Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"You're going to protect Alena. I'm going to meet with him."

"He'll kill you."

"The deal will be he lets it go or he doesn't get the money back."

"He won't let it…"

"Natalie, his employers have pulled the plug, he's operating on his own now. He needs the money. He'll do what I say to get it back."

She frowned, adjusting her grip on the wheel, and I caught her toss me a glance that said she knew I was being simple and stupid, and she wasn't buying it.

"And you really think he'll leave it at that?"

"Of course he will," I lied. "We're all professionals."

Dan let us in the door with a gun in his hand, and I left Natalie to tell him we'd be moving again soon. There was concern on Dan's face as we entered, and I knew the concern wasn't for me, and I wondered once more what had passed between him and Natalie. The guard in the front room told me Alena was in the basement, and I went through the door, quickly shutting it behind me, and then to the stairs, descending three at a time. The owners had a variety of exercise equipment and hobby supplies scattered throughout the basement, and Alena was using an old workout machine with pulleys and rubber resistance straps to lift weights, doing lat pull-downs on a bench. She was wearing a black T-shirt and the brace was still wrapped around her leg, and the sweat was coming off her so I knew she'd been at it a long time.

When she saw me she released the bar, letting it go back into position.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"Scott."

"How?"

"He stuck a knife in his chest in the middle of Madison Square Park."

She reached for her cane and got to her feet. She used the corner of her shirt to wipe her face. Then she looked at me.

"Critical space," she said.

"I'm going to hear from him at nine tonight. He'll tell me that he knows where my parents live, where my brother lives, where my third-grade teacher lives, and he'll tell me that he'll kill them all unless I give him his money back."

She nodded, watching me as I came off the last step and began walking around the room. There were bowling trophies on a shelf with a box of Christmas tree lights and a half-finished model of a '68 Mustang convertible. On one wall was a reprint poster for Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

"And what will you tell him?"

"I'll tell him he can have his money and in exchange he leaves us alone. Gracey and Bowles pulled out on him this morning, he's working solo now, and I'll remind him of that, and I'll remind him that if he kills me he's never getting the cash. He'll listen to that."

She adjusted her weight on the cane, nodding. "He will."

"Then I'll name a place and a time for him to meet me. I'll tell him that I will meet him there. I'll give him every assurance that I'll be there alone, because I will be." I looked back at her, at her full mouth drawn tight with concern, at her brown eyes that always seemed just a little too big for her face. The perspiration on her brow had run along her cheeks, trailing lines that were like tears. It felt as if it had been years since we'd danced, instead of only two weeks.

"And then?" she asked.

"And then I'll kill him."

There was no visible reaction on her face, no sign that what I was saying disturbed or frightened or even amused her, and for an instant I felt a rage flash through me, blindingly hot, and I hated her for her calm and dead heart, and for what she was doing to mine.

"You will need a good location," Alena said.

"I've already got one in mind. If you're up for a short walk, I'd like you to check it with me."

I suppose she had already guessed where I was talking about, because she went to the stairs and said, "I will get a coat and meet you at the door."

There was a gate in the fence at the backyard, and Miata trotted out ahead of us as we crossed into the wetlands that had once been a farm. The earth was littered with dead leaves, dried and broken twigs, and the roots from the many frees made the ground uneven and poked out treacherously. We took it slow and I gave Alena my arm. With her arm through mine we probably looked like any other couple out for an early evening walk with their dog.

The path forked at an enormous maple that had been large when the farm was still in good order. An old tire hung from one of its branches. Empty bottles of beer and crumpled snack wrappers littered the wet ground around its base. We turned left, and the path narrowed. Miata snuffled along, nose to the ground. On our right, through gaps in the brush and frees, we could see the water beside us, reeds and more brush breaking its surface. It didn't look deep, more a marsh or a swamp than a pond.

After six minutes we passed a small stand that had been built by the State of New Jersey as a bird-watching post. It was made of wood, rotten in places, and had once been painted green. I climbed it while Alena waited below, and had a complete view of the water and the surroundings. The whole area was rimmed with frees, and I could hear the whisper of tires on the Franklin Turnpike to the east. Another bird-watching stand had been erected on the opposite side of the marsh, and it looked as dismal and frail as the one on which I stood. To the north, jutting into the water with its front stoop sagging, was an abandoned farmhouse.

When I climbed back down I told Alena what I'd seen, and we agreed that a closer inspection of the farmhouse was in order, and so she took my arm again and we continued on our way. Miata disappeared around the bend ahead of us, and when we rounded it we found him seated in the middle of the path, chewing on his thigh.

There was no clear path to the house, and I had to push my way through the brush and into the water before I could reach its side. It wasn't much of a home, only one room, and through the long-since-broken windows I saw a small empty space of broken floorboards, more trash. I left Alena on the path and crept around the side, and discovered the only door was the one I'd seen facing the water. I waded in, the cold water filling my shoes, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Kids had used it as a getaway, a make-out spot, although it was hard for me to imagine the place as romantic. Yellow newspapers and rusted tin cans were scattered about, and perhaps two or three hundred cigarette butts floated in the corner where the water was steadily rising over the floor. In another year, or two, or five, the building would collapse with its rot, but for now it was holding the line, fighting valiantly to stay stable. Teenagers would yet lose their virginity within its buckling walls.

This would be where I would do it, I decided, and went back to join Alena.

"There's only one way in," I said. "Unless he decides to break down the wall, he'll have to go around to the door. He'll have to come out the same way."

"Sounds perfect."

"I'll come back after we return to the house, put the card in the far corner."

She didn't reply, just took my arm again, and we continued to follow Miata around the marsh. By the time we reached the fence at the house, it was dusk, and my watch said it was just before six o'clock. We went back inside the house, upstairs, and Alena took the Sparbuch card from her go-bag, which she was keeping beside her bed. I went to place it, and it was full night when I returned in another twenty minutes, my feet and legs freezing from the cold water and the cold air.

I removed my wet shoes and socks and pants and threw them all in the dryer, then headed upstairs and put on my last pair of jeans. Alena was still in her room, but Natalie had now joined her.

"Where's the PDW?" I asked them.

"In the Audi," Natalie said.

"I need it."

Natalie looked at Alena, and when Alena didn't object, got to her feet, saying, "I'll get it."