Joel Goldman - Shakedown

Latrell kept that gun in the cave and the mate in the bottom drawer of his dresser, never firing it, not even once to see that it worked. He wasn’t religious, but he saw the spare gun as his salvation, the way to make things right one last time. So he saved it, keeping it pure and clean, for the moment he would need it. He checked the magazine for the fifth time, making certain it only held two bullets. That was all he would need.

He’d woken up that morning lying on the?oor of the cave, hugging his knees to his chest so tightly that when he stretched out he had no feeling in his legs. Soon Latrell’s skin started to tingle, his muscles warmed, and he staggered to his feet, bracing himself with one hand against the cave wall, breathing in the moist cool air coming off the underground lake.

The last thing he remembered from the night before was how he had screamed when he discovered that Davis had been in his cave, had stolen his gun and his special things. Latrell didn’t remember his screams giving way to sobs or his sobs giving way to sleep, but he knew that’s what had happened because it had been that way so many times before.

The candles he had lit had all burned out and the batteries in his?ashlight had died. The impenetrable darkness of the cave was broken only by shimmering?ecks of green light that dotted the?oor and walls, a mysterious glowing mineral that reminded him of the sparks he saw when he squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.

Latrell was at ease in the blackness that made everything, including him, invisible. He knew the contours of the cave as well as he knew his own house and could easily navigate by touch and memory. Still groggy, he knelt at the edge of the lake, splashing the icy water on his face, then rocked back on his haunches, thinking about what he had to do and how he would do it.

He was convinced that Davis had followed him to the cave and waited until Latrell was gone so he could sneak inside, learn his secrets, and steal his gun and the picture of him and his mother that Johnny McDonald had taken in front of their house. He didn’t know what had made Davis suspect him, but he should have known something was up when Davis tried to play him with that bullshit story about losing his son.

Davis, he was certain, had given his gun to the FBI, who would figure out that it had been used to kill Marcellus, the Winston brothers, Jalise, and Keyshon. Davis would tell them how he’d followed Latrell to the cave and found the gun there and then they would come for him. He didn’t know how long these things took but guessed it would be today or tomorrow.

He thought about running but didn’t know where he would go or how he would live. He needed a place in the world, like his house and his job, and he needed a safe place away from the world, like the cave. Otherwise he would never survive.

From the instant Latrell had killed Johnny McDonald, he knew that it would eventually end like this no matter how many times he tried to make things right. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for the life he’d had. He’d only wanted to be taken care of, and, when he wasn’t, he took care of himself the only way he knew how.

It had worked with Johnny and his mother, but it hadn’t worked with Marcellus. Latrell blamed Oleta Phillips. She had ruined his plan. That wasn’t his fault. It was more of the bad luck that clung to him.

He found his way through the two smaller rooms of the cave, crawled up the chute to the surface, and emerged in the woods. The sun was high overhead and breaking through the trees, the air humid and smelling like wet clay.

The day was half gone, his day just beginning. Latrell thought about walking through the woods, across the rail yard, into the terminal building, and sitting down at his desk as if it was an ordinary day, but he couldn’t think of a lie to tell that would explain why he was late, dirty, and still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

No one was waiting to arrest him when he got home. Latrell spent an hour in the shower, exhausting the hot water, letting the cold sting his skin until he was numb and clean.

Standing naked in his bedroom, he found the business card the FBI agent had given him. He ran his finger over the raised print that spelled Jack Davis’s name and turned the card over, reading the name of the other agent he was supposed to call if he remembered something about the night of the murders. Ammara Iverson. She was one of the agents who had talked to him that night.

He tensed, his shoulders knotting, and dialed her number. She answered. He told her his name, asking did she remember him, waiting for her reaction.

“Yes, Mr. Kelly. I remember. What can I do for you?”

She was polite but unexcited, not acting like he was a wanted man. His muscles eased and he loosened up.

“Agent name of Jack Davis come to see me the other night. He give me your phone number in case I remembered something about the night of the murders.”

“Well then, I’m glad you called,” she said. Her voice sharpened and he imagined her sitting up in her chair, like he was about to crack the case for her. “What did you remember?”

“That’s not why I’m calling you. I didn’t remember nothing because I didn’t see nothing, just like I told you and him.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Marcellus, he had a little dog. I took it in so it wouldn’t get hurt or nothing. Then I give it to Jack Davis, only I forgot to give him some toys I bought for the dog. I was hoping you could give me his phone number so I could tell him to come get the toys.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly. We’re not allowed to give out that information, but if you give me your number, I can pass it on to Agent Davis and he can get in touch with you if he wants the dog’s toys.”

“My number ain’t listed. I don’t give it out, either. You tell him I got something for him and if he wants it to come get it.”

Ammara said she would and he believed her. He started to dial the number for work to tell them that he was sick, but stopped, setting the phone down. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t at work because he was never going back.

“I’ll drive,” Kate said.

“Why?”

“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re shaking.”

I was. A few light tremors. Not constant, more like a quick shudder. “That’s from your kiss.”

She laughed, patted my cheek, and picked up her purse. “I’m?attered, but I’m still driving.”

“I can drive.”

“I’m certain you can, but my presence will look more innocent if I’m driving. It makes the whole girlfriend thing more believable. And we should bring Ruby. That will show him we believe his story about the dog’s toys.”

“You’ve got this figured out.”

“It’s what I do.”

“I thought your job was to find jurors that are gullible enough to vote for your client.”

“Of course it is. But gullible isn’t as easy as it looks. There are a lot of ways to tell a story. My job is to frame it in the way most likely to convince the jury. You can knock on Latrell’s door by yourself doing your macho FBI thing and hope he spills his guts without trying to kill you.”

“Or?”

“Or, the three of us-you, me, and the dog-can make a social call that doesn’t scream ‘assume the position, dirt bag.’ “

“Nobody says ‘dirt bag’ anymore.”

“But you do say ‘assume the position.’ “

“Not on a first date.”

“Cute, but not cute enough,” Kate said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re not going to let me talk you out of this, are you?”

“No. You can leave me here but I’ll follow you. I may even call Troy Clark, tell him where you are going and that you need backup.”