Marcus Sakey - Good People

Then he jammed the gas and spun the wheel, tires squealing, engine roaring up to the red as he popped a U, missing an oncoming car only because the other driver jerked onto the sidewalk. He held his right foot down and worked the clutch to jump from second to fourth.

Motherfucker. Tom and Anna Reed. They wanted to play? Fine. Time to play rough.

“MAYBE WE SHOULD RUN,” Tom said, watching the rain arc off the tires of the cab in front of them.

“Where?

“Anywhere. Get out of town. Now that Jack has killed a cop, the police are going to go crazy finding him. We could just get out of the way, come back once they have.”

“What if they don’t?”

He shrugged, didn’t know what to say.

“Tom?” Her voice husky.

“What is it, baby?”

“I was wrong.”

“When?”

“Before. I said we could still win.” She was drenched and solemn, hair flattened to her cheeks. She shook her head. “But it’s like a fairy tale.”

“Huh?” He looked over, wondered if she was starting to lose it.

“An old one, I mean. Brothers Grimm, that kind of thing.” She rubbed her eyes. “The violent ones, before they were Disney-fied. Rub the lamp, you get three wishes, but none of them go the way you planned. Like, you wish for riches, and your father dies. So you’ve inherited his fortune but lost your dad.”

“ The Twilight Zone .”

She nodded. “I remember, when we found the money, thinking it was like a magic lamp. It was going to turn everything around for us, dig us out of the hole we were in, the stupid concerns of our old life. And it was going to give us the thing we most wanted.”

Tom sighed slowly. The world felt heavy, something that could bear down, crush you slow and complete. “Well, I’m definitely not worried about the devaluation of Chicago real estate anymore.” He didn’t know if he was making a joke or not. Didn’t know what he was saying. His head hurt, and his fingers throbbed in his lap.

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “When I was a kid, I had this illustrated book of myths. I read them over and over. There was one with this dog, not cute, sort of menacing, with a bird he’s caught in his mouth. And he’s taking it home to eat. But before he gets there, he crosses a river and sees a dog with a bird in his mouth. And he wants that bird too, so he opens his mouth to attack the other dog. Only it was his reflection, of course, and he ends up with nothing. I always felt sorry for him, even though he was kind of a stupid dog.” She shook her head. “Or that Greek one, the kid with the wings that melted?”

“Icarus.”

“Right, Icarus. He and his dad were locked up somewhere, and his dad made the wings with wax and feathers. He told Icarus not to fly too high. But first chance the kid gets…” She whistled through her teeth, skimmed a hand upward. “The illustration was all orange and red and yellow, and just a silhouette shooting upwards, feathers falling away. I always wanted to warn him. But of course you turn the page, and…” She sighed, rubbed her face.

Tom said nothing, just nodded, waited.

“Back at the hotel, I was talking about how fate was funny, how everything came down to a cup of instant coffee. Like the fire in our kitchen was what started everything. But that’s bullshit, isn’t it? You can’t blame life on a cup of coffee.” She shook her head. “Everything I needed to know was in those books. But I kept going. I just… kept going.”

“You weren’t alone.”

“I pushed you, though,” she said, her voice small. “I wanted it more. I always wanted it more. I know you’d love to have a child. But I was the one who pushed. After we tried the shots, the hormones, you were ready to adopt. But I wanted to have one of my own. So I kept pushing, and we got deeper into debt, and you and I, we lost track of each other.”

“Stop,” he said. “None of that matters now.”

She looked over at him, held the gaze for a long time. Finally she said, “You would have been a great father.”

Something in him broke, some tenuous, fragile connection deep in his chest, it just gave. He felt a rush of emotions, too many and mixed to name. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He knew what she was saying. What it cost her, cost them both.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s time.” He flipped on the turn signal, pulled into the lot of a Jewel, and parked.

“The police are going to be tough on us.” She wiped her hands on her pants. “We don’t have much of a story to tell, not with a cop dead.”

“I know,” he said. “But every time we try to get out of this, we only make it worse.”

“Should we tell them about the deal we made with Malachi?”

“We should tell them everything. Every detail.”

“We’ll go to jail.”

“Probably,” he said.

She nodded. Reached over and put a hand on his thigh. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, and for the first time since this whole thing started, since the moment, Christ, it seemed like years ago, when they’d looked at each other across the pile of money and each realized the other wanted to take it, for the first time since then he felt right. No more running. No more playing angles or choosing convenient truths. No more pretending to be criminals. He leaned across the parking brake, and she met him halfway, the kiss passionate, her hand snaking around his neck to pull him close. The rain pattered on the roof, less urgently than before, and it seemed safe somehow, a childhood sound, a rainy day home from school.

When they finally broke, he stayed near, their eyes inches apart and staring. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head. “Me too.” Then he took his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“THIS IS STUPID, MAN.” His partner rubbed his chin, the stubble grating. “The cops could be here any minute.”

“Why? If Tom and Anna are talking to them, why would they send someone to the house?” Jack sniffed hard, popped his knuckles. “No one’s coming.”

“Even if you’re right, you don’t really think the money is here, do you?” Marshall stood in front of the door. “They probably turned it in already. And if they’re running, it’s going with them.”

“Only one way to be sure.”

“Look-”

“Move.” Jack stared hard. With a sigh, Marshall stepped aside.

He didn’t bother with picks this time. Just wound up and booted the door at the handle. The wood cracked and snapped. A second kick, and the thing flew open, the lock mounting tearing out of the frame, splinters flying. He was through before the door banged against the opposite wall.

Beep.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Marshall said. “The alarm.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. He stepped over to the control box and punched a six-digit string. The beeping died.

“How-”

“I watched Anna.”

“You said she hit the panic code.”

“Panic code is one digit higher than the regular code. Alarm companies do it so people remember when they’ve got a gun pointed at their head.” He made a slow turn, surveying the space. “All right. Tear this place apart.”

“Listen to me, this is a waste of time-”

“Would you just fucking do it?” Jack grabbed the back of a knockoff Eames chair and yanked the thing over. It flipped and slammed loud. His head hurt, and inside his chest he could feel something crackling like a downed power wire.

His partner stared. For a moment, Jack wondered if he was going to make a play. But Marshall shook his head, turned, and went down the hall to the kitchen, started looking through cabinets.

Good enough. Jack turned back to the room. There was a lock-back knife sitting on the coffee table. He opened it, saw that the blade was crusted with dried blood. Jack smiled, then dug the point into a sofa cushion and yanked, feeling the tearing shiver up his arm, the rich physical pleasure of it. He yanked out a handful of foam, then tossed the cushion and eviscerated the next. Slashed at the back, then reached for the bottom and flipped the sofa up on its ass.