Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Time passed while he thought. At last, she said: “What is the plan?”

“Like I said, there’s you, there’s the million.”

Another long breath. “Do they know?”

“Now they do. They saw the note.”

“What does it say?”

“The exact words? Can’t give you the exact words. Something about the money, where to leave it and such.”

“Where?”

“In the room down there.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“What time is it now?”

“Don’t have a watch.”

“I do.”

He rolled over, held the candle near her wrist. Her watch was all smashed up.

“No you don’t,” he said.

The gold eye watched him. “And if the money doesn’t come?”

“Like, worst-case scenario? That’s what we say in business.” He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said: “No need to talk about that. It’ll come. The cops is what I’m-not worried-more like, you know.”

“What makes you think they’ll be involved?”

“Hey. Exactly right. I wrote it in plain English, what would happen.”

“Which was?”

“That’d be a deal breaker.”

The gold eye watched him.

He watched her back, let her get a good look at him. “Ever seen a man like me?” he said.

The eye closed. “No.”

Freedy smiled, his first smile in a long time. There was pressure, oh yes, but he could handle it. Pressure was part of the big time, one thing they didn’t mention on the infomercials. “Babe?” he said.

No answer.

Breaking a horse, but a valuable one, and a horse he liked. He reached over, put a hand on her tit. The gold eye opened. She tried to move away, but couldn’t, of course.

“The plan needs work,” she said, real quiet.

He stopped what he was doing. “Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”

She-that eye of hers-watched him.

“I asked you a question.”

“Why should I help with the plan?”

“I’m asking the questions here.”

Silence. He had an idea. “You know why you should help?” he said.

She watched him.

“Because we’re in this together,” Freedy said.

She laughed. Cut off real quick, with a gasp like she was in pain or something, but still: an actual laugh.

“What’s funny?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“You laughed.”

No answer.

“Come on,” Freedy said. “I’ve got a sense of humor.”

“I know you do.”

He liked that. He looked at her, so close. Soul mates. Only potential right now, but the potential was there. Couldn’t he just see it: the two of them walking out of his HQ, his beautiful blue HQ down in Florida, at the end of a working day, climbing into the coolest car in the world, peeling off to somewhere. “What time do you think it is?” he said, real relaxed, real intimate, like man and wife.

“No idea.”

She had a great voice. Had he noticed that before? She was worth a million bucks. Should he say that? Why not, since she knew he had a sense of humor, had just finished saying so? The hero gets the money and the girl, and everyone else stands around like assholes. That was what he found himself saying, instead of the joke: “You know the way the hero gets the money and the girl and everyone stands around like assholes?” he said.

The gold eye closed, opened, watched him. “The plan needs work,” she said.

“You already said that.”

“The money and the… hostage can’t be in the same place.”

“Huh?”

“They can’t be in the same physical place.”

“How come?”

“You can’t figure it out?”

He couldn’t believe he’d heard that. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing? He was back on top of her, not as quick as usual, but still quick enough that she hadn’t finished saying nothing. She made that gasping noise again, this time ending with a high-pitched little note. He felt her breath, warm on his face. “Think I’m a loser?” he said.

“No.”

“Then don’t talk down your fucking nose.”

“I need…” She didn’t finish it.

He felt her tits under him, saw those lips, undamaged so far, inches away. They were perfect. His own lips parted. This would be a good time.

“You don’t have any control unless the money’s in a separate place,” she said.

He paused. “I don’t?”

“If you’re with the hostage,” she said, “that makes you a hostage too.”

Had he ever heard anything as smart in his life?

“Especially in a place like here,” she added, nailing it down.

“How do you know all this?” he said.

She watched him, watched with the gold eye. The other eye, the closed one, had some kind of liquid seeping out.

He rolled off her, sat up. She took one of those long slow breaths, making that gentle breeze sound.

“But I already wrote where to bring the money,” Freedy said, seeing a problem right away.

“You’ll have to change it.”

“How?”

“By calling them.”

“Who?”

“My sister. Nat. I’ll give you the numbers.”

Freedy didn’t like it. “What if no one answers?”

The gold eye watched him. He got the feeling the next thing she said was going to piss him off. But it didn’t. “Leave a message,” she said.

“Saying what?”

“Where to leave the money.”

“Where’s that?”

“This is your territory, isn’t it?”

Freedy thought. His mother’s: no. Ronnie’s: no. The high-school parking lot: no. “What kind of place?” he said.

“The woods.”

“With all this snow?”

“A vacant lot, then. An empty building.”

“I don’t know anywhere like…” But he did.

She watched him. “You’ve thought of something.”

“Maybe.”

“Where?”

“Tell you later. Just give me the numbers.”

She did. Pen, yes, paper, no; he wrote them on his hand.

“Now,” he said, “what about you?”

“You have to leave me here. Especially if it’s still daytime.”

“Do you think it is?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have to keep you taped up to the pipe.”

“I know.”

“And gag you again.”

She was silent.

And what else? There was something else, something important. “There’s something else,” he said, hoping she’d tell him what it was.

She watched him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “What if someone comes down while I’m gone?”

“I’ll be tied up and gagged.”

“But-” This was the point: “What about the head-banging thing?”

“Why would I do it?” The gold eye closed, opened. “They didn’t hear.”

“Still,” Freedy said.

Still. Which was why he had to do something. He checked out the way she was, the tape job, the pipe. Going to need some adjustments.

“Babe?” he said.

No answer.

“Have to untape your hand for a sec.” He tore at the tape, unwound it. Her arm, one arm, came free. She sort of groaned. The rest of her, legs and the other arm, remained taped tight to the utility pipe. “Have to lean your head a little this way,” he said. He was looking at the pipe, reaching in his pocket for a roll of tape, not really watching, not really noticing that her arm, her free arm, was feeling around under her. “Let’s have that arm,” he said.

The arm came up, came up with something glinting in it, came up quick, even by his time scale. A sharp thing, goddamn piece of glass from that fucking aquarium, stabbed him right in the neck. Not in the neck, exactly, because he was even quicker, but in his shoulder, the one just starting to feel better, deep. Had she known it was under her, that piece of glass, even brought it somehow, waiting for a chance? That hurt most of all. Why? Because of the money and the girl thing, the hero’s reward, now gone and wrecked.