Kings of Midnight (20 page)

The woman and the other biker were kneeling on the living room floor, wrists bound behind them. The woman wore a T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair loose and straggly, mascara streaking her face. The man was bare-chested in jeans, thick arms covered with jailhouse tats. Taliferro stood in front of them, Frankie Longo to one side, chewing gum.

Sal waited by the door, the shotgun resting on his shoulder. On the floor were two olive-green duffel bags, big enough to carry golf clubs, zippered shut.

She heard footsteps coming up stairs, and then the man called Perry came into the room, a long pry bar dangling from one gloved hand.

“Nothing else down there,” he said. “I checked the walls, floors, air-conditioning ducts, everything. Just the one safe. And it's clean. We got it all.”

“Is that right?” Taliferro said to the woman.

“Don't tell him shit,” the biker said. He pulled his shoulders back, looked up at Taliferro.

Sal came forward, said, “Smart guy,” and drove the butt of the shotgun into the biker's face. The woman cried out.

The biker went over, then righted himself, blood on his lips.

He looked at Sal, spit a tooth on the floor. “Fuck you.”

Sal raised the shotgun again.

“Hold off,” Taliferro said. Then to the woman, “I was expecting a lot more. What happened, you piss away the rest? Spend all of Joey D's dough on your boyfriend here? Nice Italian girl like you, fucking around with scooter trash?”

“Go fuck your mother, wop,” the biker said. “I did.” He spit blood on the floor.

Taliferro laughed. “You got some stones, I'll give you that. You must have thought you hit the lottery, huh? Banging Joey's broad, spending his money.”

“You got it all wrong,” the biker said.

“How's that?”

“It's your sister I was banging. And she loves it up the ass, just like you.”

Taliferro's smile disappeared.

“Tough guy,” he said. “Maybe you are, at that. But what I don't understand is this meth shit. Selling dope to niggers is one thing. But a white man, selling to white kids. That I don't get.”

“Please,” the woman said. “Just take the money.” She was crying again.

“You ain't gotta worry about that part,” Perry said.

“Do what you're here to do,” the biker said. “Or get the fuck out.”

“Prez,” the woman said. “Please. Don't. Just be quiet.”

“Sal,” Taliferro said, and held out his hand. Sal reached under his jacket, came out with the revolver, handed it over butt first.

“How many did you use?” Taliferro said.

“Just the two.”

Taliferro turned to Perry, said, “Get the car. Let's load up.”

Perry nodded, went out the front door.

Taliferro looked at the woman. “I'll ask one more time. Where's the rest of it?”

“That's all that's left. I told you what I did with the rest. Why don't you believe me?”

“Tell me again.”

“Some I invested. The rest is in banks, safe deposit boxes. I can take you to them tomorrow.”

“That's a thought,” Taliferro said. He turned back to the biker, pointed the gun at his head. “Prez. That what you called him? Short for Presley, or president?” Prez met his eyes, didn't look away.

“I'll take you around to all the banks,” she said. “I'll turn it all over to you. Everything I got.”

“How much did you start with?”

“I don't know. However much Joey put in the safe. He never told me.”

“He gave you the combination, though. You weren't tempted to go in there while he was alive, take a look yourself?”

“It wasn't like that between us. Joey trusted me.”

Crissa wondered if she could break the window, get a clear shot at Taliferro and the one with the shotgun. But the woman was in the way, and Longo was partially hidden from view. All she could hope for was to distract them, take one of them down if she were lucky, buy the woman some time. And then there was Perry out front to worry about. Too many men, too many guns.

“What would Joey think if he saw you right now,” Taliferro said. “Trying to protect this piece of shit?”

“You don't know anything about Joey,” the woman said.

“I know enough. I know he wouldn't be happy, you spending his money like that.”

She squared her shoulders. “If Joey was alive, you'd be pissing yourself right now, knowing he'll come after you for what you did to me.”

“Maybe. You're not lying to me now, right? You're positive there's no more here in the house?”

“No,” the woman said. “You've got it all.”

“This time,” Taliferro said, “I believe you.”

Crissa turned away, knowing what was coming. Two shots, loud, and then the thump of bodies hitting the floor. Two more shots, evenly spaced.

Silence. Then Longo said, “Jesus Christ, look at all that blood.”

“Come on,” Taliferro said. “Get those bags. Let's get out of here.”

She heard the SUV pull up out front, moved back between the boat and the garage wall, then up to the corner again.

Perry got out of the SUV, opened the back hatch. Longo carried one of the bags out, straining with the weight. He tossed it in, stood aside while Sal came out with the other one. He slid it in beside the first, set the shotgun on top.

“We're all set, skip,” Perry said, and shut the hatch. Taliferro came out, and Longo opened the front passenger side door for him. He climbed in, pulled the door shut. Longo and Sal went in the side door. She heard laughter from inside, then the door slid shut. Perry got behind the wheel.

She moved quickly to the back of the house, up onto the deck. With the Glock up, she went into the dark kitchen, toward the light beyond.

The bodies were side by side on the living room floor. She saw the head wounds, knew there was no use in checking pulses or calling 911. Nothing you could have done to prevent it, she told herself. They never had a chance.

She went to the curtains, looked out. The SUV's parking lights were on. It was turning a slow circuit in the yard, headed back to the driveway.

It was over. Whatever money had been in here was theirs now. The whole thing had fallen apart, gotten away from her. Everything gone to hell.

The Escalade keys were on the kitchen table. She grabbed them, went into the garage. She climbed up behind the wheel, started the engine, put the Glock on the seat beside her.

The garage door opener was clipped to the visor. She pushed the button, and the door began to roll up. She hit the gas just as the door cleared head height, felt it scrape along the Escalade's roof.

*   *   *

Benny had his window open, heard faint noises from the house, knew they were gunshots. So it had all gone bad up there. He waited, listening. Two more shots, and then a final two. Drive away, he thought. She's dead, most likely, and you need to get out of here.

He started the engine, felt pressure in his chest, wished he'd brought his pills with him. He was sweating. He rubbed his palms on his pants, gripped the wheel again, waiting for the pain to ease.

Be smart, he thought. Get out of here while you can. Take the car. Leave her.

*   *   *

Crissa swung the Escalade into the driveway, lights off. The SUV was taking it slow, brake lights glowing every time it reached a bend. She swept the Escalade into the first curve, heard branches scrape the passenger side. She pulled the wheel hard, narrowly missed a tree that loomed up out of nowhere. The seat-belt alert was beeping. She pulled the shoulder harness on, clicked it in place.

Then she was around the last bend, rocks kicking up against the undercarriage, and the SUV was there, at the end of the driveway, ready to turn. She aimed the Escalade at it, floored the gas pedal. The SUV's headlights went on, twin beams springing out into darkness, lighting up trees across the road. It began to turn left.

The Escalade was doing thirty-five when it reached the end of the driveway. She hit the brakes at the last moment, heard them lock and squeal, and the Escalade surged into the road, the steel pushbar clipping the SUV on its left rear corner, exploding glass and plastic, sending it spinning away.

The SUV went into the trees nose-first, and she stayed with it, hands gripping the wheel. She butted the back end hard, drove the SUV deeper into the trees, bulling it forward with the Escalade's weight. The front end of the SUV thudded into a tree trunk, the hood buckling back, windshield spiderwebbing. The airbag bloomed in the front seat.

She backed up, pulled away, switched her high beams on. They lit up the SUV sitting at an angle in the trees, one side higher than the other. One headlight pointed crazily into the woods, the other was dark. Broken plastic and glass littered the ground between the two vehicles.

She got the Glock from the floor, opened the door, climbed down. She pointed the gun at the SUV in a two-handed grip. There was no movement inside.

Closer, she could see Perry and Taliferro slumped in the front seat, the deflated airbag in their laps. The only sounds were the hissing of steam, the tick of cooling metal. She took careful aim, put two shots high through the left rear window, a warning. The glass starred and collapsed.

She went to the hatch—the glass there was gone, the door dented deep from the pushbar. Sal was facedown on the floor by the bench seat; Longo was against the wall, one of the duffel bags across his legs, cubes of safety glass in his hair.

She pulled up on the latch. The hatch opened slowly, the bent metal squealing. Longo was moving in slow motion, pushing the duffel away to free himself. Up front, Taliferro was beginning to stir. None of them had been wearing seat belts.

She pointed the Glock in. Longo looked at her, said, “You.” Sal groaned, but didn't move.

With her left hand, she caught the strap of the duffel bag, dragged it out onto the ground, surprised at its weight. Longo cut a glance at Sal's shotgun, which lay against the wall just out of his reach.

She pointed the Glock at his face, picked up the shotgun. New headlights fell across her. She turned, saw the Honda pull up on the shoulder.

She set the shotgun on the ground, pulled out the other bag, dropped it atop the first one, Longo watching her.

Benny was out of the car now. When he saw the wreck, the duffel bags on the ground, he said, “Holy Christ.”

“Get these in the trunk,” she said.

He stood there for a moment, not moving. She kept the Glock trained on Longo. “Now. Do it quick.”

He grabbed one of the duffels, dragged it across the dirt. Sal groaned again.

Maybe this is where you should end it, she thought. A bullet for each of them. The only way to make sure.

Then Benny was beside her, breathing heavy. “I saw headlights down the road. We need to go.”

She backed away, the gun still up. Benny got the second bag in the trunk, shut the lid, leaned on it for a moment, out of breath.

She picked up the shotgun. The barrel had been sawn off even with the pump, the stock cut back to a pistol grip, sanded smooth. She put the Glock in her jacket.

“Come
on,
” Benny said. He got back behind the wheel, leaned over, and opened the passenger door.

She racked the shotgun four times in quick succession, emptying the magazine. Shells flew from the breach onto the ground, Longo still watching her. Then she reversed the gun, held it by the barrel, swung it hard into a tree, twisting her hips into it. The stock cracked, fell away. She tossed what was left of the gun into the woods.

With a last glance at Longo, she got in the Honda, and said, “Drive.”

Benny pulled out onto the road, spraying dirt. “What happened up there?” His face was slick with sweat.

“Nothing good. They're all dead. The woman, the boyfriend, the other one we saw, too. Money's in the duffel bags. What's left of it at least. Slow down. You're going to get us pulled over.”

“Jesus.”

She still felt calm, focused. Knew it wouldn't last. The adrenaline crash would hit her before long, as soon as they were somewhere safe.

“There's a turnaround up here,” she said. “Pull in. I'll drive.”

“Where we going?”

“To the motel, get the other car, the rest of our things.”

“And then?”

“Home,” she said.

EIGHTEEN

It was almost six when they got back to Avon, dawn a blue glow over the ocean.

Crissa laid the two duffels out on the living room floor. Marta was in the bedroom doorway, hair loose, face still soft from sleep.

“Benny, what are those?” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “Everything's fine, baby.”

Crissa knelt and unzipped one of the bags, saw the money inside. Most of it was banded, but some of the packs had split, spilling out loose bills.

“Now do you believe me?” he said.

She took out a pack, riffled through it. All hundreds. She snapped one out. It was a Series 1977. In the lower right-hand corner, the Secretary of the Treasury's signature read
WERNER BLUMENTHAL.

She held out the bill. Benny took it, looked at it. “Oh, yeah.”

“Where did all that money come from?” Marta said. “Who does it belong to?”

Crissa unzipped the other bag. It was just as full. Benny whistled softly.

“Come on,” Crissa said. She sat on the couch, pulled the first bag closer. “Let's get to work.”

*   *   *

It took them an hour to count it. They lined the packs up on the coffee table, used rubber bands on the loose bills. Benny had pulled up a chair. Marta watched from the kitchen.

At the bottom of the second duffel was a black velvet bag with a red drawstring. Inside was a thick necklace laced with diamonds, a matching bracelet.

“Nice stones,” he said. “Probably worth a lot.”

She set the bag aside. They'd divided the money into two piles, counted each separately. None of the bills was newer than 1977. A third were fifties. There were packs of twenties, but nothing smaller.