Tom Piccirilli - The Cold Spot

Chase wondered what else he should say- Hey, why the hell didn’t you at least send a wedding card? -but nothing sounded right. How’s it been going, you doing okay? Besides, Jonah wouldn’t want to hear any sappy shit. He’d either show or he wouldn’t.

He’d set the meet for noon, but knew Jonah would leave him sitting alone at the site, checking him out from afar to make sure it wasn’t a sting, making certain no cops had followed. Jonah wasn’t about to come out from cover here. Chase parked at the restaurant, climbed out of a beat-to-shit ’72 Plymouth Gold Duster he’d stolen that morning, sat on the hood, stretched back over the windshield and took in the sun, thinking of Lila.

Forty-five minutes later he got up, slid into the car, and started back toward his house. Jonah would’ve checked out Chase’s story and made sure he knew where Chase lived. The old man would have the route back all mapped out with a good ambush site already chosen.

Jonah never followed anyone else’s rules. He always made sure he got the drop.

It was all right. Chase knew exactly where Jonah would make his play. There was a wide exit down the parkway that opened up onto a service road near a community college, bordered by wooded acreage. Jonah would cut him off, shove him onto the shoulder, and grab him right there. Chase had planned it this way from the start.

Behind him, way back on his left but beginning to speed up now, a white van jockeyed forward. Chase slowed down right as the exit lane came into view, thinking, Here it comes, here it is.

He wondered if his grandfather would hit him. He thought the old man was going to get at least a couple of free slugs in. Jonah didn’t feel things like other people did, but somewhere inside him he must’ve still experienced a small sting of betrayal about how they’d parted.

The van tore out from behind, speeded up alongside the Duster, and crashed into the left front quarter panel, forcing Chase over the curb and into the pine trees. It was a skillfully executed move, pinning the car in the brush and giving him nowhere to run.

His jaws snapped together painfully, and his head rang. He tugged the wheel hard to the left and tried to bump back, but the Duster was already a buckling rust bucket and the crumpled metal blew the left front tire. He stabbed the gas and allowed himself to smash into a tree. The seat belt tore against his chest and he swallowed down a shout. There was an insane uproar of noise as the front end buckled and the windshield caved.

Pretending to be dazed, Chase slumped over the steering wheel, glass in his hair. He quietly un-buckled himself because his ribs hurt like hell and he didn’t want Jonah to haul him against the belt a few times before thumbing the button. The car door swung open and rough hands yanked him from the seat.

Chase offered no resistance. He went down on his back in the grass. The van door slid aside and he was yanked to his feet. Chase tightened the muscles in his belly, waiting for the old man’s fist. He raised his chin and there was his grandfather.

A t sixty-five Jonah remained hard and looked mostly the same as when Chase had last seen him ten years earlier. For a guy who should be on social security he was still ready to take on a brigade. His back straight, arms corded, every ridge cut to perfect definition. Same steely eyes.

There were some subtle differences. His face had eroded further, almost imperceptibly, like desert stone after ages of high wind. The seams went deeper, the mileage and wear a bit more apparent. The black hair on his arms had gone mostly white so the sprawl of muddied prison tats appeared much clearer.

Chase could finally see them for what they were now. An angel on the left forearm and a devil on the right, both in midflight with drawn flaming swords.

And names.

Under the angel: Sandra, Mary , and Michael.

Jonah’s mother, his wife and his son, Chase’s father.

Under the devil, peering through a pitchfork: Joshua. Jonah’s father.

And beneath that, not a tattoo but a scar that had gotten infected and was still mottled white and pink.

Chase.

Huh, look at that. Chase had to wonder, was it a comment made in flesh about disloyalty? Is that why his name went on the evil arm? These cons, they sure liked their fucking Biblical imagery.

His grandfather said, “Some getaway man.”

Jonah hurtled a fist into Chase’s gut, threw two jabs into his nose, got blood flowing, and then tossed him in the back of the van.

Still pretty nimble, Jonah hopped in, quickly frisked Chase, and then kneeled on his chest.

A woman was driving. That was certainly something new. She turned back and gave Chase a quick once-over with distinct dark eyes. Woman, girl, she was maybe twenty but you’d never mistake her for a kid. Even through his tears he could see she was on top of the action, in control, her gaze knowing. If she was anything like Marisa Iverson he was already in deep shit.

No hesitation. She hit the gas and the van tires spun, throwing gravel.

Jonah said nothing and neither did Chase. The knee in his sternum hurt like hell but he’d known it would have to go down like this. And it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as that day Lila had kicked his ass on the garage mat.

Now they were going to drive around for a while until Jonah was sure they weren’t being followed. Then they’d finally take Chase back to their local hideaway.

He checked his grandfather’s left hand. Jonah was palming the.22.

The van hummed along. The girl was pretty good behind the wheel. Lying on the floor, Chase could feel the vibrations and shifts as she moved from lane to lane, driving easily and with a deft edge. From this weird angle he could see her in fine detail but upside down in the driver’s seat. She wore tight blue jeans that hung back off her hips, a black thong pulled way up, and a leather vest tight enough to nearly squeeze her tits out the sides. Putting it out there just daring someone to make a run at her. Flat muscular midriff on display, pierced belly button with a gold hoop. A small tattoo of a grinning dolphin on her stomach, poised as if it was leaping through the hoop.

Chase couldn’t figure her, and it took a minute for things to lock into place. Jonah must’ve felt like he’d slowed down a half step over the years and needed to make up for it. Dressed like that, the girl was there for distraction. Even a pro’s eyes would linger on her for an extra second, and that would help even things up.

Looking down at him she smiled sweetly. “I’m Angie.”

Chase said nothing, waiting for Jonah to feel safe.

She took the next exit and headed south toward the bay. In ten minutes Chase could smell the ocean. He decided they were holed up in the Islip area, somewhere around the ferry launch. Jonah must’ve gotten a room in one of the shabby motels just north of Montauk Highway. A once ritzy area that was now a bunch of cluttered dive neighborhoods. Former mansions broken down into low-income boardinghouses, outpatient rehab centers, and homes for the mentally challenged. A lot of seedy old-man bars down by the train tracks. It would be a good drop point if Jonah decided not to trust Chase. He’d get a few drinks into Chase and pop him with the.22, make it look like a suicide in the midst of despair after wrecking his car. Or just dump him in front of a Babylon local. The plan had holes in it but all the best plans did. It kept the cops stumbling.

The pressure on Chase’s chest eased as Jonah stood and Angie turned off the road, slowed, slipped into a spot at the curb, and threw it into park. The clanging bells of a railroad crossing erupted, followed by the scream of a whistle. A train was pulling in. Chase checked his watch-1:28. They were in downtown Bay Shore.