R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“I’m already waiting,” he said.

The women stepped out.

The storm assaulted them.

They walked briskly, hugging the lee side of the street and taking as much refuge as they could. Inside Waverly’s left sweatpants pocket was Bristol’s black book. Su-Moon had the money in hers.

The streets were empty.

By the time they got to the corner Su-Moon’s pants were close to dropping off from the weight. She stopped long enough to tighten the drawstring as she studied the street.

No one was there, not a soul.

Su-Moon grabbed Waverly’s hand and pulled her into the street, on the opposite side of the massage parlor, which was closed.

Suddenly she stopped.

“My apartment lights are on,” she said.

Waverly looked.

The curtains were drawn.

Light came from behind them.

“Did you leave them on?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Yes.

She was.

Positive.

“So what do we do?” Waverly said.

Su-Moon exhaled.

“We’ll walk past and see if we can see who’s inside,” she said.

They did.

They saw no movement.

They kept going and stopped at the end of the street.

When they looked back, the lights were off.

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Night

River dumped the carat the BNSF service lot a half-mile from his place and walked west through the pitch-black silhouettes of boxcars and gondolas. The gun was in his left hand, cold and wet. January followed two steps behind, saying nothing, hunkered against the rain.

The storm was dangerously wicked.

Wild arcs of lightning flashed low and mean.

His heart raced.

Someone was positioned to kill him.

Someone was waiting silently in a black recess with one thing and one thing only on his mind.

River could feel him.

He slowed from a brisk walk to a timid one, then stopped altogether and put his arms around January.

“Stay here,” he said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

He kissed her hard and headed into the darkness without looking back. The gun was slippery in his hand. His aim-if he got a chance to have one-might well be off, in fact would probably be.

Shoot again.

Fast.

A hundred yards away, that’s how far he was now. Where are you hiding, you little bastard? His blood raced. You’re watching for my headlights, aren’t you? You’re going to shoot me in the back while I’m walking to the door.

Yeah.

That was it.

That was definitely it.

That’s how River would do it.

You’re positioned but not all the way in. You won’t crawl all the way into your little crack until you see the headlights. That little mistake is going to cost you. It’s going to cost you big-time.

River got to the end boxcar, took a position under it on his stomach with the gun pointed outward and waited for an explosion of lightning. It didn’t take long. A wild electric jolt punched the nightscape.

Shapes lit up.

Tracks.

Cars.

No killer.

River turned his eyes slightly to the right and waited for the next jolt.

Come on.

Show yourself.

Storm lights exploded in the distant skies, this way and that, but not close enough to cut through the mess and light the immediate area.

Thunder roller over Denver.

Come on.

Get closer.

A chill worked its way into River’s bones. He was getting stiff. That wasn’t good. He needed to be limber. He rolled over to get the circulation flowing. Just as he got back to his stomach, the world shook with a violent explosion and lit up brighter than daylight.

No human shapes appeared.

River saw nothing he shouldn’t.

Maybe tonight wasn’t the night.

Or maybe it was the night but the attack was something different than River thought. Could the guy have anticipated River coming in on foot?

January.

January.

January.

River crawled out from under the boxcar. The storm pounded him with a wild force but he paid no attention. Every fiber of his being was focused on getting to January. He needed to know she was all right. He needed to know he hadn’t been outsmarted.

Ten steps into the open, lightning exploded.

The yard lit up.

Every inch of River’s face and body lit up.

He dove.

Gravel cut into his face.

The gun flew out of his hand.

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Night

London was ripefor the taking, that’s what the whole shower-in-sight thing was all about. Wilde could swing up into her bed right now and take her like she’d never been taken in her life. He could turn her into a sweaty, lust-soaked animal. It wouldn’t blow his cover. No one from outside would be able to tell.

The problem was Secret.

She was in his blood.

His blood needed to be sure he didn’t screw things up. An hour of pleasure, no matter how pleasurable that pleasure might be, wasn’t worth turning Secret into someone who trusted the wrong man.

No.

No.

No.

If things didn’t work out with Secret, it wouldn’t be because of anything Wilde did.

That’s what his brain said.

Still, the rest of his body couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to swing up top.

“Are you still there?”

The voice came from above.

It was laced with erotic vibration.

“Yeah.”

“If the floor’s too hard, you can come up here. There’s room.”

Wilde exhaled.

“The floor’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” London said. “I’m too wound up.”

“Try.”

The storm raged against the windows, rattling them to the edge of shattering. In other circumstances, Wilde would have nestled into the MG with a couple of beers and let the weather beat down on the rag inches above his head. Tonight, however, all he could do was try to hear over it, listening for sounds of intrusion.

Something seemed off.

He grabbed the gun and stood up.

“I’m going to check the house,” he said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, what?”

She handed him the empty wine glass. “Can you fill this back up for me? The bottle’s in the fridge-”

He hesitated.

It was a bad idea.

He didn’t feel like arguing though.

“Sure.”

Downstairs,the doors were shut and locked, as were the windows. There were no signs of entry. Outside, nothing showed that shouldn’t. No menacing silhouettes lurked in the shadows.

Wilde filled the wineglass, headed upstairs and took his place back on the floor. The carpet was harder than he remembered.

London propped against the headboard and nursed the wine in silence.

“He’s coming tonight,” she said.

Wilde frowned.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because the storm’s too perfect.”

London set the glass on the nightstand and snuggled into the covers.

“Good night.”

Time passed.

The storm intensified.

Wilde listened to it as London’s breathing got deeper and heavier, then he shut his eyes just to rest them for a second. A slap of thunder forced them open. He listened for sounds, found none, and closed them again.

The jagged edges in his brain softened.

Don’t fall asleep.

I won’t.

Keep your eyes open.

I’m just resting.

You’re falling asleep.