Wallace Stroby - Gone 'Til November

“Mikey don’t pay his debts if there’s a cheaper way to solve the problem. You feel me?”

He got his wallet, took out three fifties, then, after a moment, three more, held them out. She looked at the bills.

“For the ride home,” he said.

He kept them out there. She took them, then unlocked the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

He opened the envelope, took the papers out, got the reading glasses from his bag.

Copied reports, twelve pages altogether. One was from the coroner’s office, had the generic outline of a body, front and back views, Xs marking entrance and exit wounds. Newspaper clippings and a plain sheet of white paper. On it, she’d written two names and addresses in a small, precise feminine hand.

He saw headlights, went to the window, and parted the curtains. The cab was there. She got in, looked back at the room, at him. Then the driver turned around and headed back the way he’d come.

He lay in the dark until one thirty, then went out to the car. The night was filled with the sound of crickets, the ragged hum of air conditioners, a muffled TV from one of the rooms.

He popped the trunk, got the bag Otis had given him, a screwdriver from the toolbox, the gun cleaning kit he’d bought at a sportsmen’s shop in North Carolina. Then he opened the passenger side door, sat on the blacktop, and worked by the glow of the courtesy light.

When he was done, he replaced the rocker panels, locked the doors, carried the bag inside. At the desk, he cleaned and oiled the Beretta, then reassembled it. He spilled a box of 9 mm shells out on the blotter, brass glinting in the light. He thumbed fifteen rounds into the clip, pushed it into the grip until it seated. He chambered a shell, decocked the gun, engaged the safety.

He did the same with the Walther, the gun only slightly heavier when it was loaded. When he was done, he took out the bag of reefer, got the pack of rolling papers from his overnight. The pain in his stomach was back, low and burning. He sat on the bed, lit the joint, sucked in smoke and held it, thought about the three hundred and fifty thousand.

Mikey’s money, but he’d be inside before long, one way or another. Morgan knew if he brought it all back, Mikey would find a way to cheat him on the cut. Or just give him up to the Trey Dogs to make peace, keep it all himself.

With the three fifty and what he had stashed in Newark, Morgan could start again in another city, another state, bring Cassandra and the boy with him. He could find a doctor there, begin the treatments. If Mikey or C-Love or the twins came looking, he could deal with that, too, protect what was his. What he’d earned.

He put the Beretta in his overnight, left it unzipped, easy to get at. The Walther went under a pillow. He lay back on the bed, drew on the joint, let the smoke relax him. The pain in his stomach began to ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the night.

After she clocked in, Sara went to the storeroom that held the SO’s single general-use computer. She signed on, typed quickly, sat back and waited, hearing voices in the corridor, a toilet flushing down the hall.

When the report came up, she scanned it, hit PRINT. Behind her, the printer chattered. She looked toward the half-closed door, hoping no one would come in, ask what she was doing.

The printer spit pages, went silent. She closed the file and signed off. She gathered the pages from the printer, went out into the hall, and closed the door behind her.

One call this morning, a lawn mower stolen from a shed in Libertyville, and since then the radio had been mercifully quiet. At ten thirty, she parked the cruiser on a dirt road that led down to the river, lowered the window, shut the engine off. The drone of cicadas filled the silence it left.

She had a dull headache from the sleep she’d missed the night before. She had lain awake after Billy left, listening to the rain, wondering why she had let him back into her house, her bed. Not knowing the answer.

She read the report again. Little in it she didn’t already know. Appended were Billy’s statement, her statement, the medical examiner’s report, and an inventory of everything found in the car and on Willis’s body.

The wind shifted, moved the trees, brought the smell of the river. She looked through the inventory again. The recovered guns were listed by make and caliber: Ingram MAC-10 machine gun; Smith and Wesson Model 5906 semiautomatic; Heckler and Koch P7. All high-end weapons, with ammunition for each. Willis’s gun was listed as a Taurus Model 85,.38 caliber, rubber grips, serial number burned off. She paged forward to the lab report. The only prints on the weapon belonged to Willis, full finger and thumb impressions. A 100 percent match.

She remembered the Taurus lying there in the wet grass, inches from his hand. The bluing had been nicked and scratched. With those better, flashier weapons in the trunk, why was he carrying that? She looked back at the inventory of ammunition. Six boxes of 9 mm shells. Nothing in.38 caliber. The Taurus didn’t fit.

She left the papers on the seat, got out, and walked down the dirt track to the river. It was running low and muddy, wind feathering the surface. There was a clearing here, a collapsed dock, pilings protruding from the water. She realized then where she was. As a teenager, she’d parked here with Roy in his Firebird. Senior year of high school, before she’d gone off to college up north, thinking she was leaving Hopedale for good. You’ll be back, he’d told her. He’d been right.

She sat on a flat rock, looked out at the river. On the opposite bank, dark trees rose like a hanging wave. A dragonfly flitted over the surface of the water, drifted on.

She picked up a stone, tossed it, watched the ripples spread.

That’s what life is. You make one decision, take one action, and it affects everything. It spreads out across your present, into your future. And it never stops.

Life had seemed full of choices back then, opportunities. As she got older, door after door had shut. Now here she was, forty in sight, alone except for Danny.

What decision are you making now?

Had Elwood and the sheriff wondered about the Taurus, too? If not, with the investigation closed, Billy free and clear, what would be the point of bringing it up to them? What would that say about her?

She stood, dusted off her pants, and walked back to the cruiser, feeling totally and irrevocably alone.

When she got home, Danny was at the kitchen table, the Tyrannosaurus half assembled. She’d left it for him with a note, hadn’t told him where it came from.

“Hey, little guy.” She touched his hair. “How you making out?”

“Almost finished.”

“You feed the rabbits?”

“Yup.”

She got a bottle of water from the refrigerator, twisted off the top. She could hear the rumble of the dryer in the basement, JoBeth doing laundry.

There was a note on the refrigerator, held there by a parrot magnet. JoBeth’s handwriting. Dr. Winters called. 4:45.

Shit. She looked at her watch. Five thirty. Still a chance to catch him if he was working late.

“When did you have pizza?” Danny said.

She realized then she’d left the box in the refrigerator.

“Last night. I got hungry after you went to bed. We’ll have the rest for dinner, okay?”

“It’s cold.”

“That’s what microwaves are for, kiddo.”

She got her cell out, went to her bedroom, speed-dialed the doctor’s office. On the fourth ring, he picked up.

“Sara Cross,” she said. “Returning your call. Sorry, I just got the message.” She closed the door behind her.

“Hi, Sara. It’s okay, I’m in the office trying to get my desk cleared anyway. Danny’s lab results from last week came in, and I wanted you to know about them.”