Linwood Barclay - No Safe House

Cynthia and Grace followed him down to the first floor and out the front door, where Barney was still having a smoke, Orland still staring blankly.

“What’s up with him?” he asked as Braithwaite walked briskly down to the street and around the corner.

“I think you’re losing a tenant,” Cynthia said.

Grace asked her mother, “What do you think was in that bag he didn’t want me touching?”

Barney said, “You telling me he’s moving out? The son of a bitch didn’t give me any notice. He’s gone, just like that?”

“I think he’ll be back,” Cynthia said. “He’s got more bags.”

As if on cue, Braithwaite came around the corner in the Caddy. He pulled into the drive, killed the engine, locked the car, and came back up the porch steps.

Barney blocked the door and poked a finger into Nathaniel’s chest.

“What’s going on here?”

“Something’s come up. I’m moving out.”

“Well, just hang on a second, mister. People give notice when they’re moving out. I expect two months’ warning, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend, and get out of my way.”

Nathaniel shoved him aside and stormed back into the house. Barney nearly lost his footing and the cigarette slipped from his fingers.

“You okay?” Cynthia asked.

Barney ground out the cigarette with his work boot. “Yeah, I’m fine. If he thinks he’s leaving without paying next month’s rent, he’s got another think coming.” He took a breath, puffed out his chest, and went into the house, stomping his way up the stairs.

Cynthia and Grace were right behind him.

When Barney got to the open door of Nathaniel’s apartment, he positioned himself there and said, “You pay me next month’s rent, now, in cash, and we’re square.”

Nathaniel called out from the bedroom, “You’ll get it — don’t worry.”

Cynthia squeezed past Barney, stood just outside the bedroom, and said, “Nate, he’ll find you. Vince’ll find you. And if it’s not him, it’ll be the police.”

“I don’t give a shit about the police,” he said. “The police don’t grab you off the street and shove a goddamn power drill in your face.”

Barney came in from the hall, stood in the center of the room. “I need to check the apartment, because if you’ve done any kind of damage, you won’t be getting back your security deposit.”

Nathaniel, carrying his last two bags, charged out of the bedroom. “I don’t give a fuck. I just don’t.”

Barney said, “You just hang on a minute while I have a look around.” He stood there casting his eye across the kitchen area, walked over to the fridge, and opened the door. “You gonna clean this out?”

“Jesus Christ,” Nathaniel said, dropping the two bags so he could get to his wallet. He opened it up and started taking out some bills. “Here’s two hundred. I’ll mail you the rest.”

As Barney walked over to take the money, he took a quick peek into the bedroom.

Stopped.

Then he took three tentative steps to the bedroom door, stared, his eyes focused for several seconds on the vase. Then he turned on Nathaniel.

“Are you the detective?” he asked. “Is Braithwaite even your real name? Is your name Duggan? Have you been living here spying on me?”

Nathaniel said, “What?”

“You heard me,” Barney said. “Are you the detective? Quayle told me a detective had it. That it was being checked for fingerprints. My fingerprints.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his former tenant.

“Didn’t my niece go and see you? Reggie told me she was going to see you. Answer me!”

Nathaniel slowly shook his head. “Mr. Croft, I swear, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m with ya on that one,” Cynthia said.

I slipped behind the wall as the door began to open. Listened. Hoped they wouldn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest.

Someone shouted: “Hey! Where are you?”

Reggie: “Basement!”

A different voice, somewhat muddy, as if the man had a cold: “What the fuck! What the hell is going on?”

Then a voice I knew. Low and controlled.

“ Don’t move. ”

“What the—?”

“I don’t want to have to tell you again. Terry?”

I came around the corner, arms straight out, both hands wrapped around the Glock I’d found in my attic.

Just like in the movies.

Vince was where I’d last seen him, tucked into the corner, arms outstretched like mine, his gun an inch away from the ear of the second man who’d come into the house. Between him and the second man, whose face was plastered with bandages and speckled with blood, was Jane. Hands behind her back, a piece of tape over her mouth.

There was a gun tucked into the belt of the bandaged man, and I saw his hand moving slowly toward it.

My turn to be tough. “Don’t,” I said.

He looked at me with empty eyes, inched his hand away.

“Terry, get their guns.”

I walked six paces, stood gingerly in front of the man, and reached ahead with my left hand, pried the weapon from his waist.

“Step over there,” I said, knowing Vince was watching him.

The bandaged man looked at Vince, grinned, and said, “Pissed your pants lately?” Not the smartest thing to say, I thought, to a man who’s pointing a gun at you.

I edged past Jane, gave her a smile. “Hey,” I said. “One second.”

Her eyes were dancing.

“Where’s yours?” I asked the other man, not seeing a gun on him.

“Left it in the car,” he said.

“Pat him down,” Vince told me, and I did, patting him pretty much all over, including places where I didn’t usually touch people. I was going to apologize, then thought better of it. I found no gun. I gave the one I’d taken off the other man to Vince.

“Help Jane,” Vince said.

She turned around to show me her wrists, and I picked away at the knot for several seconds before realizing it would be faster to use a knife. I led her, gently, into the kitchen and opened a couple of drawers until I found one with a short, sharp blade. Carefully, I sawed through the rope until it slipped off her wrists, then dropped the knife onto the counter. Her hands went immediately to her mouth, where she delicately peeled off the tape. Once she had it free, she balled it up, worked to get it off her fingers, and threw it in the sink.

She turned to Vince and started to move that way, drawn to him, but his arms were still outstretched, the barrel of the gun still positioned behind the other man’s ear.

“Oh God, Vince — I knew — I knew...” She began to weep. No, more than that. She began to convulse. Her shoulders hunched as she sobbed. “Oh God, oh my God...”

I could see in his eyes that he wanted to comfort her but right now couldn’t move. “You,” he said.

Still holding the Glock in my right hand, I tried to take her in my own arms, put my left hand on her back as she pressed her face to my chest.

“It’s okay,” I said soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“Logan,” Vince said to the one closest to him.

“Yeah.”

“Still want to keep your mother happy? Keep your shithead brother and yourself alive?”

“Sure.”

“Then this is what you’re going to do. My friend’s going to go down the stairs, and the two of you are going to go down after him.”

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“They’re fine. Let’s go.”

I went down the stairs quickly so I could turn around and train the gun on Logan and Joseph as they descended. I saw Jane throw her arms around Vince just before he came down the stairs. Heard them speak softly to each other, a couple of nods.