And as Jack moved out of the way, Tom saw what Sara had been going for. The flash of metal he’d seen earlier. A gun. A snub-nose pistol inches from her hand, just under the bed.
He blinked, shook his head. The gun was still there. He willed himself forward.
His limbs hung heavy. His body throbbed. He couldn’t move. Jack walked back to the wall Tom had driven him into earlier. Where he had dropped his own gun.
Tom stared. Knew he wouldn’t make it. He’d taken too much, been hurt too badly. And Anna. If he did kill Jack, he wouldn’t get to her. His sweet girl, gone.
Then came a series of cracks, gunshots, one tumbling after the other. They were loud and fast and obscene. But he barely noticed them. Because above them, he heard Anna. Shouting his name, over and over, like a prayer. She was still alive. His wife was alive.
Tom crawled forward, his ribs stabbing, world wobbling, but none of that mattered, he put it all aside, and then he had the pistol and was turning, spinning on his knees, just as Jack came up with his own gun.
WHEN SHE HEARD THE SHOTS from inside the house, Anna screamed. Her legs seized up. The empty pistol fell to clatter against the concrete.
Too late. She was too late. Nothing mattered now.
Later, lying awake at night, listening to the steady rhythm of Julian’s breathing, she would remember this moment, unspool it like thread. The moment everything changed. The impossible sunlight against her back, the shifting sounds of leaves, all of it going on as though nothing had happened. The way the world didn’t notice that it had ended.
Time lost its grip. She stood still, wanting to disappear, wanting to run into the house, but not moving. She could hear sirens growing closer, police responding to gunfire on this quiet residential street. A bird sang above.
None of it mattered.
A sound from inside drew her attention. Something was moving. A figure, a shadow in the dim light. A man with a pistol in his hand. Moving slow. Coming her way. She decided to stand right there and let Jack kill her.
And then she saw that it was Tom.
It was like being born again, the two of them newly made by the heat of a terrible fire. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then, as police cars swooped down the block, all force and fury, she ran to him, and they came together, gripping each other to keep from falling, and she swore, in that moment, that she would never let go again.
Ever.
21
“… ACCORDING TO POLICE SPOKESMAN Patrick Camden, investigation into last week’s fatal shootings in a Lincoln Park mall has been closed. The two men responsible have been identified as Jack Witkowski, age forty-three, and Marshall Richards, thirty-nine, both killed in a shoot-out later that day that left several others dead, including a decorated police officer. After leaving the mall, Witkowski and Richards allegedly killed Sara Hughes, a single mother living nearby, and hid in her home for several hours.
“Both Witkowski and Richards have extensive criminal records, and are considered prime suspects in what has become known as the Shooting Star robbery. That incident, which took place on April 24, left two men dead. While rumors abounded that a large sum of money was also stolen, police have released no information on that, and no money has been recovered-”
Malachi leaned forward and shut the radio off. Always interesting, hearing what was reported versus what actually happened. The media had spun Tom and Anna Reed as civilian heroes who helped bring down a pair of cop killers, but the police weren’t sharing many details as to exactly what that meant. Malachi had friends on the force, and from what he’d heard, there were plenty of people who wanted to hang the Reeds, but the thing had turned political. A decision to close the books had come from on high. With no fresh information, the news reports were already getting shorter. Soon something else would happen, and the story would be forgotten. The world was a play of shadows.
“That’s it,” Andre said, nodding toward a blocky building with a big orange sign.
Malachi nodded, said nothing. He wasn’t sure what this was, the game at work here, and over the years he’d found that when he didn’t know what was going on, it was better to think than to speak. Andre parked the Mercedes half a block away. Outside, blue sky burned from horizon to horizon. A short white girl walked three dogs trying to go three different directions.
Strange situation. A lot to weigh, and not enough information to do it. Just a cryptic telephone call and his instincts. Still. Risk nothing, get nothing.
Malachi leaned forward, slid off his jacket, then slipped out of the shoulder holster and passed the Sig to Andre. “Put that in the case in the trunk. Yours too.”
The big man got out. Malachi waited till the trunk was closed before he stepped out himself. The police needed probable cause to search a vehicle, and permission or a warrant to open a locked case found in the trunk. He didn’t see that as the play, but always best to be safe.
The front desk was manned by a bored brother with a scraggly mustache. Malachi nodded as he approached, said, “Think you’re holding a key for me?” The dude passed him a small manila envelope.
“Elevator?”
“Back and to your right.”
They rode to the fifth floor in silence, then exited into a bare hall lit by fluorescents. Malachi passed the key, and Andre bent down to fit it into the lock and haul the door up. “Moth-er-fucker.”
On the floor in the center of the small locker was a pile of bundled hundreds. An envelope sat atop. Malachi stepped inside and shut the door, then eyeballed the pile, figured it about three. Andre looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Grab me that envelope. Don’t touch nothing else.”
It was a standard number ten, unsealed. Malachi opened it, took out the folded paper, shook it open.
No more choosing sides.
This is poison.
We don’t want it.
That was it, just three lines, typed on plain white paper and unsigned. Malachi read it twice, then folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Huh.” The fluorescents buzzed overhead.
“What you want to do?”
Malachi looked over at his man, shook his head. “You kidding? Pack that shit up.”
Poison he knew.
JULY 2007
22
THE SMELL OF FADING LILACS mingled with the faint salt tang of the sea. Tom sat on the wooden bench. He’d read somewhere that lilac was good for headaches, but it never helped his. Dr. Carney said the migraines were something he’d have to live with. “What,” she’d said and shrugged, “broken nose, fractured cheekbone, teeth knocked out, concussion, you expect your body to throw a party?”
It didn’t matter. He leaned back, pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, ignored the wobbly necked feeling of needles in his eyeballs. When he thought about that night, a year gone now, two thoughts warred. The first was the memory of Anna shouting his name, and how, in that moment, he came back to life, resurrected by her. He liked that part.
The other was the memory of pointing the gun at Jack Witkowski and pulling the trigger. That he didn’t like. Not because he regretted it; on the contrary, he hoped there was a hell so Jack could burn in it. But Tom was afraid that that moment would be the one that would define his life, would outweigh every precious thing. That on the day he died, what he would remember was not Anna’s eyes or Julian’s smile, but Jack Witkowski, still leering as half his head was torn away.
The sky was fading orange to purple, the moment of dusk that seemed darker than night. He liked the quiet here, in the garden behind their little house near the shore. It was a good place to think. For a while the world he’d believed in had turned to smoke, and it took effort to rebuild.