Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

“But I need him,” Abby said.

“I gave you his name.”

“And you said that it wouldn’t be worth a damn. I need him. Not his name, his address, or even his fucking fingerprints. I want him.”

Dax smiled in the darkness. Approving of the performance. His eyes, though, weren’t on Abby. They were on the phone. He was waiting to hear whether he was considered expendable.

The silence went on for a long time. Abby watched the recorder on the desk count off the seconds of silence. Eleven of them passed before the man spoke.

“How am I supposed to get the phone?”

Dax stepped away, as if he’d heard enough. He returned to the barber’s chair.

Abby followed the script — the phone would be in the mailbox of a vacant house in Old Orchard, and she’d give them fifteen minutes to pick it up and get clear. The kid would need to step onto the pier at noon. Throughout her spiel, the man never interrupted, just listened. Abby could hear the faint scraping of a pen on paper.

“What’s your plan for him?” he said when Abby had fallen silent.

Abby hadn’t anticipated this question. She hesitated, then said, “That’s my business.”

“I need to know. Are you coming for him with police or...”

The answer rose forth easily this time.

“I’ve got something else in mind for him,” Abby said. Dax lifted his head to meet Abby’s eyes. He smiled at her.

“All right,” the man said. “Then if I see a cop, everything’s off.”

“You won’t see one. After what he did, I’m not worried about police. I want him.”

Abby held the kid’s eyes while she said that, but Dax never lost the smile. Instead, he gave a respectful nod.

It was then that Abby realized that she wasn’t lying to the man on the phone. She didn’t want police. She wanted to kill him. Or try.

“So you’ll text the address at eleven forty-five tomorrow morning,” the man said, “and you’d better pick a location that’s close to the pier.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going down there myself. Think I trust you? He’ll get the phone, then I’ll get the phone, and then I’ll send him along to you. So choose your spot carefully.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Abby said. “Just make sure he’s there.”

“He will be.”

The kid left the chair, walked to the desk, and killed the connection. Then he set the phone back in the cradle, picked up the recorder, and put it in his pocket. The smile was still on his face, but it seemed to have been painted on and forgotten.

“Well,” he said. “That’s that. Nicely done, Abby. You’re going to survive all of this, I think. You’re earning your way out.”

Abby didn’t say anything. They stood looking at each other in the office that Hank Bauer had worked out of for thirty-three years, and then the quiet was shattered by a shrill ring. Abby looked at the desk phone, but Dax stepped away and reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell. Before he answered it, he lifted the revolver and put it to his lips, instructing Abby to be silent. Then he said, “Yeah?”

Abby could hear the caller’s voice faintly, but she couldn’t make out most of the words.

Dax said, “Old Orchard is pretty exposed. You couldn’t negotiate a better spot than that?”

The voice on the other end rose a bit this time, and Abby heard the phrase know your role . Dax’s face never changed.

“Right,” he said. Then: “So we’ll pull her away from the pier beforehand. You’re sure that she’ll go?” He listened to the caller. “Why don’t I pick out the house? I can sit on it all night. Make sure it’s clear.”

Pause. Then: “All right. We’ll ride together. I’ll drive.”

Pause. Then: “You’re the boss. I’ll be there. Let’s put an end to this one. This bitch has been too much trouble already.”

Pause. A smile slid back onto his face, and this time it was genuine, and it was cold. “Yes, I did allow it to happen. I realize that. But trust me — I’ll end it, too.” He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket. “Get the gist, Abby?”

“He’s lying to you.”

Dax nodded. “In his version, he will pick the house. I would expect that’s where you and I are supposed to die. The pier was never ideal. A vacant house, even if you pick it, is much better — provided there are no police. And you know what? I think he believed you on that. He’ll check first, of course, but... he believed you. Do you know why I’m so sure?”

Abby shook her head.

“Because I believed you too,” the kid said. “I don’t think jail is the fit you want for me anymore. You want me to die.”

He seemed to wait for a response. Abby said, “Doesn’t matter either way, does it?”

“Actually, it does. You’re finally growing into someone I understand.”

He walked around the desk and opened the top left-hand drawer. The Challenger keys rested beside a spare set for the Tahoe and one for the office.

“Grab the winners,” he said.

Abby picked up the keys. The kid faced her, gun extended, and smiled. “Now we really ride,” he said. “But keep the race-car-driver instincts in check, okay? No flashing lights in the rearview mirror tonight.”

Abby moved woodenly out of the office, across the rain-swept parking lot, and into the garage. The Hellcat sat before her, looking smug, as if it had always known Abby would return.

This time, Dax took the passenger seat and not the back. Abby slid behind the wheel. The interior lights glowed bright, then dimmed down once she closed the driver’s door. She felt an immediate claustrophobia when the door was shut. When she turned the engine over, the 6.2-liter engine’s growl filled the garage and put a low vibration through the base of her spine. The dash lights glowed red, her mouth went dry, and her pulse trembled.

Beside her, the kid laughed. “This is a beast, isn’t it?”

Abby put the garage door up and backed out. In reverse, the car only hinted at its power. Once they were outside, though, when she shifted into drive and tapped the gas, she could feel it immediately. The car seemed to leap rather than accelerate. It was always crouched back on those beautiful Pirelli tires, just begging for the chance to spin off a few layers of rubber. At low idle, the engine offered both a throaty growl and a higher, impatient tone, a whine like a beehive.

“I’ll stick to the back roads,” Abby said. “Then take Route One down to Old Orchard. That’s the safest way.”

“We’re not going to Old Orchard.”

Abby looked at him. He was positioned at an angle, the gun resting on his leg, finger not far from the trigger.

“I thought that was the plan,” Abby said. “The pier and the house, all that.”

“That’s for Gerry. Something for him to chew on while I got a sense of the world through his eyes. The actual plan is a little different. We’ve got a few stops to make along the way. Starting with Boston. I have to determine whether our girl Tara is really the key to the lock.”

Boston. I-95 in the rain. All that traffic. Some of the bees left their hive in the engine and took up buzzing residence in Abby’s brain. They brought gray light with them, clouding her vision, and their stingers injected adrenaline that rode through her veins, made her heart rate quicken and her throat tighten and her fingertips tingle.

Dax studied her and said, “While you’re thinking of the chessboard, Abby, you might add this to it: People who see me are likely to die. You’ve probably noticed that trend by now. I’ll get to Tara one way or the other, but you can help pick the path.”

“Okay. Back roads are still smarter, though. If anyone is aware of this car, we’ll be—”