He opened the door to the entryway, then yanked the guy in and flung him at the wall. He didn’t have time to get his arms up, and hit hard. Staggered back, dazed, that sheep look, like if he blinked enough the badness would go away.
“Open the door,” Jack said.
The man coughed, straightened slowly. “Who are-”
Jack slapped him openhanded, whack, right across the cheek. Same thing he’d done to the Star, and with the same reaction. Fear and helplessness crept into Tom Reed’s eyes. Fear and helplessness were good. They were loud emotions, static that interfered with thinking. The stupidest thing this guy could do was to open the door and let himself be taken into a private space, away from prying eyes. What he ought to do was run for the street, yelling his lungs out. But fear and helplessness kept him from thinking properly. “Open the door.”
The guy nodded, reached into his bag, and came out with a ring of keys. He turned and inserted one into the door to the stairs.
“Not that one. The other door.”
“What?”
Jack pulled his chrome.45, let it dangle at the end of his arm. Tom Reed’s eyes widened, and he said, “Look, take my wallet.”
“Open the other door, Tom.”
For a moment, the guy just stood there, finally catching on. Then he stepped sideways and unlocked the door to Will Tuttle’s apartment.
“Inside.”
Jack followed, waited until they were in the living room and the door was closed behind them. Then he drove the butt of the pistol into the guy’s right kidney.
Tom Reed collapsed like every muscle had failed at once. He hit the floor fetal, clutching at his side and his belly and wheezing a thin animal sound. His legs spasmed like a frog’s. Jack turned to snap the dead bolt shut. He stood for a moment, watching the man writhe, and then he said, “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
HE COULDN’T MOVE, couldn’t think. A dark sun burned in his back, spitting lances of flame, gobs of lava that burned and sizzled. Tom fought to breathe, just to breathe, the world wobbly and wet before his eyes. He could see the pattern of the hardwood floor, smell the earthy dirt of a thousand footprints. From somewhere came a crisp metallic snap. The lock being twisted. It was the scariest sound he had ever heard.
“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
Tom grunted, gasped. The voice was above him. The man from the Sedgwick platform. Big, not fat. With a gun. A guy who knew his name. He tried to force his thoughts into order.
The man said, “We haven’t met, but I feel like I know you, Tom. Amazing, the things you can learn about somebody by going through their mail.” Paper fluttered down. White paper, with something printed on it. “You know what that is? It’s a Visa receipt. The kind they send when you make a remote deposit. It says you paid down fifteen grand in debt last week. Fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents, to be exact.”
Their mail. He’d noticed it was empty the day prior, and Anna had mentioned something about it as well. They’d assumed it was a new carrier, just a typical post office glitch. Now he understood. This man had been stalking them for days.
“What kind of a person can pay fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents at once?” A boot nudged him. Tom pulled away from it. The motion made the world spin, but at least the level of pain seemed to have stabilized. He found he could draw air. He gulped it, trying to clear his head.
“I’ll tell you, it would take a real asshole. We’re talking grade-A stupid here, the kind of person who had everything handed to them their whole life and thought they deserved it. The kind who could find four hundred grand and think he gets to keep it.”
Tom put a hand on floor, tested it. The shift spilled boiling oil down his spine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, half-expecting to get beat back down. But he couldn’t just lie there.
“You think that’s the way the world works?” The voice nearer, coffee breath in Tom’s face. He blinked until he could focus, see the man bending down, the gun still in his hand. It was a big chrome thing, heavy. “You think four hundred grand lands in your lap and you get to keep it? Do you?”
Tom coughed, straightened his back. Tried to imagine lunging into the man, throwing him against the door, wrestling the gun from his hand. Tried, but couldn’t make himself believe it.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you bedtime stories, for Christ’s sake? You find a chest of gold, you better know there’s a monster guarding it. That’s the way the world works. You want something, you have to take it from someone like me.” He swung the gun up fast, leveled the barrel so that Tom could stare down into the darkness. It looked enormous. His body throbbed and his head ached. The man said, “Do you think you can do that?”
Tom forced his gaze upward, away from the gun. The guy looked Polish, had that wide pork chop face and dark hair. The thought led to another, and he scrambled for it. A name. Jack Witkowski. The man in the suit had asked if Tom knew a Jack Witkowski.
“Well?”
Tom forced himself to look Jack in the eye. Slowly he shook his head.
The man smiled. “Good.” He holstered the pistol, then held out his right hand. Tom took it, clambered to his feet. Nausea swept through him, making his whole body tremble, but he forced himself to stand straight.
“Now,” Jack said, “where’s my money?”
An hour ago, he’d have answered differently. He’d have hedged or tried to lie. Pretended ignorance. Now, though, he was suddenlyand profoundly aware of two simple facts. First, he was in shit deeper than he’d ever imagined. Second, Anna would be home soon. “It’s in the basement.”
“Show me.”
Tom pictured it, concrete ceilings and walls, a solitary window at the far end, the dingy light of a single overhead bulb carving a slow attenuation to shadow. He imagined a body facedown on that dirty floor, a camera panning out on a slow tide of blood flowing from what was left of his head. An image borrowed from a Scorsese film, only it would be his body, his blood. Then he thought, again, of Anna. “This way.”
“You go first. Carefully.”
It took enormous effort, but Tom forced himself to turn his back on the man and the gun. His wounded kidney sang with pain. He took one step and then another, eyes darting. The pattern of the wood grain, the smell of his own sweat, the dings and cuts in the molding, every little thing seemed to hold enormous portent, and yet there were so many of them, the world so very present that he couldn’t possibly sort through it.
The back stairs smelled faintly of trash. He started down, the wood squeaking and groaning with every step. There were cobwebs in the corners, and scraps from where a garbage bag had split a year ago. His mind like it was watching from a distance. He watched himself fumble to turn on the light, dusty yellow like faded lace. Saw himself walk to the back, past the washer and dryer, past the furnace, to the plywood hatch that covered the crawl space. He turned to look back at the man following him.
Looking at Jack snatched away that comfortable distance. Put him back in his body. Tom stared at the broad shoulders and ready posture, the pistol out and steady. Jack looked like a man at ease, a man who did this for a living. Tom said, “My wife and I, we’re trying to have a-”
“Don’t.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s my money?”
Tom swallowed, acid ringing in his nostrils and the back of his throat. “In there.” Pointing to the crawl space. “In a duffel bag.”
“Get it.”
He took a breath. Maybe once he gave up the money, this would all be over. Jack Witkowski would take what was his and leave them alone. They could go back to their old life, to bills and work hassles and making dinner and watching reruns, all the silly moments that took up a day, took up a life. Every precious thing they had thought they wanted to get clear of.