Nolan eased him to the floor. Sally gurgled and died, getting blood on Nolan’s hand. Nolan wiped his hand on Sally’s shirt. Then he took the man’s silenced 9 mm from a limp hand and left him there, the knife handle sticking out of his back like something to pick him up by.
Nolan went slowly back up the stairs, gun in hand.
Infante was sitting on the arm of the couch, his back to Nolan, blocking Nolan’s view of Sherry, who was still lying there. He couldn’t risk a shot, for fear of hitting her. He should probably try to lure Infante downstairs... but Infante would likely drag Sherry along, not wanting to leave her unattended, so that was out.
Nothing to do but try to come up behind him slow.
Nolan was halfway between the top of the stairs and the couch when Infante turned and with a startled expression that was only vaguely human, shot at Nolan three times with the silenced 9 mm’s twin. Nolan dove for the floor and rolled into the entryway area by the front door while a plaster wall took the bullets, spitting dust.
The kitchen was off the entryway, and Nolan ducked in there, as it connected to the living room and would allow him to enter on the opposite side, which should confuse Infante and give Nolan a better look at where Sherry was, to take a shot at Infante and still keep Sherry out of harm’s way.
And Sherry was on the couch, all right, but Infante was heading down the stairs, into the basement, shouting, “Sally! Sally!”
Nolan went to Sherry, who reached for him, hugged him.
“Are you okay, doll?”
She was smiling, crying. “My feet are killing me.”
“I better go after him.”
“No! Stay with me.”
There was an anguished cry from downstairs — a wail.
“I’ll kill you!” Infante’s voice, muffled but distinct, came from below.
“Maybe he’ll come up after me,” Nolan said.
But the next sound from below was the glass doors sliding/slamming shut.
Nolan ran to the picture windows. He saw Infante scurrying across the yard, off to the right, into the woods.
“Stay put,” Nolan told Sherry.
“Nolan...”
“Stay put!”
“Where would I go?” she yelled at him, angry for a moment.
Nolan went out the front door, fanning the gun around in front of him. The full moon was keeping everything well lit; there was a pale, eerie wash on the world. But no sign of Infante.
Then he heard an engine start, a car squeal away.
He stood there a moment and let the cool air cool him down.
Then he went back in. To Sherry.
He examined her feet.
“Sons of bitches,” he said.
“They hurt. They really hurt.”
“Second-degree burns. You’re lucky.”
“Oh, yeah. Lucky.”
“They’ve started to blister. Third degree would’ve been trouble. I’m going to get you some cold water to soak them in.”
“Please.”
He got a pan with ice and water in it and eased her to a sitting position, and she slid her feet in, making a few intake-of-breath sounds, but seeming to like it, once done.
“I should get you to a hospital,” he said. “I should get you to an emergency room.”
“How can you do that?” she said. “They’ll want to know how it happened. I don’t know what this is about, but I know you. And I know this isn’t something you’ll want the police or anybody in on.”
He scratched his head and said, “Right. Burns on the feet are dangerous, though. You need a doctor.”
“Sara’s boyfriend is a doctor.”
“Sara? At the club?”
“Right.”
“Will he keep his mouth shut? Will he make a post-midnight house call?”
“He’s a married doctor. He’ll do anything Sara asks him.”
“Good. What’s Sara’s number?”
“It’s in the back of the phonebook.”
“I want you to stay with her for a few days.”
“Where will you be?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know what this is about, either.”
He got up to go to the kitchen to call Sara.
“Did you know those two men?” Sherry asked.
He turned and looked at her. For all she’d been through, she looked terrific, sitting there in a short black nightie, soaking her feet.
“Yeah,” he said. “A couple of guys who work for Hines.”
“Hines. Isn’t he connected?”
“Yeah, Hines is Family. That bothers me. I haven’t had any Family trouble for a long time.”
“You going to talk to Hines?”
“He’s out of town. And anyway, those two were Family, out of Chicago, before they got assigned to Hines. They could’ve got their orders from somebody other than Hines. With Hines out of town, that almost seems likely.”
“You’ve got Family friends.”
“There’s Felix, that lawyer I always dealt with. But if I call him, he’ll lie to me, if I’m on the shit list again. I don’t know. I think I’m going to have to go out and knock heads together and see what’s going on.”
He went to the kitchen.
“Nolan!” she called out
He came back out and said. “What?”
“I almost forgot. There’s a message for you on the answer machine. A long one.”
“Oh?”
“It’s from that friend of yours.”
“Jon?”
“Yes. It sounded like he was in trouble. Maybe this has something to do with that.”
But before she had finished her sentence, Nolan was in the kitchen playing the message. He listened to it twice.
He came back talking to himself, saying, “Julie, alive? If so, how is she connected to anybody Family? I don’t get it.” Then, to Sherry: “Did those guys hear that message? Did they get that out of you?”
“No,” she said. “I kept thinking they’d want to know, if they’d known to ask. But they didn’t ask, and I was happy to keep it from them.”
“Good girl.”
“You missed your deadline, you know. You were supposed to go after your friend if you got home by twelve-thirty.”
“Well, I didn’t. And he isn’t here yet, so I’m going after him anyway. It’s my only lead.”
“Did you call Sara?”
“Not yet. Listen. Tell her nothing. Nothing about how you got the burns. Nothing about the shooting. I’ll let her know I’ll make it right by her, for helping, no questions asked. Then I’ll have to bandage your feet up, best I can, till her doctor friend can apply proper dressings at her place.”
“Okay.”
“Then I got to bury something in the woods, and I’m off.”
“You mean that guy downstairs? Sally? You killed him?”
“Yeah, I killed him. But I don’t mean him. I’ll dump him someplace. He doesn’t rate a burial. I’m talking about my dog.”
3
9
JON CAME TO.
He knew three things immediately: he was in the back seat of a car, on his side; it was dark, so it wasn’t morning yet, or anyway the sun wasn’t up; and his head ached so bad, his eyes hurt.
He sat up; it took some doing, but he sat up. His hands were behind him, and he could feel the cold steel of handcuffs; his legs were bound at the ankles with thick, heavily knotted rope, like the handiwork of a very ambitious, sadistic Boy Scout.
Or Girl Scout.
He looked out the window to the left. The dyke, Ron, black leather jacket, ducktail, and all, was standing in an arrogant slouch, listening to Julie talk.
Julie.
She was still wearing the white outfit, but the tinted glasses were gone, an affectation she presumably dropped during more private moments. She was gesturing as she spoke, and occasionally she would reach out and touch Ron’s face, casually.