“But there was, and we did. Now we have to deal with it.”
The most crucial decision in her life could be traced to a cup of instant coffee. It hurt to think about. “We don’t have to call the cops right now, do we?”
He shook his head. “Soon, though. The longer we drag it out, the less friendly they’ll be.”
“What do you think they’ll do?”
“I don’t know. Take the money, obviously. I can’t imagine them locking us up or anything. We’re not exactly murderers.”
“Will they protect us?”
He didn’t answer for a long time. Finally he said, “They’ll do what they can.”
She thought back to the apartment, Tom on his back, Jack kneeling over him, that big gun pointing at her beautiful husband’s face. Remembered how loud the shot had been, how it had left her ears ringing for half an hour. An explosion, flame and fury. She had an image, quickly walled away, of what all that power could do to a human being. To Tom.
They had gotten lucky. Plain and simple. Lucky in the alarm, in the panic code, in the police response time. They hadn’t beaten Jack, not by a long shot. They’d gotten lucky.
And even with that luck, all they’d done was get away. He was still out there. Smart and dangerous and now pissed off. Would the police protect them? Could they? For how long? “Maybe we should leave town. Hit the road.”
“We’d have to come back sooner or later.”
“I guess.” She shook her head. “I’d just like to be farther away from him. From both of them. I’d feel better if we were in Detroit.”
He was sipping at his bourbon when she said that, and made a sound sort of like a laugh that quickly turned to a cough. He shook his head and swallowed hard, eyes watering.
“What?”
Tom beat at his chest, coughed. “What you said.”
“What about it?”
“It’s just” – he stared at her – “you know you’re in bad shape if you’d rather be in Detroit.”
Anna felt a smile burst out of her. Then a laugh. Then peals of it. It was freeing, a deep and cleansing silliness, and they kept at it, one triggering the other, the laughter far outstripping the joke.
When they finally stopped, Tom said, “Well, that’s about as good as I’m likely to feel. Maybe we better…”
She nodded. Took him to the bathroom, ran the water until it was lukewarm, then held his hand under it. He gasped at the contact, but didn’t fight her. She washed her own hands thoroughly, then, gently, washed each of his fingers. As the dried blood came off, she got a look at the damage. The knuckles were scraped and torn, and there was a nasty rip in the meat of his index finger. All of them were red and throbbing, sausage-thick and hot to the touch. His little finger was clearly broken, angled too far to one side.
She dried his hand and arm on a thick towel, then smeared antiseptic cream all over. “This is going to hurt.”
He nodded, sat down on the toilet, his face pale. “Pass that washcloth.” He spun it into a rope, then bit down. Huffed breath through his nose, one, two, three, then looked at her and nodded.
She steeled herself. Better to do it fast and only once. Anna took hold of his little finger and twisted hard. He yelled through clenched teeth and cotton.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she said, hating hurting him, feeling her own face contract. She bent over his hand. Worked the finger gently to make sure it was in position, terrified she would have to do it again. But it seemed reasonably well aligned. She fixed the splint to it, then taped it tight. “There. That should work.” She began to bandage his other fingers. “I think you’ll be okay. The others aren’t broken. The little one probably isn’t perfectly in line, though. We should get you to a doctor soon.”
He spat out the cloth, let out a deep breath. “Promise me something.” His voice throaty.
“Anything.”
“No more lies. Okay? Never again.”
She looked up at him, this man she’d known forever. “And no more trying to protect me. We get through this together.”
His smile broke slow and sweet as a spring sunrise. “Partners in crime.”
“Partners in crime.” She leaned across his bandaged hand to kiss him, his rough lips and gentle tongue. Not a passionate kiss, not meant to lead to the bedroom. Just truer than words.
THE BOURBON WAS A FUZZY GLOW THROUGH HIM, sanding the edges off the pain and loosening his body. Tom lay on top of the bed, his left hand up on a pillow, his right enfolding Anna. Out the window, the Ferris wheel turned and turned and turned.
Tomorrow would be bad. But right now, this second, it seemed a million miles away. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was the liquor. But for now, mercifully, he felt warm and sheltered, a boat that had made it to safe harbor.
On the desk, his cell phone rang.
“Let it go,” Anna whispered into his armpit.
“Can’t,” he said. Sat up slowly, untwining his arm from around her shoulder. Looked at the display, didn’t recognize the number. “It’s probably Halden. If we’re going to turn ourselves in tomorrow, I should talk to him now.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Not if I can help it.” He stood, cracked his neck. “I’d rather do it in person. Besides, I want tonight. Things won’t be calm again for a long time.”
She smiled at him. “I love you.”
“Back at you.” He opened the phone and said, “Tom Reed.”
“Hi, Tom. How’s the W?” Jack Witkowski’s voice was clear and cold. “They have those little bottles of booze in the room?”
15
HE NEARLY DROPPED THE PHONE. “How did you-”
“How did I find you?” Jack snorted. “This is what I do. You really think I wouldn’t find you, douchebag?”
Tom’s knees felt weak, and he sat on the edge of the table. Locked eyes with Anna, who had registered the tone of his voice and sat up alarmed.
“So, you haven’t answered my question. The W. Nice place?”
“Yeah.” He struggled for his cool. “Great view.”
“I bet. What’s it run, three hunny a night?”
Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was shock or booze or exhaustion, but Tom just didn’t feel like being cowed. “So what? On your money, we can stay here three years.”
There was a pause, and then a short laugh. “I keep writing you off as a pussy, and you keep proving me wrong. That move with the knife was pretty good. Didn’t work, but it was gutsy. And your wife too. Setting off the panic code anybody could do, but stalling, talking about the money in the heating vent? Pretty clever.”
“Guess so.”
“And now you’re feeling safe in a luxury hotel room. Big windows, that romantic view you mentioned. Maybe got a couple of drinks under your belt. Am I right? You have a few?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s a guy like you drink?”
“Bourbon.”
“Soda, rocks?”
“Neat.”
“Huh. If I’d’ve known that, I’d’ve handled things differently at your house. Wouldn’t have left you alone.”
“I guess that wasn’t in our mail. That’s how you got my cell number too, right?”
“Sure.” Jack paused. “By the way, what’s the matter with your dick? There was a letter from a fertility clinic. You and Anna need a little help? I’d be happy to spot you some baby juice.”
“Fuck you, you fucking psycho.” The words came hard and fast, accompanied by a rush of blood to his face. After all they’d been through, he was surprised that Jack still had the power to violate them, to spread poison on something precious.
“Fuck me?” Jack laughed. “Maybe that’s the problem. Not going to be any babies, you run around trying to cornhole middle-aged Polacks. That it, Tom? You queer?”
He stood, went to the window. Looked out at the Drive, headlights running in one direction, taillights in the other. The past here, the future there, and just a moment, a flickering blur, really, that marked the present. “We told the police everything.”