Nicola Griffith - Stay

Nobody moved for two or three seconds, then Mike lifted both hands as if to say, Hey, I’m harmless, and Adeline stepped in front of her husband. She touched Jud’s cheek, said something. Not this way, maybe. Or perhaps, It’s not worth it. Or even, I don’t want to lose you, too. Whatever it was, it worked. He lowered the gun. Mike started forward, but the woman said something and he stopped. The woman spoke again, and he opened the back door of the car. The woman put one hand on the handle and gestured to Luz with the other: Get in. Luz shook her head, and looked at Adeline. Adeline tried to smile, tried to blow a kiss to Luz, but her mouth wouldn’t shape it properly. Instead she nodded. Luz climbed in. The woman slammed the door. She smiled pleasantly at the Carpenters, then walked around to the other side of the car. Mike started the engine. The woman got in the back and closed the door, and the car pulled onto the road.

Watching in dumb show and from a distance made the whole thing look like some strange puppet performance, utterly divorced from me and my life.

When the car came over the rise, I was standing between truck and trailer, looking in fake feminine annoyance at the hitch. Mike braked, and I prayed that Luz was either too smart or too much in shock to speak. I waved in that awkward, windscreen wiper way people with no physical coordination do, and smiled, and then threw my hands up as if to say, It just broke! Mike looked back at the woman and said something. She nodded. He climbed out of the car, already wearing that tolerant, capable-urban-man-approaching-silly-rural-woman expression I had counted on.

“I am so glad to see you!” I said. “If this just doesn’t beat all. I had to put the brake on so hard I thought that was it, time to visit Jesus. You’re just the man I want to see. See here? Around this side?” I walked around the truck so that the hitch was between us. He followed. We were now out of the woman’s line of sight. “I’m just not strong enough to lift this thingie back on.”

I pointed, and when he leaned forward I stepped behind him, shoved him against the side of the truck bed, and yanked his belt up with my right hand so his pants crushed his scrotum. While he concentrated on not fainting I slipped my left hand inside his jacket and slid out the gun. A Glock with the seventeen-shot magazine. Oversize, like his muscles. I thumbed off the safety and pressed the snout under his left ear. “Take out your wallet.”

“I don’t have much—”

A hard upward yank cut him off mid-sentence. “Now.” Didn’t he understand it would be easier to just shoot him, then shoot the woman and drive away?

He reached behind him and lifted it from his back right-hand pocket. He didn’t try to drop it. Good. Still in the first phase of shock.

I’d left my gloves in the truck.

“Open it.”

His hands shook as he unfolded it.

“Not the money. Your driver’s license and insurance card. Put them on the bed so I can see them.” He did. It had been about fifteen seconds. He would start to recover his wits very soon. “Don’t even think about trying anything.”

I scanned the cards over his shoulder. Michael Turner, a White Plains, New York, address. Social security number on the insurance card.

“Tip out the rest of the wallet. Spread it all apart.”

American Express, MasterCard, debit card, frequent flyer cards, AAA card, an emergency contact number card.

His muscles tensed but I dropped his belt, punched him irritably over the right kidney, and had hold of the leather again before he could translate thought to action. He went limp and the rhythm of his breathing broke. No concealed weapons permit for this or any other state. No private investigator license.

“I know your name, address, and social security number.” I glanced at the emergency contact card: the name Nicki Taormino, the designation fiancée, and a phone number in the person-to-be-contacted slot. “And I have your girlfriend’s number. Do exactly as I tell you and I won’t ever have to use any of that information. Upset me and I’ll shoot you in the gut. Walk two paces to your left and kneel down.”

I let go of his belt and he did as he was told.

I made sure he could see the gun trained on him. “Do you have a handkerchief? Good. Throw it to me.” He tossed me a clean, folded square, still warm from his pocket. “And your tie.” He obeyed silently. I put the tie and hankie on the truck bed with his wallet. “Now take off your belt.” He took off the belt. “Make a big loop.” It took him a moment to understand that I wanted him to thread the tongue through the buckle. The brain does not work well when the system is adrenaline-charged. “Hold it in your left hand, put that hand behind you.” His reaction time was getting slower as his system began to shut down. In three or four minutes it would rev back up, but by then he’d be helpless. “Now the right hand. Wrists together.”

I stepped behind him and yanked the loop tight.

“Lean back, as though you’re reaching for your heels.”

Good thing his waist was so big; there was enough leather to wrap around his ankles, tuck under the loop, pull tight, then knot.

“I’m going to tip you over.” I gave him a second to brace himself, then pushed one shoulder with my foot. I stepped over him to the truck bed, retrieved the hankie and tie. “Open your mouth.” He knew what was coming and began to thrash. I racked the slide on the Glock, pointed the muzzle at his stomach. “Gag or gun.” He opened his mouth. I stuffed the hankie in, then pulled the tie over his mouth to keep the gag in place and knotted it behind his head. He’d probably be able to work it loose in an hour or so, but I wouldn’t take nearly that long. I went back to the truck, fished the driver’s license and insurance card from the pile, and slipped them in my pocket. I needed a minute to stop, to think, but I didn’t have a minute.

I slid the safety back on, tucked the gun in the back of my waistband, and stepped into view of the Maxima. When the woman saw me I waved, opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again with an apologetic smile, as though remembering it wasn’t ladylike to shout.

The woman watched me calmly as I approached, though her shoulders and back looked tight. Her window slid down, but instead of speaking to her I leaned in the driver’s side and took the keys. That bothered her. I smiled at Luz and shook my head slightly, hoping she would understand. She didn’t smile back, just watched me the way you’d watch a rabid dog.

“Step out of the car please, ma’am,” I said to the woman, and the tension in her spine eased a little: law enforcement generally pay attention to well-paid lawyers. Hijackers and thugs don’t. She got out of the car.

I closed her door and window, then used the master control on the driver’s side to lock the car up. I didn’t want Luz running off.

“Well, officer,” she said, “or is it agent? I’d say prior knowledge of my travel plans means some kind of wiretap, which rules out local involvement.” She didn’t look worried. “FBI or INS? Not that it matters. I’ve been through this before. It’s a waste of my time and yours. You have nothing in the way of documentation.”

My eyes felt hot and a little too big for their sockets. This was all her fault. “I don’t need proof.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Since when—” Then she got it. She took a step back. “Where’s my driver? What do you want?”

“Your purse.”

Like Mike Turner, she immediately assumed I wanted to rob her and turned to the car with relief, but unlike him, she realized within a second or two that no one would go to such trouble for a few bucks and a handful of credit cards, and her hand dropped before it touched the handle. “Who are you?”