David Levien - Where the dead lay

Knute stopped chewing a few minutes later when he heard tires on gravel outside. Then came a car horn and he exited out the front door. Terry was there by the side door behind the wheel of his Charger, a scowl knotted on his face.

“Gimme some of that,” Terry said absently as Knute climbed into the passenger seat. Knute tore the remaining half of the peanut butter sandwich in two and handed a piece over.

“I thought you live in back,” Terry said.

“I do.”

“Chalky,” Terry remarked of the sandwich.

“It’s all they had,” Knute responded. Terry gave him a quizzical glance but didn’t say anything. “Did you meet Camp?” he wondered, though based on the grimace Terry was sporting, he had a pretty good idea of the answer.

“We’ve got issues there.”

“You ready to do this thing then?” Knute asked.

Terry nodded. Knute pulled out a prepaid cell and dialed a number he had memorized. It rang several times. Knute felt Terry’s eyes scanning his face, but he kept his gaze forward. Finally, the ringing stopped.

“Who’s this?” a dry, granular voice asked.

“Knute from down south,” Knute said. He could hear the noise of plates and glasses clinking in the background, and the sound of a televised baseball game. “This Bobby B.?”

“You got me. Indy Newt?”

“Right. What’re you doing?”

“Watching the Cubbies. They were in first place, looking like they were gonna get something done post-season, but now… The fuck’re you doing?”

“Hold on,” Knute said, extending the phone, which Terry took.

“Hey man,” Terry said, “we have a complication from that other piece of work.”

“This T?” Bobby asked.

“Yes, it is.” A moment’s angry silence passed.

“What kind of fucking problem?” Brodax demanded, his voice charged and not so low that Knute couldn’t hear it bleed out of the phone.

“A cleanup problem.”

Silence reigned on the line.

“Some asshole’s been poking around,” Terry went on.

“Law enforcement?” Brodax asked.

“He has that smell.” There was a breath; Terry wasn’t happy about what came next. “He turned up-someone turned up- that… package down by the river.”

“And now you want me to make another package,” Brodax volunteered.

“Something like that,” Terry said.

She’d finally managed to stop the darned waterworks. In the end, she hadn’t been able to go inside the clinic and do what she’d planned. She got herself together and drove Lynn home, and the smile her friend had given when she’d climbed out of the car made her sure she’d done the right thing. For the moment anyway. But Susan needed to see Frank. Not just to talk to him, but to look into his eyes. They’d been apart too much lately, he on his cases, she with her situation, and whether this break was for good or not, they needed to hash things out. She’d suddenly understood with clarity what was at issue between them. She’d gotten a tiny taste of it outside of that clinic, and it was enough to make her shudder. It should’ve been pretty obvious considering what he’d had and lost in his life. Deep down she’d known it from the moment she’d told him the news and things had started crumbling between them, but she’d been unable to do anything but take it personally. She had her own baggage, she supposed. Hey, it was only fair. But now a phone call wasn’t going to do it, so she headed to his place. If she was going to have his kid, to raise it with him or without him, there was a lot to talk about.

She called on her way, just to see if he was home, and had gotten his voice mail. It didn’t dissuade her, though. She figured she’d find him there, not answering his phone, or would just wait until he arrived. She hoped it wouldn’t be long, but she had her key, so if he truly wasn’t home she’d rest until he showed up.

When she reached his place, she glanced toward the parking area in the back and didn’t see his car. She parked on the street, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. Her key was in the lock when she felt a creeping sensation and stopped. Her neck felt frozen, unable to turn her head so she could look to confirm what she knew in her bones: someone was watching her. They’re here for Frank. It echoed in her head. Her car seemed miles away back down on the street, a distance that was suddenly too great to traverse. She squeezed the doorknob, wondering what awaited her on the other side. Still, it was the only choice now. She forced herself to turn the lock and open the door. She swung the door open, entered, closed it behind her, and turned the lock.

The place felt empty. But her heart was pounding now and she didn’t know if she could trust herself.

“Frank?” she called out. There was no answer. Total stillness. Only the low hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. Should I call the police? She tried to imagine what she’d say-that she felt like someone was watching her sort of boyfriend’s house, send a SWAT team? Maybe she was just panicking. Maybe she was just hormonal. She went down to her knees and peered out the bottom of the front window between the blinds. She could see the fenders of several cars on the street, but nothing else. She sat back against the wall and looked at the locked gun cabinet. She could smash the glass and grab a shotgun, but it had been fifteen years since she’d fired one-shooting a few clays with her dad-and didn’t know if she could even do it, much less find the right ammunition and load it. Frank had offered to teach her many times, but she’d always said no. The idea of handling guns was unpleasant and ugly to her, but she wished she had taken him up on it now. There was one thing she needed to do, she realized, before she did anything else: she knew she had to check the place to make sure she was alone.

Convenience stores. It was a silly thing, but they were what Knute loved. And he loved everything about them. The fluorescent lighting, the bad music, the linoleum floors, all the choices-that was freedom to him now. Pepsi, Mountain Dew, slushies, Little Debbie Marshmallow Pies, Twizzlers, BBQ-flavored Fritos, jerky snacks, fifteen brands of beer, and porno mags-all the shit he couldn’t get when he was inside, at least without a major effort and expense, and definitely not on his own timetable. He had to take a hell of a squirt right now courtesy of the Big Gulp he was sucking on. Dr Pepper, ah the good doctor. Together with a bag of Funyuns it was a gourmet junk-food pairing. When they thought about the possibility of going back and doing another stretch, most guys who’ve been inside can’t face the prospect of no women. That was a tough one for sure, but it would be harder still living without the ability to visit a Kwik Mart or 7-Eleven whenever the hell he damn well pleased.

It wasn’t really a question anyway. “Not going back” is what all the cons say in the movies, Knute thought. But “can’t go back” is the truth. He died some in prison in Michigan City, his body just didn’t catch on. But if he went back, it surely would. And if he kept on following blindly behind Terry and those dumb-ass dreams of grandeur, that was exactly where he was headed. Back. Cold fucking cement, surrounding him like a coffin. A narrow, opaque slice of window that only hinted at the light of day. Icy-blooded evil bastards around him on every side. Terry was a badass-as bad a man as he’d seen who hadn’t been locked down-but Camp Doray not showing had rattled him. Terry tried not to show it, but Knute knew him too well. Now the man was ready to admit what Knute had already figured: it was time to cut losses. He was glad, real glad, when Terry had gotten him to bring the Chicago guys back in the mix. They were expensive, but worth it-especially for this Behr motherfucker. What Knute had learned about him-how he’d managed to run shit down and end up at their door, how he’d scrapped with Kenny and Charlie at the same time and was still walking-well, that told Knute he was serious business. And that’s what those Chicago guys were for. Knute knew plenty about hurting and killing, and about the removing when it was all done, but even he had learned volumes watching those guys work.