Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

Neal looked back at Graham.

“She insisted on coming along,” Graham explained.

“I know this sounds nuts, Ms. Kelley,” Neal said, “but we’re committing a crime in getting your son back this way. You weren’t supposed to have any knowledge of this, for your own protection.”

“Cody would be terrified if I wasn’t here, strangers grabbing him. This is going to be hard enough on him. I’m staying.”

One look at her eyes convinced Neal that they weren’t going to get rid of her and that there was no sense getting shirty about it. So he said, “Maybe it is good you’re here. Maybe you can keep Cody quiet when we put him in the van.”

“I guarantee it.”

“You want to do it now, Neal?” Graham asked. “Are you sure?”

“I had to give up too much at the bar. This is as good a time as any. I love the setup.”

Graham nodded. “It’s pretty,” he said.

“You’re not going to hurt Harley, are you?” Anne asked. “I don’t want him hurt.”

Neal turned away and the window slid back up.

We don’t want him hurt, either, Neal thought, but if that’s what it takes…

He took three deep breaths and walked back toward Cabin S. He could hear the van pull forward, within range. The truck wouldn’t be far behind.

Neal knocked on the door.

A man’s voice answered, “Who is it?”

Is that aggravation or anxiety I’m hearing in the voice? Neal asked himself.

“My name is Kellow,” Neal said. “Reverend Carter asked me to pay you a visit, see how you were doing.”

“Who the hell is Reverend Carter?”

The voice came from right behind the door.

Shit, shit, shit, Neal thought. He’s hinky already. I don’t think this is going to be a finesse job. This is going to be size and speed.

There was no peephole, so Harley couldn’t see out. Neal stuck out his right arm and made a fast circular motion forward with his hand.

Hurry, hurry, he thought. He didn’t look back to see if they were coming. He knew they were.

“Reverend Carter was getting a little worried. Seems there were some people coming around asking about you,” Neal said into the door.

There was a long silence. Neal could almost hear him thinking.

“Worried about me?”

Just open the door, Harley. Just open the door and all our worries will be over. “Yeah. I guess you have some sort of situation? With your wife? Reverend Carter thought maybe we could be of help.”

Graham was crouched at his feet now. Two of the muscle guys were flat on the ground under the window and by the door. Levine was squatting a few feet behind Neal.

“How could he help me?” the voice asked.

The tone was a little belligerent. Is he stalling for time? Neal wondered. Getting Cody up, getting him dressed, getting ready to go out the back window?

“Ohhh…” Neal answered, “a little money, maybe.”

The door opened a crack. Joe Graham stuck his artificial arm in the gap as the man tried to slam the door shut again. Neal jumped out of the way as Levine slammed into the door, ripping the security chain from the wall.

The two hitters burst in. One tackled the man around the waist as the other slipped a black hood over his head. The first hitter clasped him around the neck, put one huge hand over his mouth, and lifted him up onto his toes in a lock that would break his neck if he tried to fight. The second hitter closed the door as the van pulled up alongside. This all took about three seconds.

Levine went over to the bed to pick up Cody.

Cody wasn’t in the bed.

Graham came out of the bathroom shaking his head.

“Where’s the boy?” Levine hissed.

“What boy?” asked the voice muffled under the hood. The voice was shaking.

Levine grabbed the hood just under the chin and pulled hard. “You can tell me now or tell me later, but you’ll be feeling a hell of a lot worse later, so tell me now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It wasn’t a voice of defiance. It was a voice of terror.

“It isn’t him,” Graham said.

“What?” Levine asked.

“It isn’t him.” Graham lifted the man’s left arm and pointed to a spot beneath his white T-shirt. “No tattoo.”

“What’s your name?” Levine asked him.

“Harley McCall!”

There couldn’t be two of them, Levine thought.

“What’s your real name?”

“Paul Wallace.” He was crying.

“Why are you using Harley McCall’s social security number, Paul?”

“I found his wallet. I needed a new name. Are you going to kill me?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Where did you ‘find’ it?”

“In Las Vegas.”

“When?”

“Month or so.”

Ed signaled for Graham, Neal, and the other hitter to get out, then said, “Paul, I have to leave now. There’ll be someone watching from across the street. You stay in here for ten minutes with this hood on. If you don’t-”

“I will.”

Graham cracked the door open, looked outside, and then moved quickly into the van. Neal followed him in. The hitter strode to the phone booth outside and ripped the receiver cord from the phone. Then he headed for the truck.

Levine came out the door, lifted his hands, and made a gesture like a stick breaking. The hitter got into the van just as it slid off down the street. Then Levine climbed into the van.

Anne Kelley was crying. She was beating her fists on the seat cushion, crying and saying, “Cody, Cody, Cody.”

Levine said to Neal, “Get in that car and drive like hell. Don’t go to Reno airport. Just get across the state line, dump the car, and meet us back in New York. We’ll start all over again.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal said to Anne.

She nodded but kept crying.

“Move!” Ed yelled to him. “The bartender can ID you!”

Neal was looking at Anne Kelley. She was a study in misery, a study in loss.

“Get going, son,” Graham said quietly.

Neal opened the van door and got out. Vinnie threw the van in reverse and rolled out of town in the opposite direction from the truck.

Neal stood in the parking lot for a few long moments. He tried to shake the image of Anne Kelley’s tortured face from his mind, but it wouldn’t go. He opened Paul Wallace’s door and stepped in.

Wallace looked small and skinny in his underwear, a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. He was an older guy, now that Neal took a closer look at him. He was in his late forties, with a lot of hard miles behind him. He had a full head of black hair, streaked with silver, greased straight back. He had heavy bags under his eyes and deep lines on his face. His skin was pale. He was trying to pour some Old Crow from a pint bottle into a motel glass, but his hand was shaking so badly that he spilled the booze on the floor.

Neal took the bottle from his hand, poured three fingers of whiskey into the glass, and handed it to him. Then he sat down on Wallace’s bed.

“We have a problem, Paul,” Neal said quietly.

“We!” Paul asked sarcastically. He took a heavy gulp of the cheap whiskey.

Neal nodded. “Well, you. You do.”

“You were the guy outside my door. I recognize your voice.”

“See, they’re thinking about whacking you.”

Paul tried to sound tough but his voice cracked as he asked, “What do they have against me?”

“They think you’re lying. So do I.”

“I-”

“Shut up. See, I have to wonder why you opened the door if you don’t know who Reverend Carter is. So that makes me wonder if maybe you also know Harley McCall. Now you can talk.”

“All right. I didn’t find the wallet. I took it. Okay? Now leave me alone.”

Neal shook his head. “You’re not a pickpocket, Paul. You’re a loser. A dues-paying member of the fraternity of losers.”