“What’s this about, Bobby?”
Bobby turned his gaze on him. “What do you think? My money.”
“Huh?” Luther had no clue what he was talking about. “How come they let you out, man? I figured you’d be locked up forever.”
“I’ve got a better question. How’d I get tagged in the first place? You have something to do with that?”
“What?” Luther said. “Why would I do that?”
“The money,” Bobby said, swinging the SIG toward him. “That a good enough reason?”
“Money? What money?”
“Cut the shit, Luther. Carla told me everything. You bust in on her like that, you think she’s just gonna smile and pretend it never happened?”
“I swear to God, Bobby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bobby swung the SIG around and shot Charlie in the left thigh. Charlie howled, grabbing the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
“Jesus, why’d you go and do that? Charlie didn’t-”
Bobby shot Charlie’s right calf. Charlie screamed this time, curling up into a ball as Bobby swung the SIG around toward Luther again. “You’re next, numb nuts. Give me my fuckin’ money.”
“I’m tellin’ you, man, I don’t have any money. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re the only one saw me take it. You’re the only one knew I had it. Carla tells me you bulldoze your way into her apartment for it, I got no reason to doubt her.”
“She’s lying,” Luther said.
“Why the hell would she lie?”
“Come on, man, I–I don’t even know her! I don’t even know where she lives!”
“Hey, moron,” Charlie groaned, staring at Bobby now, his face the color of cottage cheese. He looked like he was about to puke or pass out. “Listen to the kid. He’s telling you the truth.”
Bobby gestured with the SIG. “The first two weren’t enough? Shut the fuck up.”
Charlie winced. “It’s your girlfriend, dumb ass. Don’t you get it?… The bitch punked you.”
Luther saw a flicker of doubt in Bobby’s eyes, like he was thinking this over, thinking maybe it made sense. Luther thought again about the Smith stuck in his belt, wondering if he should make a move.
Charlie kept going. “She’s the dancer you told Luther about, right? Probably does her fair share of hooking, too.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, still leaking all over the place.
It looked like he’d pissed his pants.
“Bitch like that’ll do anything for a few bucks,” Charlie went on, his voice getting weaker. “You hear that, Luther? The Pussy Prince got punked by a two-bit whore.”
Bobby didn’t say anything, like he was still thinking it over. Maybe everything would be okay. They could call one of Charlie’s paramedic connections, get him taken care of, and “Nice try,” Bobby said. “There’s just one little problem with that story.” He pointed the SIG at Charlie again. “I never told her about Luther. So how the hell does she know his name?”
He pulled the trigger and the SIG coughed and the back of Charlie’s head exploded. Luther felt his stomach clutch up as what was left of his lifelong friend shook like he was on one of those vibrating beds, then stopped moving altogether.
Holy Jesus.
Luther leaned over and vomited on the carpet, Bobby jumping back to avoid the spray.
“The money, asshole. Where’s my goddamned money?”
Luther grabbed the dresser for support, trying to think how he was going to get out of this. He was bigger than Bobby, sure, and stronger, too, but he didn’t have the stone-cold heart Bobby had, or the nerve. Or the SIG in his hand.
“Get on your knees,” Bobby said.
“Huh?”
Bobby pointed the SIG at his head. “Get on your fuckin’ knees. Now!”
Luther slowly sank to his knees, trying to think of something to say, some magic word that might bring Bobby back to his senses. Then a shadow fell across him, the light from the doorway blocked by someone standing in it.
“Can’t leave you two alone for even a minute.”
Luther looked up sharply, saw a dark figure there, rain pooling around his shoes. He couldn’t make out a face. All he saw was the orange glow of a cigarette.
The voice sounded different, but the way the words were spoken was unmistakable. Impossible, but unmistakable.
“… Alex?” Luther said.
Bobby was already spinning around, raising the SIG. The figure in the doorway stepped forward, extending his arm, then pressed the barrel of a gun against Bobby’s temple and fired.
Bobby went down without a sound, blood spreading beneath him on the carpet.
Jumping to his feet, Luther stared at him in stunned disbelief. Then he looked up again, as the man with the gun took a long drag off his cigarette and stepped deeper into the room, his face finally coming into the light.
The gun was pointed at Luther now.
“Sorry, stud. I love you like a brother, but I can’t risk you going to the Feds.”
Luther barely registered what the man had said. He wasn’t thinking about words right now, or the Smith in his belt, or poor old Charlie on the bed, or Bobby crumpled on the floor near his feet. All of that was blocked by the adrenaline rush of instinct that overtook him the moment he saw the man’s face.
There was only one thing he could think to do.
Run.
45
Wake up, Jack.
Jaaa-ack… wake uhhh-up.
She’s waiting for you. Better hurry.
Ticktock ticktock ticktock ticktock…
Donovan awoke to the sharp sound of knuckles on glass. “Mr. Reed?”
He opened his eyes, blinked a few times to clear them. There was a chill in the air. Pale morning sky.
Jesus. What time was it?
A woman peered in at him through a window and it took him a moment to realize where he was: lying on the backseat of the Chrysler.
“Mr. Reed?”
The woman wore white, clutching car keys, a purse, and the remnants of a sack lunch to her chest as she frowned in at him.
What had she called him?
“I’d like to go home now. You’re blocking my car.” Her voice was muffled through the glass. She sounded annoyed.
Donovan pulled himself upright, his body groaning. He felt something plastered to his cheek and pulled it away.
A candy wrapper. Baby Ruth.
His throat was sore. His mouth tasted like dried cow dung.
Tossing the wrapper aside, he stared out the window at the woman. She lowered her hands now, revealing a little placard on her chest that said LUCILLE BAKER, RN.
Was he back at the hospital?
“Look,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you, but you shouldn’t be sneaking into your niece’s room. Rules are rules. That’s no reason for childish pranks.” She gestured impatiently. “Could you move your car please? Now?”
Donovan blinked again, then looked around, trying to scrape away what felt like a thick layer of scum coating the inside of his skull. The Chrysler was parked haphazardly in the middle of a rain-slicked parking lot, blocking at least three of the cars that were angled neatly in their stalls.
Across the lot was a long, squat building. A sign near the entrance read ST. MARGARET’S CONVALESCENT CENTER.
He knew this place.
It was Sara Gunderson’s hospital.
“Shall I call security? Is that really what you want me to do?”
“Uhhh,” Donovan managed, trying to get his mouth to form the words in his head. It wasn’t working.
Lucille gave him a moment, but with nothing forthcoming, she said, “Very well, then.” She opened her purse, dug around for a moment, and withdrew a cell phone.
“No, wait,” Donovan said, holding up a hand, his mind on overdrive. “I–I’ll move the car.”
He reached across to the door release, pushed the door open, and climbed out. He felt dizzy. Grabbed the roof of the Chrysler to steady himself.
“Are you all right, Mr. Reed?”