“Jack-”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Marshall looked at him, then at the stove. He shook his head and started down the hall. Jack followed, closing the front door behind him. They walked down the stairs, stepped out onto the porch. Jack felt better than he had in days. Destruction had, at least temporarily, transmuted the anger and frustration and grief into an almost sexual tingle. They started down the block.
After a moment, Marshall said, “It’s easier running together.”
Jack nodded.
“Somebody to watch your back, no worries about the other guy having been caught, making a deal. I’d rather we stuck together. But you need to understand something.” Marshall’s voice formal, like he was picking his words carefully. “I’m sorry about Bobby, but you need to let it go.”
“He wasn’t your brother.”
“That’s right. He wasn’t my brother.”
“You have a point?”
“Yeah.” Marshall stopped, and Jack turned to face him. “I’m done. I’m not disrespecting you or Bobby. But I’m done here.”
“We can’t run without the money.”
“Bullshit.” Marshall shook his head. “If we knew where it was, nothing would stop me getting it. You know that. But we don’t. So I’m going. You want to come, great. If not, you’re on your own.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. He and Marshall had known each other a long time, done a lot of work together. But in the end, everybody stood alone. “Might be that’s best.”
They stared for a long moment. Then Marshall shook his head, started walking again. Jack followed.
There was a bright orange ticket under the windshield wiper of the Ford. Parking without a neighborhood sticker. This town. Everybody playing an angle, even the government. Especially them. Jack dropped the ticket on the street, then pulled himself into the cab. Marshall got in the other side.
They could run without the money. But the thought of Tom and Anna winning? He’d rather pull out what was left of his hair than let that happen.
Yeah? Rather spend the rest of your life in a SuperMax? Twenty-three hours a day in solitary?
The thought came from a quieter part of him, and came cold. It chilled the destruction high right out of him. Had he climbed so far into his own head? He’d shot a cop earlier this morning. If he got caught, that was that. Everything else they’d done, he might have gotten away with for lack of evidence and witnesses. With a good lawyer, call it ten, out in four. But nobody walked after murdering a cop.
If only he knew where Tom and Anna were, knew whether they’d given up the money. Somewhere in this city, the two of them sat safe. He punched the steering wheel, hitting it hard. An image of Bobby popped into his head, ten years old and beaming as he rode wobbling down an alley on the bike Jack had stolen for him.
“How much was in the bag?”
Marshall looked up, his gaze quick. “Maybe ten grand.”
Ten grand. Plus they had the briefcase of drugs. They’d have to unload that wholesale. Call it another ten, twenty in all. Not something to retire on. Not money that would let him buy into a bar in Arizona. Not money that was worth his brother’s life.
But it was enough to get them the hell out of here, and to lie low for a while. Plan the next move. Get back to work. He sighed, said, “Count it, would you?”
“Sure. Sure thing.” Marshall’s voice sounding relieved. He reached behind the seat, pulled the bag into his lap. Jack sat and watched. Every time Marshall dipped into the black duffel bag, he came out with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. But soon the handfuls dwindled to pairs, and finally to single bills. Finally he zipped the bag and hoisted it by the handles, turning to put it away. The image reminded Jack of something. Something he’d seen recently. What was it?
It hit. “Wait.”
“What?”
He felt a smile beginning somewhere deep. Could it be? “The bag.”
“What about it?”
“It look familiar to you?” The smile pushed upward, bubbling from inside of him, and as it did, from behind came a sudden roar and the sound of a dozen windows shattering at once. They both turned to look as flame punched out the glass in a shimmering arc, the wash of heat physical even at this distance. Photographs and loose paper rolled in front of the blast of fire, twisting and looping like they were surfing the inferno. Even as the explosion faded and reversed, sucking air back in, yellow-orange tongues began to lick up the curtains. Jack could imagine the cashmere sweaters and Egyptian-cotton towels and high-thread-count sheets smoldering and twisting. Trickles of gray began to ooze out the broken windows, darkening with every moment as the house caught. A smoke alarm shrieked senselessly.
And as he watched Tom and Anna Reed’s pretty little world begin to burn, the smile broke free and bloomed on Jack’s lips, and he leaned forward to start the truck.
19
THE SAND WAS PITTED and scarred from rain. Beneath swollen skies, Lake Michigan rolled in steady slate curls. Anna wrapped her arms around herself against the wind. They’d been waiting in the tree line north of Foster Avenue Beach for twenty minutes, and the whole time, she’d been trying to figure out what to say, how to explain the simple mistake that had led them here, to a meeting where they turned themselves in to the police. She knew it wouldn’t matter, not in a legal sense, but she wanted the cop to understand. That seemed important.
It had been something in the touch of the money itself. The heaviness against her palm. Not greed, exactly. More like fantasy. A selective blindness to consequence. Holding that much money, it wasn’t part of life. It was the definition of surreal. So when it actually happened, she had already fallen down the rabbit hole. Everything else was just their attempts to deal with the twisted Wonderland they’d found themselves in.
“There he is,” Tom said. He nodded toward the low bulk of the shuttered concession stand, not yet open for the season. This had been their beach, a million years ago. Less crowded than most of the others, and without the meat-market factor. They used to bike over, set up folding chairs right in the edge of the surf, where the water frothed and tugged at their ankles. Read and nap in the sun, watch kids make sand castles. Now Detective Christopher Halden strode in front of the concession stand where they’d once bought hot dogs and Popsicles. He wore a dark gray suit and an expression she read as pissed from a hundred yards away. “Looks like he’s alone.”
Tom shrugged. “Not like he isn’t going to take us in anyway.”
She felt an icy shiver, wrote it off to the wind. Having finally overcome her money blindness, she wasn’t going to let a little fear stop her. “Let’s go.”
Halden saw them coming, turned to watch. Anna’s eyes were drawn to the big black gun, the way his right hand rested on it. She imagined what it must feel like to carry death on your hip, to walk around like it was no big deal. The air had that worm-and-dirt smell of a spring rain, coupled with a faint odor of rotting lake weeds. When they were ten feet away, Halden said, “You want to give me one reason not to arrest you both right now?”
“Actually, no,” Tom said. “We’re here so you will.”
The cop squinted at that, thrown off his game, eyes drawing to slits, lines furrowing in his cheeks. He looked like he was about to speak, hesitated, then said, “Go on.”
“You once tried to warn us about getting in over our heads.” Anna took a deep breath. “Well, that’s where we are.” Halden said nothing. She got the feeling that she was telling him something he already knew, that he was the sort to stay quiet until he saw the advantage in speaking. It made her nervous, made her want to watch her own words. “Everything has gone wrong. We’re in a lot of danger.”