to be out of prison, but this all seemed temporary. It reminded her of a trip she’d once taken in high school to some museum in Pittsburgh. She and the other kids talking while a docent lectured somewhere in the background, Callie giving each painting a glance as they passed. Ever since she’d been taken from Vic and Everton, her life had been nothing but glances.
But she liked Miranda, liked staying with her. Miranda was forty-three, almost exactly twenty years older than Callie and, after some initial awkwardness during the car drive, proved to be chatty. Her cabin was rustic outside but updated within—satellite television, granite countertops, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, curtains that rose at the flick of a switch, heated bathroom floors.
“You live here by yourself?” Callie asked, wide-eyed, after they finished the tour.
“I do now,” Miranda said. “I was married. It didn’t work out with her.” The comments begged for follow-up or clarity, but Miranda’s tone was flat. Callie let it pass.
It only took a couple of days for Callie to notice a change in Miranda. A couple of days of watching TV and walking together through the woods and sitting and staring at the nearby lake as the sun surrendered its light. It was a difference in how the other woman reacted to her, the way Miranda started to soften and laugh in response to whatever Callie said. At first Callie attributed it to loneliness, but there was something more.
Miranda kissed her the third day.
She sat back on the couch, gave Callie a small smile.
“That’s not you, is it?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
“But, I mean, it maybe could be.”
Miranda laughed. “You think?”
“I’ve thought about it before.”
“You ever tried it?”
“No.” Callie thought for a moment. “I’d want to take it slow.”
“I think so too,” Miranda agreed.
They kissed more.
“Then again,” Callie said, “maybe we don’t have to take it too slow.”
Miranda laughed. “I think we should. At least, we should try.”
“I like the idea of trying.”
“Me too.”
Miranda pulled Callie to her. The scent of eucalyptus from Miranda’s lotion filled Callie.
Dusk stretched through the living room.
“Don’t feel like you have to do this,” Miranda said. “I don’t want you to feel that way.”
“I only do what I want.”
“I can tell.” Miranda caressed Callie’s hair. “I like looking at your face. It has a pretty symmetry. Your eyes and your lips.”
“It does?”
Miranda nodded. “You have sunset eyes.”
Callie didn’t know what that meant, but she liked it.
“By the way, I found out something about you,” Miranda said, and her hand dropped. “You were never a Daughter. None of the Everton Daughters remember you.”
Callie tried to keep her face calm.
Tried not to let anything other than nonchalance show through. Even as she wondered where she’d run.
Even as she realized she didn’t want to.
“It’s okay,” Miranda said. “Because I asked around about that Woods guy. You did the right thing.” She paused. “But be careful. Not all the Daughters are happy you’re out, especially since you weren’t an ally. As long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”
“Why?” Callie asked. “Why would you protect me?”
“I told you,” Miranda said. “I like looking at you. I don’t want to stop.”
Callie’s evil thoughts slipped away. She was happy to let them go. She pulled Miranda to her.
Callie and Miranda can feel the anger from Vic’s glare. He’s lying against the headboard in the rundown motel room they rented, mouth and hands taped tight.
Miranda sits next to Vic on the bed. Callie’s perched on the room’s beat up circular table, cross-legged, eating McDonald’s french fries.
“You sure you don’t want a fry?” she asks Vic.
He keeps glaring at her.
But nods.
She eases herself off the table; sudden movements often ache her leg. Miranda rips the tape off Vic’s mouth.
“Well, shit,” Miranda marvels. “He didn’t even flinch!”
Callie shoves a fry into his mouth. Vic glares and chews.
Callie waits for him to finish, then asks, “Have you thought more about my awesome idea?”
Vic swallows hard. “I’m not helping you rob that fucker.”
Callie slams the gun on the bed. “Pretty please!”
“No.”
“Told you he’d say no,” Miranda says, reprovingly.
“Is that why you kidnapped me and tied me up?” Vic asks. “So I couldn’t leave until you convinced me?”
Callie nods. “Can I at least tell you my plan? I worked really hard on it.”
“Fine.”
“We break into his place and rob him!”
“That’s it?” Vic asks, skeptically.
“Maybe!” Callie says cheerfully, and she tries to get a clear read on her brother. Skepticism, after all, is better than flat-out refusal.
She wonders if he’s hesitant because he didn’t come up with the plan. Vic has always been in charge, the one telling her what to do. Now the situation is reversed, and he seems unsure of his new role.
His new role.
Callie likes that.
Nice, for once, not to be the crazy-headed murderous fucker following her calm, assured brother around.
Or, she thinks, Vic’s hesitant because he’s adjusting. He’d been eating in an IHOP a few hours ago, now he’s tied up in some motel room.
Has to be weird.
But it’s hard to tell with Vic. He always has a distant look on his face. People assume he’s lost in thought, even heady, but Callie knows nothing important is happening in that pretty little head of his.
“Anyway,” she says, “Sheldon’s condo is just outside the city. We leave soon, we get there around four in the morning. No way he’s up then, so we surprise him. By five in the morning, we’re rich. See how easy that is?”
“It’s not easy,” Vic argues. “This Sheldon guy probably doesn’t carry all that cash at his place. Definitely not enough to be worth the risk.”
“He’s got it,” Miranda insists. “It’s how he’s paying everyone. One of the Daughters told me.”
“He’s probably protected,” Vic says.
Miranda shakes her head. “He works alone. Never brings security.”
Vic looks up at the ceiling in thought.
Callie has forgotten how he used to do that. Like he’s trying to read a faint message up above.
“Come on,” she says. “You were eating pancakes for dinner. You could use the money.”
“It would be nice to buy back my bike,” he says, reluctantly.
Callie watches Vic, unable to hide her grin. Ever since they were kids, she’s been able to sway him. Vic acts mature and deliberate, but she knows everything he does is always in self-interest. He puts on a big show about weighing the odds and the best course of action but, like all criminals, he’s always hungry. And he’ll always satiate that hunger.
She feels it too, the hunger.
Differently, but she feels it.
“We do this,” Vic says, slowly, “and you listen to me. Right? I don’t want another shitshow like Everton.”
“Oh sure.” Callie nods so quickly her head might snap off her neck. “Yes sir.”
Vic gives her his extra-serious look. Callie has to sink her fingernails into her palms not to laugh.
“I’m serious,” he presses. “I don’t want to put another bullet in you.”
“Me neither. That hurt.”
“And it’s just us,” he says. “Your girlfriend or whatever is staying here.”
“Excuse me?” Miranda asks.
“Girlfriend?” Callie ponders the term.
“I’m not staying behind,” Miranda says, defiantly.
“I don’t know you,” Vic says. “And Callie’s vouching for someone counts for nothing.”
“Aw,” Callie puts in.
“So either she stays here or I’m out.” He looks at Callie. “Your decision.”
A small thrill rushes through Callie the longer she and her brother hold the gaze. It’s always been like this with them, the push and pull. Vic doing his best to keep her in boundaries, Callie doing her best to stray outside of them.
“That’s fine,” she relents.
“What?” Miranda asks.
“Vic and I have done this before,” Callie says. “We’ll be fine.”
“But you don’t know Sheldon,” Miranda says, quietly.
“One more thing, Callie,” Vic says. “We do this, and it’s goodbye. I’m glad you’re okay and you met someone and, I guess you’re a lesbian now? But I want you to take this money and live somewhere quiet and stay out of trouble. Like Montana or something. And you’re done with me. After tonight, this isn’t me ever again. I’m different now. You understand that?”
Callie’s voice is smaller than she expects. “I mean, probably not Montana. But sure.”
He looks at her, hard. “You know I’m serious, right?”
Callie looks right back at him. Tries to see if there’s anything behind his eyes, any pity, any family.
Any love.
“Right.”
Dear Callie,
I never know how to start these letters.
So this one I’m going to start with an apology.
I’m sorry things ended with us the way they did…with me shooting you. I for real didn’t know if you were going to kill that boy. I just remember your eyes that night in Everton, the way blood seemed like it was in the air, the way we were all close to being swept up in something. We were all losing control, the whole town was, and I wasn’t sure you were going to stop.
Me and you have always been there for each other, and it’s honestly weird not to have you here. But I also think it’s been good? Like we haven’t always led each other in the best direction? The shit we used to pull in Everton, I don’t do that anymore. And I don’t know if prison’s done anything good for you, but I hope so.
Anyway, like I told you a few letters ago, I moved to this small town called Asheville, in North Carolina, following that girl Becky out here. Things with her didn’t work, but I think I’m going to stay. I like this town. Reminds me of Everton. It’s like a second chance.
Be safe.
Love,
Vic
Callie gave the letter back to Miranda.
“He keeps writing you, telling you where he is,” Miranda said. “The Daughters can use that to find him.”
“I know,” Callie said. “But I don’t want him to stop.”
She was surprised by the plaintive tone in her voice. Surprised at how much receiving these monthly letters from Vic meant to her.
Even if she never wrote him back.
She liked Vic thinking she was suffering in prison. Liked his guilt. It fed something in her.
She stretched down, pushed her bare foot on the porch boards, swung the swing she and Miranda were sitting on.
Miranda pursed her lips. “He’s not safe. Especially with the Daughter you two cut up during the flood. They’re mad about her.”
Callie held Miranda’s hand. She tried not to think about that night, about that woman, about the way the memory of violence during the flood warmed her. “That was really just me.”
Miranda squeezed her hand and kissed her lightly, distantly, on the lips.
Looked away.
“You’re still worried, aren’t you?” Callie asked.
“About the Daughters?”
“About money.”
Miranda kept looking at something Callie couldn’t see. Something in the dusk, in the windless night and trees. “We’ll be okay. I’ll find another job. Just probably not something where I can work from home.”
“Flipping burgers?”
“It’s a bit different than web design, but sure. Maybe.”
“Or we rob your ex-wife’s cousin.”
“I never should have told you about that.”
Callie let go of Miranda’s hand and sat up straight. “But you did. And it’s so easy! And you never liked him anyway.”
“It’s dangerous,” Miranda said, solemnly. “He’s a violent, dangerous man.”
“So am I.” Callie let that warmth spread through her. “Well, a woman.”
“And I’ve never done anything like that.”
Callie gestured toward Vic’s letter, between them on the swing. “But I know someone who has. And now I know where to find him.”
It occurs to Callie, as she and Vic lower their ski masks outside the door to Sheldon’s condo, that she should have made sure Sheldon Duplass had cash on him. That worries her. Not enough to call off the robbery or tell Vic, but it does worry her.
But she’s too excited to care. This was how she always felt, back when she and Vic were robbing homes in Everton, or when she’d stabbed Ken Woods, or when she and Vic were teenagers and dragged their abusive father’s corpse through the house. That combination of adrenaline and fear makes her smile wide. The smile can’t be helped, so she’s always gone with it. Found that it relaxes her, gives her a peculiar happiness. Freaks the shit out of everyone else.
She’s good with that.
“You ready?” Vic whispers.
Callie nods.
He knocks on the door.
No answer.
Vic knocks again. Harder this time.
“That’s not the right door,” a voice behind them says.
They whip around, Callie turning so fast she hurts her neck.
It wouldn’t be fair to say Sheldon Duplass is standing in the doorway behind them. That would be like saying a bear fit inside of a hamster’s cage.
Sheldon Duplass overpowers the door, the condo behind him, the entire hallway.
Everything about him is huge: his bald head; the plain white T-shirt stretched over his protruding stomach, barely meeting his blue jeans; the way the gun looks tiny in his shoulder holster. But despite his size, there’s a springy wariness to him, a deftness in his gaze. Callie imagines he’d easily be able to sweep her up into his arms and dance with her down the hallway.
“You two looking for me?” he asks. A deeply Southern twinge lends a rhythmic lilt to his words.
“Depends,” Vic replies. “Are you Sheldon Duplass?”
“I am.”
“Then we are.”
Callie’s knife is tight in her hand. The ski mask is scratchy on her face. It’s been a long time since she’s worn one.
Sheldon sighs.
“Let’s not do this in the hallway.”
“Do what?” Vic asks.
Sheldon disappears inside his room. Vic and Callie exchange another look.
Some premonitory feeling screams at Callie not to walk inside. But she follows Vic.
The condo is small, not much bigger than a hotel room, but maybe that’s because Sheldon fills it. Callie doesn’t understand how he possibly sits on the narrow couch in the living room or uses the thin standing shower she spies through the open bathroom door.
The whole place smells of foul, dirty water.
“Why are you dressed?” Vic asks. “It’s four in the morning.”
She notices Vic’s gun is holstered. Not that it matters—he can have it unholstered and in his hand in a blur. He’d spent his childhood imitating old westerns on television, standing in the mirror, whipping out his gun.
She wonders if that kind of skill stays with you.
Hopes so.
“Don’t sleep,” Sheldon says, and she doesn’t know if Sheldon is answering
Vic’s question or passing on advice.
He sits on the couch and the springs groan underneath him.
“Anyway,” he growls, and glances at the knife still in Callie’s hand. “What do you want?”
“We want your money,” Callie says.
For the first time in a long time, she sounds uncertain.
She’s dealt with hard, cruel men before. But Sheldon seems like something beyond that.
She senses danger. Can smell something corrosive coming off his skin, his hands. The death scent.
“My money,” he repeats. “What makes you think I have any money?”
Callie isn’t sure how to answer that, but Vic responds. “We know what you’re doing, who you’re hiring. And we know you’re paying them cash.”
Sheldon looks at Vic and Callie slowly, a lion nonchalantly deciding which gazelle to sink his teeth into first.
“I’m not paying anyone shit until I have Timmy Milici’s head in my hands. No one.”
“Who?” Callie asks.
“You’re saying you have killers running up and down the East Coast,” Vic says, “just on the hopes of getting paid? I don’t buy it.”
“Those killers know I’m good for it. Because those killers know the Duplass name.”
That sense of unease in Callie grows.
“Doesn’t seem like the two of you do.”
“You’re telling us an awful lot,” Vic says. “How do you know we’re not feds?”
“Because I know the feds.”
A small pause from Sheldon.
“And if you were the feds, you wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“You have an answer for everything,” Callie says, trying to push back the trapped feeling.
“That’s right. I even have an answer for the question you won’t ask me.”
The knife aches in her hand. “What’s that?”
“Am I trying to rob the worst possible motherfucker?”
Neither Vic nor Callie say anything.
Her leg throbs.
Sheldon arches a knee, reaches into his crotch. Scratches himself. “Take off your masks.”
The Swamp Killers Page 8
