F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

Suddenly he wasn’t smiling. If he hadn’t just been coming out of being knocked cold, and if he hadn’t been struggling with someone who worked out a lot more than he did, he might have won already. But he was far from his peak and Poppy was right at hers, and she knew she had to get that gun fast before his bigger muscles and weight advantage wore her down.

She jammed her thumb inside the trigger guard, right on top of his, and pressed down hard while pushing the barrel toward him. Another shot, and this one nipped his shoulder before it smashed through the window. He winced and jumped as red began seeping through the hole in his shirt, and now his feet were kicking along the floor, looking for leverage against her. Poppy kept staring at him, not saying a word as they no longer fought for the gun, but for which way it would point, and he must have seen something in her eyes because now he was looking scared.

Finally his feet found something to push against and suddenly he was angling up, looking to topple her over and trap her under his weight. If he did that, he’d be in control. Poppy put all her strength into one last desperate twist of the barrel, lifting it and crunching down on the trigger.

The muzzle flash seared her chin as Mac gave a shout and lurched back with blood spurting from the right side of his head. His grip loosened and suddenly the gun was all Poppy’s.

She scrabbled backward on her free hand and feet and butt, and then sprawled there gasping, pointing the gun at him, ready to drill him again. But he didn’t move. He lay flat on his back, arms and legs splayed in all directions, his right eye all bloody, an expanding pool of red encircling his head.

Mac was dead. She’d killed a man, but that was okay. It wasn’t really a man—it was Mac. And he’d killed Paulie. And was gonna kill—

Katie!

Dimly, through the ringing in her ears, she became aware that a child was screaming. Poppy dropped the gun and ran into the guest room where she found her crouched white faced in a corner, hands over her ears, eyes squeezed shut, and her mouth wide open. She lifted Katie and held her trembling, quaking little body against her.

“It’s all right, baby,” she said, putting her lips against Katie’s ear and whispering. “It’s all right. It’s all over and no one’s gonna hurt you. Poppy’s gonna take care of you. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

Safe… Poppy realized that was the one thing they weren’t. How many times had the gun gone off? Three? Four? She couldn’t remember. But sure as hell someone was dialing 911 right now and saying Sylmar Street was turning into the OK Corral.

She had to get out of here.

But where to? She had no place to go. And she had no money. Paulie always took care of— Paulie! Oh, Jesus, poor Paulie was dead in the next room… She bit back a sob. She couldn’t think about that. She had to get Katie and herself to safety.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna move to a new place, a brand new place where nobody gets hurt. Okay? First thing you have to do is close your eyes.”

Katie didn’t say anything, but when Poppy looked, her eyes were closed. Maybe they’d been closed all along.

She carried her out through the living room, keeping her own eyes straight ahead and Katie’s turned away from the blood-splattered floor.

Once in the kitchen, she put her down on one of the chairs. “Stay here, Katie. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Katie sat unmoving, her eyes still closed.

Poppy hurried back into the living room and fought the rising nausea as she approached the bodies. Blood everywhere. She couldn’t think of anyplace she totally wanted less to be, but she needed money. And more than that, she needed the keys to the truck.

Without really looking at him—she couldn’t bear to see his slack, white face—she sidled around to Paulie’s body and knelt just outside the wet stain that encircled him. She reached toward him and pulled back.

Poor Paulie. She couldn’t even look at him. How was she gonna touch him? But she had to. No time to kneel here wringing her hands. The cops were coming, dammit.

Steeling herself, and only looking out of the corner of her eye, she forced her hands to pat his pockets. The front ones were empty. Biting her lip, she rolled him half over—so heavy!—and found his wallet, but no truck keys.

The money in Paulie’s wallet wouldn’t take her far.

She glanced across him at Mac. He always had lots of cash. She got up and approached Mac from the other side. Easier to go through his pockets. Only his head was bloody. And she didn’t give a damn about Mac.

She yanked out his wallet and sighed with relief when she found it loaded with twenties and fifties, plus half a dozen Visa cards under as many names.

Okay. She and Katie had money. Now they needed wheels.

She spotted Mac’s keys on the floor near the gun. She reached for them, then thought better of it. She knew she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but she did know that the Jeep had been sitting out front when the shots were fired. Someone might have taken down the plate number. The truck would be better. Except for a couple of quick trips, it had been kept in the garage all the time.

She jumped up and ran into her bedroom and spotted the keys on the dresser. She snatched them and her little purse, and ran back toward the kitchen. Halfway there she dropped everything. A gun, a purse, two wallets, and keys—too much to carry. And she’d probably have to carry Katie too. No time to consolidate. She needed— She spotted Mac’s baseball jacket on the chair. She didn’t want anything that belonged to that slimeball but right now she couldn’t be choosey. She pulled it on and stuffed everything into the pockets. Then she scooped up Katie and headed for the garage.

“Come on, baby,” she cooed. “We’re getting the hell outta here.” As she opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she heard Mac’s beeper go off again. Whoever wanted him was going to get old and gray waiting for a callback.

12

“You are sure you are calling the right numbers?” Carlos said.

Llosa nodded vigorously. “¡si!”

“I tried them myself,” Alien Gold said.

“Then why isn’t that hijo de puta answering? He has always called in before.”

“Maybe his beeper’s turned off,” Alien said, “or broken. Maybe the battery died.”

“But what about his voice mail?”

Gold shrugged. “Who knows how often he checks it?” Carlos was getting worried. MacLaglen should not be out of touch at such a critical time. It was very careless of him, and if Carlos knew one thing about MacLaglen, he was not careless. A bad feeling was growing in his gut: Something was wrong.

He pointed to Gold. “I want you to take Llosa and drive past his house.”

“Do we know where he lives?”

“I will give you the address. And I will give you another address, as well. But you must drive past and nothing more. Do not knock on the door, do not even stop the car. Comprende?”

“Sure.”

“Call me immediately if you see anything.” He watched them go, then turned on his back massager. His muscles were very tight.

Something was wrong… he could smell it.

13

The sun sat high and bright in a cloudless sky, but Poppy drove through a fog. She could barely feel her hands on the wheel. Like numb all over.

She pushed the panel truck to its limit along 95 North through Maryland and got about sixty miles an hour out of it. She wished she could go like a hundred, two hundred, but the last thing she needed now was to get pulled over by a cop. Sixty would do just fine.

She glanced over at Katie, belted into the passenger seat. She’d been a talkative little thing the past few days, but Poppy had heard barely a peep out of her since they’d left the house. Poor kid… she’d seen stuff today that no adult should see, let alone a six-year-old girl.