Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Then Carrie became suddenly aware of another movement around to her side, toward the house. She turned her head and saw Dawn come out through the doorway.

A couple of steps behind her, Jason followed, shading his eyes from the light above him, the gun in his other hand.

The deputy down by Emily called out. “Gun! Gun!”

And both cops opened fire.

The standard investigation into the officer-involved shootings came to an end in the week before Christmas vacation, with both deputies completely cleared of any misconduct. After all, they’d come in the middle of the night to the scene of what looked to be a burglary in progress. The apparent perpetrator, armed with a handgun, was a couple of steps behind a young woman who appeared to be involved in some kind of a possible hostage situation.

The deputies really had no other option. The investigation concluded that they had acted reasonably under the circumstances and undoubtedly had prevented further injury to the other young women who had been involved in what had started out as a TP hazing event and then somehow gotten out of control under many still-unexplained circumstances.

In the intervening months since the incident, Greg and Paul took a lot of grief among their law enforcement colleagues for their poor marksmanship, but the fact that they hadn’t killed anyone had probably played some role in their exoneration.

Which is not to say that they hadn’t done some damage. Jason Trent took four bullets, one in each extremity, and the injuries had made him miss the entire football season, although the prognosis was that he would probably be able to play in college if he so chose.

Dawn Halley was hit in the face by ricocheting marble from one of the columns by the Trent’s front door and was looking at a further array of plastic surgery procedures to restore as much as possible to what had once been her angelic face.

The mystery of the person who had originally broken into the Trents’ bedroom through the back door and dead bolted the door to the hallway remained just that. Whoever it had been — the prevailing theory favored one of the wannabe gangsters — he or she, probably scared off by the gunshots, took nothing and left no trace of evidence. (There were fingerprints from some of Jason’s football teammates, but since the Trents’ bedroom was a well-trod shortcut on the way to the swimming pool, these were discounted as easily explained and irrelevant.)

For a couple of weeks after the incident, Chris was consumed with guilt and fear: the former at what he’d actually done, the latter that someone would find out and charge him with something. Gradually, though, he settled on feeling most responsible for the injuries to Jason. After all, if Chris hadn’t broken in, little or none of the events would have happened. And it wasn’t the girls TPing the house that had made Jason break out his father’s gun.

In any event, Chris came to the conclusion that, even if he wasn’t going to do something stupid like confessing, he should at least try to do something to somehow make things better. Even if it was only symbolic, it seemed that it might be worth a try. After all, because of Chris’s break-in at the Trents, the football team was also short one very important guy. If Chris could somehow make it back to the team and contribute...

So against all reason — and he’d already learned from geometry that logic was not his forte — he signed up for the tutorial workshop again. If he could get a C or better in geometry before the first quarter was over, he could still get some playing time and even make some small difference. Anyway, he thought, it was worth a try, maybe undo a little of the harm he’d done.

And the great bonus turned out to be his new tutor, Carrie McKay, one of the good kids and also one of the cool kids, maybe now the coolest since Dawn Halley was no longer in the running. In any event, Chris had always thought that Carrie was way out of his league. He couldn’t believe how obvious and easy geometry turned out to be when the person tutoring him actually got it herself. Things made sense. A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared.

Cake.

He wound up with a B+ and the week after Thanksgiving, he started at defensive safety — six tackles and two interceptions, thank you.

Also, Carrie was an amazing kisser.

“What you think he does with them?” Eddie Whitt asked his cousin.

Floyd Robinson rode shotgun in Eddie’s old ’49 Ford, black, dented, primer-coated left front fender, a jagged crack across the windshield. The tires weren’t none too good neither. He twisted in his seat. “You ask me that ever time.”

They had parked beneath a large oak tree, middle of a grassy field, protected by a small hillock from McFee Road, a rutted, asphalt ribbon that wound through trees and rich farmland. Far enough from the town of Pine Creek to avoid any unwanted attention. It was just past midnight, the sky black, dotted with stars, the moon a sliver, like a fingernail clipping.

Eddie’s hands rested on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead, cigarette dangling from his lip. It bobbed as he spoke. “And you never have no thoughts on the subject,” he said.

“’Cause I don’t care.” Floyd gave him a glance. “Long as he pays, I don’t give a big old hoo-ha what he does.”

“Don’t get all pissy. I was just wondering.”

“Maybe you should wonder about something else. Like what he’s going to say when he sees this one.”

Eddie took a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “Won’t be happy.”

“Nope.”

“And I bet we don’t get two-fifty for it,” Eddie said.

A pulse of light flashed over the tree. Then another. Eddie glanced over his shoulder. A pair of headlight beams bounced across the crest of the hillock and wound down toward them.

“Here he comes,” Eddie said.

They climbed out as a brand new 1954 Chevy Bel Air jerked to a stop behind the Ford. Cream colored with a dark green top, white wall tires. Classy. The kind that told the world the driver had a wad of cash in his pocket.

Antoine Briscoe stepped out. Tall, lanky, black pants, white shirt, long black duster, what he always wore. “What you got for me?” His voice deep, smooth, almost lazy. A twinge of annoyance buried in there. Like he had better things to do. Or maybe didn’t care too much for Eddie and Floyd. Which was true. Hell, a rickety, old, blind coon dog could see that.

Eddie popped the trunk. Antoine reached inside and pulled back the canvas. He tugged a flashlight from his duster’s pocket, flicked it on, and aimed it inside. He shook his head, his long dark hair swaying just above his shoulders. “This ain’t fresh.”

“It’s the best we could come up with,” Eddie said.

Antoine flapped the covering back in place. “Won’t do.” He looked from Eddie to Floyd. “Won’t do at all.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Eddie said.

Antoine smiled. Not friendly, more a grimace. “And who might that be?”

“You know we don’t know,” Floyd said.

“And you never will.” He nodded toward the trunk. “A hundred bucks.”

Eddie twisted his neck, trying to work out a gathering crick. “Our agreement was two-fifty.”

“Our agreement was for fresh product. Not this shit.”

Eddie saw Floyd’s jaw flex. Knew the sign. His cousin had a temper and when it started to rise, his jaw muscles would pump up. Get all big like a squirrel with a mess of hickory nuts stuffed in its cheeks. He laid a hand on Floyd’s arm. “That’ll do.”

Antoine smiled. “Thought it might.” He reached in his pants’ pocket and pulled out a thick fold of bills, gripped by a silver clip. He tugged them free, peeled off a pair of fifties, and handed them over. He returned the clipped money to his pocket and walked to the rear of the Chevy, his duster flapping with each step.