Shoot the Woman First (24 page)

“It might.”

“Shoot her,” Roy said.

Crissa took another step back, the gun steady.

“I don't know who you are,” she said. “I don't know where you're going. You walk out that door, we'll never see each other again.”

“You'd give it up just like that?” he said.

“Do I have a choice?”

“It's about these people, isn't it?” he said. “That little girl. Making sure they're okay. That there's no shooting in here. That's worth more to you than the money, right?”

She didn't answer.

Burke looked at Roy. “Do you believe this shit?” Then back at her. “You're everything I thought you'd be. I have to give you that.”

“Take it,” she said, and steadied her aim. “Walk away.”

He let the muzzle of the shotgun drop an inch, said to Roy, “Pick it up.”

“Don't believe her, man, don't—”

“Shut up. Pick it up.”

Roy bent, hefted the bag.

“Take it out to the car,” Burke said. “Wait for me.”

“You can't leave her alive.”

“Just do it. I'll be out in a minute.” Roy looked at both of them, then turned, went quickly out the front, let the screen door slam behind him.

“Aren't you worried he'll take off with that money?” she said. “Leave you here.”

“He won't.”

She waited, the gun growing heavy in her hand.

“I was wondering,” he said, “what the chances are of my taking that gun away from you.”

“Not good.”

“That's what I thought. And you're probably going to keep it on me until I'm out that door, right?”

She didn't answer.

He grinned again, started to back away, the shotgun still pointed at her.

“Maybe someday,” he said, “we'll run into each other again.”

He pushed the screen door open with his hip, lowered the shotgun, turned, and was gone.

She kept the gun pointed at the empty doorway. A breeze came through, pushed the balloon along the ceiling. She heard a car door open and shut, tires on gravel, the thump of a chassis as it bottomed out at the end of the driveway.

She let out her breath, let the Glock sag, went to the front door. Low mist covered the lawn. She watched taillights move off down the dark street, until the road curved and they were lost in the trees and fog.

The Glock felt like a lead weight in her hand. She walked the perimeter of the house to make sure they were gone, then went back inside. She stuck the gun in her waistband, pulled the tail of her sweater loose to cover it. Haley had seen enough guns tonight.

When she opened the door to the other room, Claudette and Nancy were sitting on the bed, their hands cuffed in front of them. Haley was holding tight to her mother's arm.

“Is everyone okay?” Crissa said.

Nancy said, “Are they gone?”

“Yes.” Crissa got out her penknife, cut through Nancy's flexcuffs.

“We have to call the police,” Nancy said.

“No,” Crissa said. “No police.”

“Why not?”

Crissa looked at Haley, said, “Are you all right, honey?”

She nodded, said, “Help Mommy.”

“I am,” Crissa said, and cut through Claudette's cuffs. When her hands were free, she pulled Haley into her arms.

Nancy was rubbing her wrists. “Are you sure they're gone?”

“They're gone. I need you to find a motel for the three of you. Somewhere close by, just for tonight. Then I want you to call work, tell them you're sick, you had an emergency, whatever.”

Nancy frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want things to seem as normal as possible. And I don't want anyone coming out here looking for you.”

“Normal? Are you serious?”

“No one got hurt,” Crissa said. “That's the important part. Please, just do as I ask. Get some clothes together, quickly. You all need to get out of here as soon as you can.”

“Are they coming back?” Claudette said.

“I don't think so. I just want to be safe.”

“Are you coming with us?” Nancy said.

“No,” Crissa said. “I have some things to do first. I'll call you on that cell later. But you need to get moving.”

When they were at the front door, overnight bags in hand, Haley in her mother's arms, Crissa said, “Wait a minute.”

They looked back at her. She stood on her toes, reached, caught the string, pulled the balloon down from the ceiling. She carried it to Haley. “Don't forget this,” she said.

Haley looked at it for a moment, then grasped the string. “Thank you.”

“Remember, hold on tight,” Crissa said. “Don't let it get away.”

“I won't.”

Crissa rubbed her back. “Go on now. I'll see you later.”

She stood at the door, watched as they drove away. Then she took out the Glock, checked the magazine, saw it was full, a round in the chamber.

She went around the house, making preparations, turning out lights. Then she pulled on her gloves, sat down in the darkness to wait.

 

TWENTY-TWO

They were doing forty, the car seeming to ride on a carpet of mist, when Burke said, “God damn it!” and slammed on the brake.

The car slewed to the side, brakes screeching, came to rest half on the shoulder, headlights pointing off through trees. He'd narrowly missed the guardrail. There was a steep embankment beyond, then swamp.

“What the fuck?” Mapes said. He'd been counting the money in the open bag at his feet. Now the banded stacks were scattered on the floorboard.

Burke squeezed the wheel, looked out through the windshield, bit his bottom lip.

“What are you doing?” Mapes said. “Why are you stopping?”

Burke looked at him. “You don't get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“She punked me back there. Punked me good.”

“What's the difference? We've got the money, that's what we went there for, right?”

Burke slammed the shifter into park. There were no streetlights on this stretch of road, and they hadn't passed another car in ten minutes.

“It wouldn't bother you that, after all this, she's still walking around somewhere, would it?” he said. “After everything she did, all the shit she pulled?”

“But we got the money.”

“Yeah, we did. Now put it back in the bag.”

“How come?”

“It needs to go in the trunk. We can't be driving around with it up here.”

When Mapes had the money in, the bag zipped shut, Burke said, “Get out of the car.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm tired of your shit. I'm going to pay you off. Get out.”

“Wait a minute. You can't leave me out here, middle of nowhere.”

“Out.”

Burke took the bag from him, got out, left the engine running. He went around to the trunk, opened it. Mapes got out of the car slowly. “Why are you wigging?”

“How much do you need?” Burke set the bag in the open trunk, unzipped it. “Is twenty enough?”

“What?”

“Twenty thousand. To cut you loose, leave you on your own right now.”

“There's almost eighty in there.”

“Doesn't matter. Your cut is twenty. You take it, then you start walking. About a mile or so back, you'll hit a place with some phones. You can call a cab.”

“And what am I supposed to do then?”

“Up to you. But I'm done with you.”

“Why do you have to be that way?”

“Twenty grand. Take it or leave it.”

Mapes came up beside him. “I should get more.”

“Right,” Burke said, reached into the trunk, past the bag with the money, into the one beside it, drew out the Mossberg.

“Hey,” Mapes said. “Wait—” and Burke brought the shotgun up between them, fired. It blew Mapes back, and Burke held the trigger down, worked the pump. The second blast knocked him over the guardrail and down the embankment.

Burke looked around. No headlights, no sign of a house nearby. He leaned over the guardrail, saw Mapes facedown in the wet grass, legs tangled. Too dark to go down there, check on him, make sure. He aimed at Mapes's motionless back, pumped and fired, pumped and fired. The noise echoed through the trees.

He put the shotgun back in the tac bag, shut the trunk lid on the money. Then he got behind the wheel, swung the car around in a wide U-turn, and headed back the way he'd come.

*   *   *

She was sitting on the couch, the Glock in her lap, when she heard the squeal of tires outside. Headlights swept across the living room.

She got up, went to the side window. He'd pulled up into the driveway, behind her rental, cut the engine. The headlights went out. She couldn't see him but heard the car door open, shut, footsteps on gravel. He was alone.

*   *   *

Just her car here now, as he'd expected. She'd sent the civilians away, was waiting inside for him, all the lights off. The backyard dark, too, where it had once been floodlit. Fog hung in the trees, but the sky was clear and full of stars, a half-moon shining.

He took the Browning from his belt, checked the magazine, the round in the chamber, clicked off the safety. He thought about taking the shotgun, but it wouldn't be right. Not this time.

He got out of the car, looked around. Two lots away to the west, the house there was dark. To the east, through a screen of trees, was another house, but only a single second-floor window showed light.

He started up the slate path.

*   *   *

She heard him coming, went to stand by the open door, the Glock at her side. She would only be a silhouette here through the screen door, a darker mass against a dark room.

He'd stopped on the path, maybe fifteen feet away, watching her, not moving, a gun at his side. Mist covered his feet.

“You surprised to see me?” he said.

She shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see it. “No.”

“All this time, all the miles I've come, you think I was just going to walk away like that?”

“You could have.”

“Not me.”

“Where's Roy?”

“Where do you think?”

“Was it worth it?” she said.

“What?”

“Everything.” She waited, watching him, the gun in his hand.

“Honey,” he said, “that's not the point.” He brought the gun up and fired.

*   *   *

One second she was there, a dark shape in the doorway, outlined there, his finger tightening on the trigger, the gun jumping in his hand, and then she was gone.

It should have been an easy shot at this range. But he hadn't heard her fall or cry out. She was just there, and then she wasn't. The crickets had gone silent with the gunshot. After a moment, they started up again. He looked at the houses on both sides. No more lights had come on, no faces at windows. The fog had helped muffle the sound.

He lowered the gun, looking at the doorway. She had the gun she'd taken off Mapes, but hadn't tried to return fire. She'd just turned away, gone deeper into the house, left him nothing to aim at but darkness.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. If he wanted to follow her, end it, he'd have to go through that door, take his chances, knowing she was waiting on him somewhere inside.

He took a breath, looked at the car, thought about the money there in the trunk. It's all yours, he thought. All you have to do is drive away.

He looked back at the house. Still no movement inside. She was hiding somewhere in there, waiting on him, his decision.

“Fuck it,” he said, and started for the door.

*   *   *

She heard him on the porch, heard the door open. She moved farther into the house, holding the Glock in both hands. In the hallway that led to the kitchen, she stopped, her back flat against the wall. The screen door shut, and she knew then he was inside. He'd come for her.

She ran.

*   *   *

He pulled the screen door open, pointed the gun into darkness, moved fast into the living room, finger tight on the trigger, looking for a target. The room was clear. The door shut behind him, and then a shadow broke from the others up ahead, moved fast down the dark corridor toward the kitchen. He took the shot, fired straight down that hallway, the muzzle flash bright.

He heard a gasp, and then the sound of the back screen door swinging open and slamming shut again. He ran toward the sound. Once out in the yard, she'd go for the trees, and then he might lose her. He had to end it before she got there.

He ran into the dark kitchen, feet skidding on the floor. He caught his balance, kicked the screen door open, pointed the Browning out into the yard, hit the light switch with his free hand. The floodlights went on, bathed the yard. Empty.

He looked down at his feet then, saw what he was standing on. Two shower curtains laid out on the floor, joined by a long strip of duct tape. Turning then, realizing the mistake he'd made, and there she was on the other side of the kitchen, the Glock in a two-handed grip, and he tried to bring his gun up, already knowing it was too late.

*   *   *

Her first shot hit him high in the chest, knocked him back against the screen door, surprise in his eyes. His gun came up, and she fired again, lower this time, correcting her aim. The third shot put him through the door and out onto the steps. A shell casing clattered into the sink behind her.

She let out her breath, watching for movement, her gun still up. Started slowly forward.

*   *   *

Burke looked up at the bright stars, the half-moon. He lay on cold concrete, his feet higher than his head, his gun gone. He couldn't move.

She filled the doorway above him, the gun still in her hands. He coughed, and there was blood in his mouth. He looked down at his chest, at the holes there, and saw a blood bubble rise from one of them. Sucking chest wound, he thought. Through the lungs. You're fucked.