The apartment was tiny and he didn’t bother with the lights, didn’t need them. He walked through into the bedroom, wondered if she’d been here already and then gone. It was small and shabby like the rest of the place but Sherry kept it meticulously neat. Nothing was out of place except for Sherry herself. She wasn’t there.
He’d fucked up, maybe beyond all hope of recovery. He’d let all the pent-up fear and adrenaline drive him mindlessly into that bitch Janine. He didn’t feel guilty at his betrayal of Sherry, just stupid. She was the one person in the world who tried to understand him, was fucking dumb enough to love him, would have believed and then backed up any goddamn lie he came up with.
He went to the window, leaned his forehead against the cold glass, felt the chill of it wash though him. He stayed like that for a long time, tried to slow his breathing long enough to bring himself back to who he really was, back across the gulf separating him now from who and where and what he’d been only hours before.
It wasn’t working. He left the apartment, took Sherry’s car keys on the way out. He wanted to hurry but he couldn’t. Everything hurt, and it felt like some ribs were broken. Not much you could do about busted ribs, but he would have to do something about Hendricks and Nason, and do it soon. He’d made a mistake but they’d made a couple of mistakes themselves, big ones. Their first mistake was that they’d underestimated him.
The second was that they’d left him alive.
33
Elway wasn’t sure what he’d heard. He lay still for a moment, listening, but he didn’t hear anything else. Sherry stirred in her sleep and he felt her bare breast brush against his arm. He thought of just rolling her over onto her back and sliding slowly inside her. He was hard all over again, and he still couldn’t believe what had happened. It was the one thing he had told himself not to do.
None of that mattered now, and it hadn’t mattered when Sherry had turned those emerald eyes on him and led him upstairs to Kenny’s bed. It was a revenge fuck for both of them, hard and angry and relentless, no thought of consequences or anything else.
All the time inside and the years before had taught him to trust the feelings he got, to never ignore them or brush them away. That trust had saved his ass more than once, and he was already moving up and out of the bed, pulling on pants and a shirt, fumbling for shoes, doing all of it so quickly and quietly Sherry didn’t stir at all. No wonder, he thought – afterward she’d gone downstairs and come back up with a bottle of vodka, a couple of glasses, and some kind of soda. He’d hardly touched it, wanted to go again, but she drank it like she was trying to knock herself out. She probably was.
He thought of waking her, but then realized that if the sound had come from Langdon she was better off where she was – in Kenny’s bed. That was the way she’d wanted it. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe she’d set it up that way, that she wanted Kenny to come back and find them both there.
All he had to do was get out of the room, get across to the other bedroom, the one he was supposed to be in. The door was partly ajar and he moved slowly to where he could look out, half expecting to see Langdon coming up the stairs. He could see down the stairwell, almost as far as the hallway that led into the kitchen. Still no sign of Langdon or anyone else, but that wasn’t good enough to be sure.
He stepped out into the tiny upstairs hallway and listened again. Still nothing, but the feeling didn’t go away. He looked back over his shoulder, went through his options and then went back into the bedroom. He knew where Kenny kept the .45, had made a point of looking for hidden weapons the first time he’d ever been left alone in the place. There were two AKs and a shotgun downstairs, far out of reach. Stupid way to keep them, he’d thought at the time, all in the same place. Better to spread them around so at least one was close by no matter where you were, but if he’d pointed that out to Kenny all it would have accomplished would be to prove he’d been poking around.
Sherry was still asleep. Elway didn’t like having his back to the door but he figured if Kenny walked in he could just say he heard something, had come into the room looking for a weapon.
• • •
Kenny could see the Camaro sitting in his driveway. He pulled in behind it, made sure he took up enough space to block her from pulling out again. She kept a lot of her stuff at his place and she was probably packing it up – she’d done that before when she was pissed off at him, and he’d always been able to talk or fuck his way out of it. This time he wasn’t so sure, and maybe this would be the time he’d just call her bluff, let her go.
He got out of Sherry’s car, checked the Camaro on his way up the driveway. It didn’t look like she’d hit anything with it – she couldn’t drive for shit – and as far as he could tell she hadn’t gouged it with a key. That was something, anyway. Maybe she was saving that for the grand finale.
He went up the front steps, opened the door, and nearly ran head-on into Elway. Sherry always had spare keys for the Camaro and the house and he’d held on to the irrational hope that she’d just taken off on her own, stormed out of the bar without looking back.
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs, crashed out. What’s going on?”
He didn’t bother to answer, just brushed by Elway on the way up.
Langdon thought he could smell the sex as soon as he walked into the room. He stared at her for a moment, in spite of the rage building inside him thinking how beautiful she was, the bed sheets spilling carelessly low across her flat belly, the perfect mounds of her breasts luxuriantly rising and falling as she breathed. Her lips were slightly parted, mocking him. She was either asleep or pretending she was, and he stifled a sudden urge to slap her awake, see how genuine the fucking pose was.
He turned sidelong so he could keep an eye on the door, edged quietly to the dresser and slid the drawer open. He fumbled inside for the old Colt automatic and took it out. He always kept it cocked and locked so he wouldn’t telegraph himself with the noise of racking the slide, the way countless idiots did in the movies. If Elway was listening downstairs he didn’t need to know he had a gun until he killed him with it.
He thought of doing that now, taking the gun downstairs and blowing Elway’s brains out. There was still a sliver of rational thought scrabbling for grip in his mind, and it told him he could be wrong, that maybe nothing had happened.
Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, he thought. He looked down at Sherry, thought of what he could lose. Maybe he’d lost it already, but he couldn’t be sure of anything except that for the last few months he’d been falling apart, like he was living inside someone else. Everything he’d assumed was wrong, and maybe he was wrong now. Maybe Nesbitt’s death had nothing to do with him and everything he had done to hide it had been useless, unnecessary.
He thought of Nason’s grip on his neck, how one more ounce of sudden pressure could have finished him. That had been deliberate, a warning. If Nason had wanted to kill him he could have. For the first time in his life Kenny had allowed himself to be humiliated–first by the beating and maybe now in the worst way possible, by Elway and Sherry. It had all happened at once and it was too much.
He had to get himself back, get back to being Kenny Langdon, the man everybody was afraid of. He’d have to play dumb, ignore the betrayal, fight down the rage. He and Elway both played by the same rules – if you thought something bad was going to happen you made sure you were the one who made it happen first. If Elway figured he knew what had happened with Sherry he’d be on him fast, no warning.
He’d go back down the stairs and act like an oblivious asshole for as long as it took, long enough to convince Elway that he didn’t know a fucking thing. He still had Hendricks and Nason to deal with, and killing Elway first would be beyond stupid. Kenny looked down at the gun in his hand, then walked back to the dresser. He put the gun away, slid the drawer closed.
For now.
34
Karl Jamieson stoppe
d the car and looked over at Saunders’ place. He hadn’t been in there in a while, always felt vaguely out of place and uncomfortable. That usually led to him drinking a little too much and then wondering the next day if he’d said or done the wrong thing or been seen by the wrong people. That was something the managing editor of a newspaper couldn’t risk, even if the paper was just a struggling weekly with a declining circulation. There were a lot of recent journalism graduates out there who would work for even less money than he did. The grossly exaggerated title of ‘Managing Editor’ would be inducement enough, and the flinty-eyed bastards who owned his paper and a stable of around a dozen others in the state didn’t care what Jamieson or anyone else decided to call themselves.
He’d originally looked at the events a few months ago as a career story, maybe even his ticket out of Strothwood. So far that hadn’t happened, and it didn’t look like it ever would. Nobody was talking. It was clear Ed Cunningham and Brent Williams wanted the whole ugly Wellner episode to just go away.
As far as Karl could tell everybody did. Jimmy Nesbitt’s parents weren’t answering the phone or their door. Neither was Stallings, and even Karl knew better than to disturb Adrienne Simmonds’ vigil by her daughter’s bedside. He’d done that once, early on, and the result had been a furious phone call to the newspaper’s owners and the threat of legal action.
That left him with next to nothing to work with. The Nesbitt kid had been a fixture at Saunders’ bar and maybe he could get some background on him, but that would be too little and too late. All it really meant was that it gave him an excuse if someone saw him drinking in public. This time of day the place was usually empty anyway.
He was surprised when the front door to the bar opened and Frank Stallings came out. For an absurd instant Karl felt like ducking down behind the wheel. Then he fought off the impulse, opened his car door and got out. He knew Frank didn’t like him, had never liked him. He couldn’t understand why, had always told himself it was a cop’s natural aversion to journalists. What the hell, Karl thought. He took a deep breath and got out of the car, started walking. Frank was still standing on the top step of the entrance, and a frown crossed his face when he saw Karl approaching.
Karl managed to hide his surprise at how bad Frank looked. He’d lost a lot of weight and it didn’t look like he’d bothered to shave in the last few days, Maybe he’s been in there drinking, Karl thought.
“Hi Frank.”
“Karl,” Frank just nodded.
There was a wariness there, and even Karl could understand it. He’d just encountered Strothwood’s former police chief walking out of a bar in the afternoon. It couldn’t be official business, not any more. Karl came up the steps, fashioned a disarming smile.
“I’ve been trying to reach you, Frank.”
Frank nodded absently. He didn’t look right. His eyes seemed opaque, glazed, and Karl thought for a moment that maybe he’d been dumb enough to have a few.
“You okay, Frank?”
“I’m fine.”
Before Karl could say anything else Frank went down the steps, walked away.
Karl opened the door to the bar, went inside. The door was heavy, all glass, and Karl turned when he got inside, looked out in time to see Frank climb awkwardly into the truck. He just sat hunched over the wheel for a moment, his head almost resting on the steering wheel. Then he straightened up. A moment later Karl heard the muffled sound of the engine starting up.
“What can I do for you, Karl?”
Karl turned around, startled. Ted Saunders was standing only a few feet away.
“Is Frank all right?”
“He isn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean. He had one beer.”
“That isn’t what I meant. He doesn’t look good.”
“No shit.”
“He shouldn’t be driving.”
Saunders grinned.
“Why don’t you run right out there and tell him that?”
35
Elway figured Kenny was losing it. He was jumpy, pacing around the farmhouse, wouldn’t hold still.
“You’re pushing your luck, Kenny,” he told him, “leave it alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid. A few days ago you were all bent out of shape because you thought if they found the car they’d come after you. Then they do find the car and nobody comes after you – and you’re still bouncing around. What the fuck’s the matter with you? You got a free pass. Now leave it the hell alone.”
“Can’t do that,” Kenny said again, “this has gone too far already.”
“What has?”
“I’m just sick of seeing them around here, that’s all.”
They were waiting for a phone call, a heads-up that the two assholes Kenny was so worked up about were back in Saunders’ place. Then they’d go over to the bar and wait outside for another call that would signal they were leaving. As usual Kenny was trying to make it look like he had some kind of organization, eyes everywhere, that kind of bullshit. Sherry was working that night, so Elway figured the call would either come from her or maybe from one of Kenny’s scruffy pilot fish. Kenny was vague on what was supposed to happen after that, and he was vague about why he was suddenly in a hurry to check them out. Vague didn’t work with Elway, and neither did Kenny’s assumption that somehow Elway had become Kenny’s employee, some kind of half-assed sidekick.
As far as Elway could tell Kenny didn’t have a clue about what had happened with Sherry and Elway had no intention of telling him. Kenny still represented the only hope he had of making some money, and all Elway could do was keep his mouth shut. Sherry had evidently decided the same thing, maybe out of guilt or maybe because she was afraid of what Kenny would do to her if he found out.
There was something else going on, but Elway wasn’t sure what it was. Once in a while Kenny would grimace as if he was in some kind of pain, and as hyper as he was his movements were jerky and awkward.
Kenny abruptly broke off the pacing, left the room. Elway heard the hallway door open and then Kenny’s footsteps on the basement stairs. He could hear Kenny move around down there, then come back up only a few seconds later.
Elway didn’t like it when he saw the old vinyl gym bag Kenny was carrying. It looked like it had some weight to it. Kenny walked into the living room and dropped backwards into an old easy chair, set the bag down between his feet.
“What’s in the bag, Kenny?”
Kenny just gave him a lopsided grin, leaned over and unzipped the bag, reached in. Elway wasn’t that surprised when he saw what came out. Kenny held up two semiautomatic pistols, a Glock and a Sig Sauer. He was way too casual about it.
“Just in case,” Kenny said.
He was looking at Elway expectantly, as if Elway was supposed to be impressed. He wasn’t, and Kenny’s smartass grin faded away.
“What?”
“We haven’t talked about this, Kenny.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to talk about.”
“The guns come out the price goes up, Kenny. That’s how it works. You wanted me up here, so I’m here – but if you think I’m gonna get mixed up in this kind of shit,” Elway gestured toward the guns, “you’re out of your fuckin’ mind. Not for what you’ve given me so far.”
Kenny had just sat there and taken it, a slight smile on his face, nodding once in a while as if yes, he agreed with everything Elway was saying but was just waiting politely for him to finish.
“Way ahead of you, man.”
Kenny dipped into the bag again, came up with a roll of bills secured by an elastic band, tossed it over. Elway caught it with his left hand, looked back at him.
“Two thousand,” Kenny said, “call it an advance, a down payment, whatever you want.”
Kenny was looking at him as if he was supposed to be doing handstands or something.
“A down payment on what?” Elway asked. It was a lot of money, a good start, but Kenny had a bad habit of jumping
to conclusions, “if you think I’m gonna shoot somebody for this, you’re wrong.”
“I know that. I just want to talk to these guys, find out what the hell they’re doing here. I just need some backup, that’s all.”
Sure, Elway thought.
36
It had turned into a bad night, and Billy Dancer was cold. He’d fallen asleep in the afternoon and the fire had burned down, and when he woke up he was shivering. The old frame house had oil heat and an ancient furnace, but that cost a lot to run so most of the time he used the old woodstove. There was still enough first and second growth forest on the land they’d left him that he could take the wood he needed when he needed it, stack it in the back until it dried up enough to burn. He thought there was a lot of it, enough for a long time, and he liked the way it felt to cut and split his own wood, liked the warmth it gave him when he burned it in the old stove, the kind of heat that soaked into every nook and corner of the old house. He needed to do that now, get some wood from outside before it got any colder.
Before his aunt and uncle had found him again Billy had lived rough for a long time, and most of that time he’d been either cold or wet or both. Now he liked it when it was cold outside and he could go inside the house and build a fire in the stove and just sit there and watch the flicker and dance of the flames, feel the warmth seeping all around and into him, knowing he could fall asleep right there and not worry where or how or if he was going to wake up. Billy Dancer thought that was the best feeling he’d ever had or ever would.
He didn’t have much money, just what his aunt and uncle had left to him, and they’d made sure that he didn’t get it all at once. He knew it was because they’d wanted to take care of him, that it was for his own good. Billy was slow about most things and he knew it, knew that they weren’t rich people but that they’d put away what they could, year after year, so that he could stay in the house after they were gone. It meant that once a week he had to go into town, go into the bank, endure all the strange, awed looks. Billy was a big, big man, well over six-five and close to three hundred pounds, with shaggy black hair and an unkempt, tangled beard starting to show patches of grey. He was in his forties now, although he knew he was very young in his mind.
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