Tom stepped forward, gripped the edges of the plywood panel, lifted it up and off, then set it against the wall. A musty smell rose from the darkness. He squatted and reached in. His hand fumbled for the strap of the bag. Nothing. He started patting around in the crawl space, hand clanging against the metal of pipes, triggering spills of dust. He leaned in to the shoulder, felt in both directions, thinking maybe they had just tucked it farther than he remembered. Nothing.
Tom ducked down to peer into the dim space. As his eyes adjusted, he saw chalky piles of dust, abandoned spiderwebs, the faint, slick darkness of the pipes. But no duffel bag. It simply wasn’t there. He stared, trying to understand.
The burglary, he thought. But then, no – after the cops had left, the first thing he and Anna had done was come down to the basement to check on the money.
Everything stood still. Tom crouched on the ground with his head in the crawl space like a child hiding. Some part of him praying that by not seeing the threat behind him, he would make it somehow go away.
Then Jack said, “Lay down and stretch your arm out.”
JACK WATCHED the man stiffen. Idiot civilian. Most guys, a solid kidney blow taught every needed lesson. But not this stupid son of a bitch. He still felt entitled.
The click of the hammer cocking back was loud in the confined space.
“No, wait, please!” Tom Reed spun on his knees, hands in front of his face. He looked desperate, had that animal panic, all darting eyes. “It was here. I swear, it was here.”
“Lay down,” Jack said, “and stretch out your arm.”
“We got robbed,” Tom blurted. “Earlier this week. They didn’t find the money then, but they must have come back. They must have realized they’d forgotten the basement. We didn’t notice because they didn’t go into either of the units, but they must have come here and-”
“Tom.” Jack spoke slowly. “Who do you think broke into your house?” He shook his head. “You want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Now lay the fuck down.”
For a long moment, the man just stared at him, the blood draining out of his face, a thousand horrors flowing in to replace it. Nothing was scarier than the monster you conjured in your own head. He started to argue, but Jack moved the pistol from his face to his stomach. “Now.”
Slowly Tom Reed lay down on the dirty floor. He unfolded his knees from beneath him, then eased himself back onto his elbows. Held the position for a second, then rocked onto his back. He extended his arm. His eyes were on the ceiling, but seemed like they saw through it.
Jack eased the hammer down on the 1911, but kept it on Tom Reed’s stomach. He put the ball of his size-twelves on the guy’s arm, just past the elbow. Leaned in hard. The guy’s lips were moving without sound, something rhythmic and steady, a prayer, maybe, or a promise. The old tightness came back, exhilaration and fear and a surge of power, of living on the thin edge of life, where the world was made minute by minute. He let the moment stretch, let the man’s fear thicken and curdle.
Finally he said, “Tom, where’s my money?”
The guy twisted his head sideways. His skin looked clammy. His eyes were all pupil. He said, “I swear to God. It was in there.”
Jack shook his head. Leveled the pistol just in case. Then he lifted his right foot, the heel of the dress shoe angled down.
DON’T BE AFRAID, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, oh God, what’s he doing, why is he, his leg, why is he, oh God, is he, he can’t, oh God, don’t be afraid, don’tbeafraid, dontbeafraid,dontbea –
The man slammed his foot down, and Tom’s world exploded. “We put it in the crawl space, we put it in the crawl space, I swear to Christ, we put it right there!” Screaming the words to fight the agony.
Jack lifted his foot again, and Tom sucked in a deep breath.
He yanked against the shoe holding him in place, saw the finger tighten on the trigger of the gun, forced himself to stop.
The second time he noticed the sound, just as bad as the pain, a meaty horror with a slick-sick backslide as his knuckles ground concrete. A crack, like breaking a twig, and his little finger was twisted all the way over. He looked at it and felt something heave in him, fought not to vomit, the pain, the pain, the burning shrieking jagged-glass ragged-edged pain.
“Where is it?”
“We put it in the crawl space!”
The third stomp caught the edge of his wedding ring, the stainless steel band they’d picked out at a jeweler’s off Michigan Avenue, caught it and deflected most of the force, but it was enough, enough, more than enough. Tom stared and fought against the black spots in his vision, thinking of his ring, his ring, his wife, his sweet ring and wife, Jesus, Anna, she would be home soon.
“I swear to fucking Christ,” screaming, bellowing, eyes bugging, “we found the money in his kitchen, in the flour and the sugar and we put it in a duffel bag and took it down here, just my wife and me, and we haven’t fucking moved it, I swear, I fucking swear. I don’t know where it is, no matter how much you hurt me, I fucking do not know, because we put it in the crawl space.”
The man raised his foot again. Narrowed his eyes and paused. He was looking down, and Tom put it all in his eyes how he’d never been more sincere in his life, never. To make Jack believe. To keep that foot from coming down again. Heartbeats lasted decades; just the cool of the concrete, and the smell of blood and dust and bleach, and the inferno that was his hand.
Then Jack lowered his foot. Slowly. He took his other off Tom’s arm, and dropped to a squat. Held the gun loose and casual, and Tom considered going for it, but the mere thought of moving his fingers made him almost vomit. Jack stared, hard features hollowed by the overhead light, eyes more suggestions than anatomy. Finally he said, “Huh,” and stood up, stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair.
Free to move, Tom rolled over on his side, cradled his left hand in his right, holding it gently, like a limb that had fallen asleep, only instead of pins and needles, it was spikes and sawblades. His fingers were bloody and torn, savaged by the concrete. The little one was clearly broken. There was a wicked gash in the index finger. They were red and swollen as sausages.
They’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Fingers heal. You put them on ice, you bind them, you go to the hospital. But first you have to get out of this.
Slowly, trying to use only his stomach muscles, Tom sat up. He was dizzy, and his head ached hollowly. “I swear,” he said. “I swear, we put the money down here. I don’t have any idea where it is.”
Jack nodded slowly. “You know what? I believe you. You don’t know where it is.” He squatted down beside Tom. “But you know what else? I bet Anna does.”
Before Tom could process what that meant, Jack’s gun hand lashed out, and everything went away.
THROBBING.
His hand hurt furiously, in steady pulses tied to his heart. His head too. As he grasped at the straws of consciousness, his first thought was that he hadn’t had a hangover this bad in a long time. Had he fallen asleep on the-
It all came back. Tom’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, but a slap of pain thrust him back. Slow. Take it slow. He was in a chair. A La-Z-Boy. Will’s apartment, their downstairs unit. He was sitting with his hand propped up on the arm. Alone. Where was Jack?
And on the heels of that, where, oh God, where was Anna?
The fantasy played itself out in a fraction of a breath, a flickering horror show: Anna’s arm extended, her mouth wide, head thrown back, Jack raising that foot. Another: Jack throwing her to the ground, unbuckling his pants, his wife screaming for help, while Tom lay unconscious in the chair…