It wasn’t a chip of wood or a piece of plastic.
It was a human fingernail.
He couldn’t stop the gasp slipping through his gritted teeth. Tomás dipped forward and scooped up the fingernail, his mouth open wide. For one horrific moment Levi thought he was going to eat it. Then he dropped it in his pocket instead, a sharp burst of laughter coming from his mouth.
‘Ha! Thought I’d lost that one,’ he said, the words riding out on the back of the laugh.
‘He’s got a great collection,’ Henry called, his own voice tinged with amusement. ‘He likes to collect the whole set. You know, eight fingers and two thumbs. I keep telling him it’s a complete waste of his time when the poor bastards tell him what he wants to know after the first one. But he won’t listen, doesn’t matter how many times I say it.’
Levi’s mouth hung open as Henry talked like he was describing his son’s obsessive stamp collecting habit.
‘It’s not just fingernails either. He likes—’
‘Henry!’
Henry turned to look at Tomás, gave him an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry man, didn’t mean to spoil your surprise.’
‘Hold the rail,’ Tomás said to Levi, nodding at the rail above his head. ‘Beside the handcuff.’
Levi knew it was all over if they cuffed him. Tomás would ask his questions. He had no answers. Then Tomás would pull out his fingernails, one by one. Still he would have nothing to tell them.
Because his wife had been dead for the past five years.
And if she wasn’t, they knew more about it than he did.
‘Hold the rail,’ Tomás said again, an edge to his voice this time.
When Levi still didn’t move he flicked aside his coat and pulled out the gun Levi had seen when Tomás stood over him in his hallway. It was an all-black revolver, a Ruger GP100 double-action .357 Magnum. He put the end of the six-inch barrel against Levi’s kneecap.
‘You know what this’ll do to your knee?’
He cocked the hammer. In the quiet of the van it sounded as if someone dropped a concrete block on the roof.
‘Better get some music on,’ Henry called from the front. ‘It’s gonna get real noisy in the back there once Tomás gets to work.’
He leaned across and turned on the radio. Modern jazz blared discordantly out of the speakers making everyone jump.
‘Sorry,’ he said and mumbled something about he’d rather listen to a fat guy farting, fiddling with the dials until he found a Country and Western station he liked. He jacked up the volume until the sound of Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again filled the van.
Levi swallowed and raised his right hand slowly towards the rail. Tomás took the gun away from his knee, sat back against the other side of the van. As soon as Levi had hold of the rail, Tomás would make him use his left hand to cuff himself. He’d stay where he was, on the far side of the van. Out of reach of a kick or anything else Levi might think to try. Which was nothing, because Levi’s mind was a blank, a mental desert, undisturbed by any rational thought process.
His fingers closed around the cold metal rail as Willie stopped singing On the Road Again and Merle Haggard joined him in Pancho and Lefty. Henry cranked up the volume and started to sing along, beating time on the steering wheel.
Tomás kept his eyes on Levi’s hand. He gestured with the gun towards the handcuff swaying gently with the motion of the van.
‘Cuff yourself,’ he yelled over the music. ‘Slowly.’
Levi lifted his left arm, feeling like he was fighting his way through molasses in wintertime. Time was running out. His mind was still a blank. The music and Henry’s singing made him want to scream.
Then good old Evan Buckley came through for him.
The phone in Tomás’s pocket rang, the irritating ringtone that Levi never got around to changing cutting through the music and the tension in the air. Tomás dropped his eyes momentarily, his concentration slipping for a split-second.
It was a split-second more than Levi had a second ago. And it was all he was going to get. He clamped his left hand around the rail beside the right one. All those tedious hours in the gym finally paid off with something more than appreciative glances from the ladies in the bar afterwards, gave his muscles an adrenalin-fuelled surge of power. He pulled himself up, jack-knifing at the waist and powered his legs out straight.
Tomás wasn’t stupid. He was expecting something like it. He was ready, despite the momentary distraction of the phone still ringing in his pocket. He moved his head easily to the side, a satisfied smile on his lips.
Nice try.
But Levi wasn’t aiming at Tomás.
His legs snapped out like a couple of steam pistons, both feet crashing into the side of Henry’s head like a sledgehammer hitting a ripe pumpkin. The words to the song died on Henry’s lips as he cried out, his head jerking sideways into the window, hands flying off the steering wheel. The van lurched violently to the right. Tomás was thrown across the van, face first towards Levi. Levi dipped his head. Tomás’s face smacked into the top of it with a sickening thud.
Both men yelped, but Levi’s pain as Tomás’s front teeth dug into his scalp was nothing compared to the damage to Tomás’s face. Then Henry grabbed the wheel and wrenched it the other way. Tomás was thrown back across the van, his body slamming into the side. His gun slipped out of his hand, bouncing away towards the back of the van.
Levi drew his legs back again, his stomach muscles screaming from the exertion and the punch he’d taken. He jerked his body upwards, his head kissing the roof of the van. His legs exploded outwards a second time, the heels of his shoes mashing into Tomás’s mouth. He felt lips burst and teeth break as the back of Tomás’s head compacted against the side of the van. He dropped his feet to the floor as his stomach muscles gave way, landing hard, jarring his whole body.
Tomás slid slowly down the side of the van, a smear of blood streaking the metal sides, his eyes rolled back in his head. Levi didn’t give a damn if he’d killed him.
Henry stomped hard on the brakes. The van nose-dived. Levi was taken by surprise, his fingers ripped away from the rail as he was thrown forward. His shoulder hit the back of Henry’s head and bounced off. The impact catapulted Henry forward as if the van had been rear-ended by a truck. His forehead hit the windshield, the momentum of his big head cracking it top to bottom.
Levi pushed himself to his knees as Henry shook his head, gobs of blood flicking from his ear where Levi’s kick had cut him. His hand disappeared inside his jacket and came out with a gun big enough to drop a buffalo. Unlike Tomás’s Ruger GP100 this one was a monster—a Freedom Arms 454 with a ten-inch barrel.
Henry was woozy from the double impacts on his head, his vision going in and out of focus. But Levi was still a big target in the tight confines of the back of the van. There wasn’t time to look for Tomás’s gun. Levi got his legs under him and launched himself through the air at Henry’s gun arm.
A ten-inch barrel on a gun looks impressive and scares the everloving shit out of anyone it’s pointed at, but it has its downsides. Especially when you’re trying to turn around and shoot between the seats in a van. Those additional inches gave Levi the extra split-second he needed.
There was an ear-splitting roar as Henry got off a single shot, the recoil kicking his hand up into the roof, the noise insanely loud. The shock waves bulged out the sides of the van, bursting Levi’s head until he felt like a jihadi car bomber who just pressed the red button. He felt a cold rush of air and a sharp stab of pain as the bullet nicked the top of his ear, then punched a hole through the rear door.
In the aftermath of the gunshot, everything was eerily quiet. In the echoing silence Levi felt as if he was watching his body from above as it sailed noiselessly through the settling air on a collision course with the massive gun as Henry’s arm dropped for a second shot, his finger already tightening on the trigger.
With an impact like two meteorites colliding, every
thing came together at once. The full weight of Levi’s body hit Henry’s outstretched arm as he squeezed off the second shot. The gun roared again as the impact pushed his arm downwards between the front seats and sideways. The weight and crazy angle dislocated his shoulder instantly, the bullet ripping through the side of the van as the gun slipped from his fingers. Levi saw the pain in Henry’s eyes, his mouth open in a silent howl, hearing nothing as his eardrums refused to process anything beyond the booming of the gunshots.
He snatched the gun up by its barrel, his palm slick on the polished metal. Then, in case anyone should ever doubt it, fate proved once more that life is a zero-sum game. The disadvantage Henry suffered from the gun’s excessive length while wielding it in the cramped front seat became a huge bonus for Levi. The length lent extra leverage to his swing as Levi clubbed Henry viciously with the butt, all the pain and fear of the ride in the nightmare van flowing into that single hammer blow. Henry’s head was hard, but everything has its limits. He grunted loudly and slumped forward over the steering wheel, the horn blaring as he leaned into it, blood rising up and spilling out from the ugly gash on his head.
The raucous wail of the horn melded with the music at full-blast on the radio as Levi’s hearing returned, disorientating him. Not caring if he’d loved and lost again, he leaned past Henry and smashed the butt of the gun repeatedly into the radio until Willie Nelson’s voice finally disappeared in a hiss of static.
Feeling as if his head was about to explode, Levi turned back towards Tomás, still out cold—dying if Levi’s prayers were answered. He slid open the side door, sucked in the cool, fresh night air and rolled Tomás out with his foot, then jumped down after him. Tomás lay on his front, his bloody face twisted to the side on the asphalt. Levi flipped him over and fished his phone out of Tomás’s pocket, dropped it in his own.
Thank you, Evan Buckley.
He ran around to the driver’s door and yanked it open. Henry groaned and tried to lift himself off the steering wheel, then fell halfway out on top of Levi, the blaring horn stopping abruptly, mercifully. In the sudden, all-embracing quiet, Levi forced himself to relax, to breathe, then pulled at Henry’s dead weight, wrestling his legs from under the wheel, hauling him all the way out. Henry hit the pavement hard and Levi left him lying there in the middle of the road. Henry was dressed all in black. With any luck the next vehicle to come along would be a nice big truck with the driver too busy picking his nose or finding something to listen to on the radio to see the lump lying in the road.
Time to get the hell out of here, put as many miles as possible between him and the two bodies, before the adrenalin let-down he already felt growing kicked in with a vengeance and his limbs turned to quivering mush. He climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands slipping on Henry’s blood on the wheel as he made a fast U-turn and headed back into town.
Buckley didn’t know it yet, but the job was back on.
Chapter 7
‘ADAMSON’S AWAKE,’ Evan repeated dumbly.
Guillory nodded.
‘We’re going to need to talk to you again about it.’
‘We are talking.’
‘Officially. That generally means no alcohol involved. Talking of which’—she lifted the empty beer bottle she’d put on Gina’s face and waggled it—‘it’s your round.’
She waited while he hopped to it and did as he was told. He could be a good boy sometimes if she was firm enough with him.
‘All we have on Adamson is the story Hendricks gave you. That it was all Adamson’s fault, nothing to do with him.’
‘Apart from the fact that the burial chamber was in Hendricks’ house. That’s kind of difficult to get out of if you’re Hendricks.’
‘Anyway, I’m just giving you the heads up. We’ll need to talk to you. I don’t know where it’ll go from there.’
Back then, Evan didn’t know either. One thing was for sure—he’d never have imagined how it would pan out. Right then, sitting drinking beer in the Jerusalem with Guillory, it was just another unwanted reminder of things he didn’t know if he wanted to forget or not.
But it was more than that. And they both knew it.
It was an itch. One that would need to be scratched. Soon.
‘When do you think you’ll go see him?’ she said, trying hard to keep the laughter out of her voice.
‘Who says I’m going to?’
‘Me.’
There aren’t many words that short that can convey such irrefutable truth, but that was one of them. He acknowledged it with a nod, then got out his Zippo lighter. She took it out of his hand and put it in her pocket. It was like his first day at school and the teacher had taken away his favorite teddy.
‘You’ll get it back when we leave,’ schoolmarm Guillory said primly.
‘You think Adamson will talk to me?’
She pulled at her bottom lip as she considered the question, shrugged.
‘He might. But I don’t suppose he’ll confirm that BS story Floyd Gray fed you.’
He jerked upright like he’d sat on a hot coal and gave her a pained look.
‘You think it’s bullshit?’
‘What? Sarah running around with a bunch of drug dealers and nearly getting executed at the side of the road? Even Floyd said it was. And you’ve only got his word that it was Adamson who had the lighter. It could’ve been him and Adamson was a handy fall guy seeing as Hendricks put him in a coma. You don’t even know if this’—she patted the Zippo in her pocket—‘belonged to Sarah in the first place.’
There was a kind of mental shake of the head in her voice, a gesture of disbelief at his gullibility and desperation.
His mouth was half open to protest when they were saved from getting into another argument by his phone ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. He didn’t recognize the number. He answered it anyway.
‘Hello?’
Nothing. Silence. Then a series of strange noises. A sharp yelp of pain followed by a loud crash as if the phone on the other end had been dropped. He looked at the display again. He was still connected. Then another sound like a metal door being slammed shut.
‘Hello?’ he said again, a lot louder this time.
Nothing again. Then the line went dead. He dropped the phone in his pocket.
‘Who was that?’ Guillory said.
‘No idea. They didn’t say anything. It sounded like somebody butt dialled me in the middle of a fight.’
‘Your new ex-client maybe?’
‘Could be. He didn’t give me his number.’
‘Aren’t you going to call him back?’
He shook his head. If it was Levi and it was important, he’d call back. Most likely he tried to call and tripped, not looking where he was going. Or bumped into somebody. He probably wanted his photo back so he could persuade some other poor schmuck to go on a wild goose chase for him. Getting fired by him had been a good result, the guy was nothing but trouble.
Guillory slid off her stool, smoothed down the front of her pants. He thought about asking if she needed any help with the back. Her blouse looked a little crumpled too.
‘I’m going to the bathroom. Call him while I’m gone.’
Yes, marm, he mouthed as he watched her walk purposefully across the room in the mirror behind the bar. A guy a couple seats down—one of the pair who’d shown such an interest when she grabbed his leg to look at his tattoo—looked straight at him via the glass. He raised an eyebrow. Evan shrugged and looked away, wondering why he hadn’t asked her to go with him on the trip to upstate New York. He picked up the soggy news cutting and crumpled it into a ball, then squeezed it into the neck of an empty beer bottle. Somewhere behind him a woman laughed, low and boozy with the promise of sex in it. It sounded exactly like Guillory’s.
A minute later she slid back onto the stool next to him. She saw the newspaper cutting in the beer bottle, didn’t say anything.
‘I notice you didn’t refresh your lipstick, or whatever t
he phrase is,’ he said.
She gave him a big smile, the sort that proved she didn’t need any, the sort that made him wish he could turn back the clock.
‘You can’t refresh something that wasn’t there in the first place, dummy. Have you called him back yet?’
He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a big rush of air, rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. It wasn’t worth arguing. He wouldn’t get any peace until he did what she wanted. He got his phone out again and called the last number. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.
‘Happy now?’
She shrugged.
‘It’s your client. Ex-client. It might have been important.’
‘A matter of life and death perhaps.’ He’d never know how true his words were. ‘Besides, I don’t need the business that badly. Not after the bonus I got from the last job.’
She gave him another big smile and started to root around in her bag.
‘I’d forgotten about that. C’mon, let’s go.’
They both slid off their stools as one. The guy a couple of seats along the bar winked at Evan in the mirror. Evan winked back. Dickhead.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’re buying me dinner. Unless you’ve got a date with . . .’
He took hold of her elbow and steered her swiftly towards the door as she finally found the lipstick in her bag.
After all the fuss he’d made, he hoped he liked the color.
Chapter 8
EVAN TOOK THE LESS rickety chair at the far end of the scarred wooden table, the end furthest from the door. He looked around the cramped room which had all the ambience of a public urinal. The institutional green of the walls was chipped and scuffed. One of the two fluorescent ceiling tubes buzzed irritatingly, flickering intermittently. It didn’t seem to worry the two fat blow flies chasing each other around it. A woman’s face appeared briefly in the small reinforced window set into the door a second before she pushed it open. Jack Adamson stood to the side and behind her in his baby-blue hospital scrubs, supporting himself on two hospital-issue sticks.
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