Cold Shot to the Heart Read online

  The air bag had deflated. Santiago was slumped motionless over the wheel. Her only angle on him was through the passenger side windows. She steadied the .38, centered the front sight on his silhouette.

  But she couldn’t squeeze the trigger.

  * * *

  The heat woke him. He opened his eyes, and the loose air bag was in his lap, the gunpowder smell of it in the air. He was powdered with white dust. Faint steam rose from the floor.

  He touched his forehead, felt blood there, his hand a blur. There were two wide holes in the windshield, the glass spiderwebbed around them. More blood on his neck, the shoulder of his trench coat.

  He could see flames coming from under the hood. They were running up the wall of the house, blackening the siding.

  He yanked on the door handle, pushed. It groaned, held. The impact had jammed it. He butted it again, felt it give slightly. Smoke began to filter through the dashboard vents. He could hear the crackle of the flames now, the windshield darkening.

  The third time he hit the door, it popped open, stiff and creaking. He slid out, fell into water, the heat from the fire melting the snow. Thick black smoke was filling the car now. The air stank of burning plastic and rubber.

  He crawled through the slush, staying low, knowing the woman was somewhere on the other side. He leaned against the left rear fender, the metal warm against his back, got the guns out. He cocked the Ruger, then the Star, had a sudden memory of finding it in Casco’s safe, taking his money. The day he’d gotten out. The day it had all started.

  Steam rose off the ground around him. The fire would reach the gas tank soon. He had to get up, find the woman, end it.

  * * *

  The wind was back up, blowing the smoke in her direction. She moved away, her eyes watering. Her right leg had no strength, but the numbness had turned to pain, and that was good.

  She’d heard the creak of the door opening, had seen Santiago slip out of sight. Now smoke all but obscured the car, and she couldn’t tell where he’d gone.

  Flames were climbing the wall. The dining room windows had shattered from the impact, and the curtains were on fire. She thought of Chance inside.

  She pointed the .38 into the wall of smoke and waited.

  * * *

  Eddie stood. He held the Star in his right hand, the Ruger in his left. He drew in breath, tried to remember where he’d last seen the woman. Farther up the driveway, if she was still there, if she hadn’t fled into the woods or back to the house.

  Time to get it over with, he thought.

  He wheeled around the back of the burning car, came through the smoke, guns up, and there she was, in the driveway, closer than he’d expected, feet spread apart, .38 in a two-handed grip. He started to squeeze both triggers, and suddenly he was stumbling back, his breath gone. He went down hard, the ground tilting under him, saw trees, clouds, the moon.

  The bitch shot me, he thought. She shot me bad.

  * * *

  Crissa watched him go down, the sound of the shot echoing in her ears. The round had hit him in the left side of the chest, driven him back. She thought about the cross-etched bullet, the damage it would do.

  He rolled from his back to his side. She cocked the .38 again. Slowly, he made it to his knees. He’d lost one gun. Now he raised the other, let it drop for a moment, turned his head, and spit blood on the ground. Then he seemed to look past her, at something in the trees.

  She settled the sight on his chest. There was a faint tremble in her hands. Please don’t make me do it, she thought. Just toss the gun away, and we’ll leave. The money’s not worth it. Nothing’s worth it.

  He smiled and there was blood in his teeth. He met her eyes, raised the gun again.

  * * *

  Eddie coughed hard. There was blood in it, the coppery taste strong. He lifted the Star, then lowered it. It weighed too much.

  His eyes were blurry from the smoke. He spit, looked at the woman, trying to focus. There was someone in the trees behind her. As he watched, the figure took shape in the moonlight. It was Terry. He’d been there all along, watching them. Eddie blinked, squinted, and then there was nothing in the trees but darkness.

  He looked back at the woman, aimed the Star at her, began to squeeze the trigger.

  He never felt the bullet.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The house was full of smoke. Chance had dragged himself into the kitchen, was crawling toward the porch. Behind him, flames were licking up the dining room wall.

  She caught his left arm, lifted, got it around her neck, stood with him. He leaned against her, and they made their way onto the porch, then into the yard. She set him down in the snow, looked back at the house. Flames had reached the roof, were crawling under the eaves, smoke pouring out.

  “Where is he?” Chance said.

  “Dead. Come on.” She got him to his feet again, walked him through the snow toward the woods. His legs were unsteady, but they stayed under him. She had her right arm tight around his waist, her left bracing his wrist across her shoulder.

  “Where we going?” he said.

  “Try to find his car.”

  Ashes and soot drifted down on them. She could hear sirens far away.

  “Come on,” she said. “You can make it.”

  The Toyota’s gas tank went up with a flat boom. The trunk yawned open, flames billowing out. A glowing ember twirled through the air, landed in the snow in front of her. It was half of a twenty-dollar bill.

  They were into the trees now. She stopped, looked back. The roof was on fire, a mammoth cloud of smoke filling the sky, blotting out the moon.

  The sirens were louder, closer.

  “Red … we need to get out of here.”

  “I know.”

  “Now.”

  There was a loud crack, and a section of roof caved in, sparks swirling up. She watched them rise into the sky.

  “Red…”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  She turned her back on the house.

  * * *

  After a while, they reached a road, stumbled along it until she saw the car parked in the trees.

  “There it is,” she said.

  “I need to sit.”

  She lowered him to the snowy ground. Her right leg was stiff, her hip aching.

  The Mercury was locked. She looked around, found a heavy stone stuck in the frost. She got it loose, lifted it over her head, and smashed it into the passenger side window until the glass gave way.

  She dropped the stone, reached in and unlocked the door, brushed glass from the seat. She helped him up, got him into the car. He leaned over, popped the driver’s side lock.

  She slid behind the wheel, realized then she had no tools. No pocketknife, no pick set. She clawed at the plastic on the steering column, the pain in her wrists flaring. No good.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said. She got back out, held on to the door and roof for support, heel-kicked the steering column until the plate broke. Back behind the wheel, she pulled the plastic loose, tugged at the wires.

  “Can you do it?” he said.

  “Shut up and let me concentrate.”

  It took her three tries. Relief flooded through her when the wires sparked and the engine turned over. She backed out onto the road, swung around to head south, lights off.

  Cold air filled the car as she drove. They came to a four-way stop sign, and an ambulance blew across their path, lights flashing, siren rising and falling.

  The clouds had parted, and the moon was out again. With the headlights off, she wound her way back to where they’d left the Mustang. It was alone in the lot. Through the trees, she could see a parade of emergency lights on a parallel road. In the distance, the sky glowed red.

  When she pulled up alongside the Mustang, Chance’s eyes were closed. She pulled wires loose to kill the engine.

  “Hey,” she said. He didn’t move.

  She touched his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open. His face was sl
ick with sweat.

  “Your keys.”

  He looked at her, confused.

  “Give me your car keys.”

  He nodded, reached slowly into a pocket, drew out two keys on a ring. She took them.

  “Leave me,” he said.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She got out, opened the Mustang’s passenger door, came back. His eyes were closed again, his chin on his chest. When she opened the door, he slumped out. She caught him before he hit the ground.

  “Come on,” she said. “Work with me.”

  She pulled his arm over her shoulder, helped him get his feet under him.

  “Leave me,” he said.

  “Quiet.”

  She walked him around the Mustang, got him into the seat, shut the door.

  She needed something to wipe the Mercury down. They’d left evidence back at the house, but there was nothing she could do about that now. The car was different.

  She popped the Mercury’s trunk, looking for a rag. Inside were an olive drab duffel and an oversized gym bag. There were clothes in the duffel. She pulled out a T-shirt, saw white plastic below it. Her laptop. She drew it out. Beneath it were banded stacks of money.

  She looked at them for a moment, then dumped them into the trunk. Twenties and fifties.

  She filled the gym bag with money, put the laptop in, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder. She shut the trunk, used the wadded-up T-shirt to wipe down everything she might have touched.

  The gym bag went into the Mustang’s trunk. When she got behind the wheel, Chance was out again. She started the engine, backed out, and headed south once more, away from the sirens and the glow in the sky.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, she saw the first yellow hospital sign. She followed them into a small downtown, all the stores dark. The hospital was an island of light at the end of the street. Big glass doors and a red neon sign that said EMERGENCY.

  She pulled to the curb, killed the headlights. They were three blocks from the hospital, but even from here she could see the security cameras over the doors.

  Chance opened his eyes. “Where are we?”

  She pointed at the hospital. “This is as far as I can take you.”

  He nodded. “All right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her, pulled his coat tighter around himself. “Don’t be, Red.”

  He opened his door, paused as if gathering strength. She put a hand on his forearm, squeezed. He gave her a slack smile.

  “Go on,” he said. “Get out of here while you can.”

  He pulled himself out of the car, leaned on the roof, looked in at her.

  “See you when I see you,” he said and shut the door.

  She watched him walk away, leaning against parked cars and meters for support. When he reached the emergency room, he stepped into the lights, sank to his knees, triggered the automatic doors. He rolled onto his side, and two white-coated EMTs rushed out.

  Headlights still off, she U-turned in the street, drove away.

  * * *

  It had started to snow again, hard and icy, clicking as it hit the car. After a half hour behind the wheel, her eyes were closing, her limbs heavy. She pulled into a Quality Inn outside Oxford, used the T-shirt to wipe the blood from her jacket and the car seat.

  She checked in using her Roberta Summersfield ID. It took all she had to carry the gym bag up to the second-floor room. She hung the DO NOT DISTURB tag, set the night latch, turned the heat up.

  Her clothes smelled of smoke. She peeled them off, ran the shower. Her right leg was bruised from hip to knee, a deep blotch of yellow and purple. On her left wrist, the skin around her tattoo was swollen and blistered.

  She stood under the hot spray for a long time, her eyes closing, only the pain in her wrists and leg keeping her awake. Afterward, she wrapped herself in a towel, unzipped the gym bag, spilled its contents out on the bed. It took her ten minutes to count it all. She kept losing track, having to start again. It came out to forty thousand and change.

  She powered up the laptop, checked the folder. Maddie’s pictures were still there. She looked through them all twice. The low-battery light began to blink in a corner of the screen.

  She shut the laptop off, put all the money back in the bag. Then she lay back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling.

  Suddenly she was cold, shaking. She sat up, wrapped the covers around herself, but couldn’t stop trembling. She began to rock back and forth, eyes closed tight against the tears that were spilling out.

  The last thing she did before sleep was get the .38 from her jacket, check the door again. She slid the gun under a pillow, turned out all the lights but one, crawled naked between the sheets. She fell asleep listening to the wind.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  She woke at eleven, groggy and stiff, hard sunlight pouring through the gap in the curtains. She showered again, the steam rising around her. Every muscle ached.

  Her clothes still smelled of smoke. She got them back on, her leg throbbing, put the .38 in the gym bag, and limped out to the Mustang. The day was bright and clear, the air sharp.

  She found a Walgreens nearby, bought gauze, tape, burn cream, and Tylenol. Back in the car, she smeared cream on her wrists, taped gauze over it. Soon, the pain began to lessen.

  When she got back on 95, she tuned in WCBS Newsradio, but there was nothing about Chance or the fire. She stopped for breakfast, washed down four Tylenol with two cups of tea, then got on the road again.

  When she saw signs for New York City, she pulled off the highway, drove until buildings and houses gave way to fields and woods. After a while, she saw what she wanted, the glint of sunlit water through the trees.

  She followed a road that led to a stone bridge over a river, no other cars around, no houses nearby. She pulled over, opened the trunk, got out the .38.

  The current was running fast, gathering speed beneath the bridge. She dumped the last of the loose shells into the water, then opened the .38 and shook out the spent casings.

  She looked at the gun, turned it over in her hand, remembering the day Wayne had given it to her. A long time ago.

  She tossed the gun out over the river, watched it fall, splash, and disappear.

  * * *

  Back in the city, she went to the Travel Inn, changed clothes, and transferred all the money to her suitcase. She’d drop it at the apartment, call Rathka. The sooner she turned it over, the better she’d feel.

  She checked out, bought a new cell from a corner deli, got the Mustang from the garage, and headed north on the West Side Highway. She got off on West 96th, took Broadway up to 108th, turned right.

  There was a police cruiser in the loading zone outside her building. Behind it was an unmarked Crown Victoria with a whip antenna, blackwalls. Detectives.

  She slowed, powered the window down halfway. Through the foyer door, she could see two uniforms in the lobby, talking to Reynaldo the doorman. That meant the detectives were already upstairs.

  She heard a noise, saw the cat with the torn ear leap from the stoop to the sidewalk. It sat beside a planter, looked across at her, totally still.

  “Sorry,” Crissa said.

  A horn sounded behind her. There was a cab in her rearview. She was blocking the street.

  She powered the window up. The cat watched her as she drove away.

  * * *

  Circling back to 101st, she found a parking space near the bank. She got the new cell from its package, activated it, called Rathka’s office.

  It rang a long time. Rathka answered with a simple “Hello?”

  “Why are you answering the phone?” she said. “Where’s Monique?”

  There was a pause, then, “Ah, Miss Anderson, I thought you might call. Monique’s busy at the moment, helping out some unexpected visitors.”

  “Who’s there?” she said.

  “Sorry I can’t s
tay on the line. Maybe you can try me later in the week?”

  Voices in the background, muffled.

  “Police?” she said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Thursday or Friday would be best.”

  Close by him, an unfriendly voice said, “Who is that?”

  “Thanks,” she told him and ended the call.

  She took the cell apart in her lap. It was no good now. The number would be in Rathka’s phone. She snapped the circuit board in half, tossed the pieces out the window.

  They’d worked fast. Talked to the realty office in Connecticut, came up with the name Roberta Summersfield, backtracked to Rathka and the apartment. So the name was no good anymore. If they looked into it, they’d hit a dead end, but it might only whet their interest, keep them looking. Her life here was done.

  She watched the front of the bank, wondering if they’d gotten that far, if there were police inside. She’d have to take the chance. She got out the ring of safe deposit keys.

  Ten minutes later, she walked out of the bank with ten thousand dollars in banded fifties, a .32 automatic, and a U.S. passport and New Jersey driver’s license in the name of Linda Hendryx. She drove around to two more Manhattan banks and did the same. When she was done, she had thirty-five thousand in cash. She put it in the suitcase with the rest of the money.

  It took forever to get through the Lincoln Tunnel. She watched the rearview the entire time, waiting to see police lights. When the traffic finally broke up on the other side, she followed signs to the New Jersey Turnpike, headed south.

  She’d drive as long as she could stay awake, get as far from the city as possible. Maybe west then, cross-country to the Coast, somewhere warm, or back up to Pennsylvania eventually, see if Charlie Glass could put together some work, get her going again. Money for Maddie, money for Wayne.

  Eventually she’d call Rathka from somewhere far away, find out how much damage had been done, where things stood in Texas. Somehow she’d figure it all out, make it work.

  It was growing dark, the sky clear. Stars were coming out, flickers of cold and distant light. Nothing behind her now. Nothing but night ahead. But she had a name, a suitcase full of cash, a car, and a gun.