Steven Womack - Way Past Dead

Sincerely,

Rebecca

I eased back in Mac Ford’s office chair, the springs squeaking as wearily as I felt.

“That’s it,” I said.

Alvy’d been standing behind me, reading the letter over my shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said. Only there was an energetic edge to her voice, as if the thrill of discovery outweighed the terrible thing we’d discovered.

Ford McKenna Ford had murdered Rebecca Gibson. He’d done it quickly and, in terms of his purposes, neatly. Two million dollars was too much money to kiss goodbye because some goddamn ignorant west Tennessee cotton-field crooner got sucked in by a different snake-oil salesman. This might not be enough to convict Ford, but it would sure get Slim out of the crosshairs.

The only question was what to do with it. If the police came in here and found this without a search warrant, the evidence would be tainted, inadmissible. But if an employee of MFA, Inc., blew the whistle and took it to them, would it hold up in a court of law?

I was willing to take my chances that it would.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “We’ve got one more stop to make.”

I stood up and dropped the letter back into the file, then tucked the file under my arm.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Just come on,” I said. “This is some serious shit here, Alvy. We’re going to the police.”

“Oh, no, we’re not,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“No!”

I stepped to the door of the office and turned to her one last time. “I’m not going to argue with you. Let’s go.”

Then I turned and stepped through the door into Alvy’s office.

“Oh, shit,” I said. Maybe it was the fatigue and stress, but this was becoming my favorite expression.

Alvy came up behind me. She grabbed my arm without saying a word and squeezed so hard it would have hurt like hell if I’d bothered to notice.

Mac Ford was standing in the middle of Alvy’s office. In his right hand, he held what I can only describe as a very large, chrome-plated pistol.

“Let me just ask one question,” I said. “Why didn’t you come in this morning and get rid of this file? You’d have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

Mac Ford stood there for a moment, his hand steady but his eyes clouded and thick, unfocused. It took me a few seconds to figure it out, but I think he was blasted out of his gourd. When he spoke, I knew it.

“ ’Cause,” he said, his voice low, with just the edge of a slur in his words, “she’d still know. Wouldn’t have done any good …”

He motioned toward me, I thought, but then I realized he was indicating Alvy. She still had a grip on my arm. I felt a shove as she pushed me out of the way and walked past.

“Excuse me, asshole,” she said in passing.

She crossed the room, stood next to Ford, and crossed her arms with a nasty smile on her face. Smug little bitch, I thought. My headache, which had never really gone away, bounced back with a surge of pressure. I brought my hands up and massaged my temples.

“You told him I was here, Alvy?” I asked, shaking my head. “I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” she said. “Actually, Harry, I knew about the insurance policy when it was taken out. And I found Rebecca’s letter two days ago. I have my own copy. So you see, Mac and I are partners. I had to let my partner know you were onto him, and that you’d be here today.”

Mac held the gun on me and said nothing.

“What for? I mean, what’s this going to get you?”

She took a step toward me, arms still crossed. She rolled her lower lip out again and did her best Winona Ryder. “Half of two million dollars, smart-ass.”

Alvy stood to Mac Ford’s left, facing me. She uncrossed her arms, then put her right arm across Mac’s shoulders and laid her head on his shoulders. “Right, partner?” she cooed.

I shook my head again. In my shirt pocket, the stun gun sat points down and useless. I could rush him, but there’s nothing more dangerous and unpredictable than a man with a gun who happens to be in the middle of a good buzz.

No, I thought, I am well and truly pronged.…

“You guys mind if I sit down?” I asked. “I’ve had a lousy couple of days and my head’s killing me.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I pulled out Alvy’s desk chair, sat down, and plopped the file on her desk.

“Keep your hands in sight,” she ordered, then turned to Mac. “I don’t think he’s carrying, but he has got a stun gun.”

“Get it,” Mac ordered, motioning with the pistol.

She stepped over and leaned across the desk, then reached inside my pocket and pulled the stun gun out.

“You don’t really think this is going to work, do you?” I whispered.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. Then she slapped me, open-handed and hard. There was a snap inside my head, and I felt a burning on my cheeks. I fought the urge to jump up and choke her. She backed off quickly. I carefully rubbed the sting on my left cheek.

Goddamn Generation Xers. Never trust anyone under thirty .

Alvy had my stun gun, and they both had me. It was so bloody crazy, I almost wanted to laugh. I was exhausted, at the absolute end of my tether, and I think on some level I wasn’t really in touch with just how bad this really was.

I looked up at Mac. “What are you going to do?”

“The first thing we’re going to do is take a drive, say somewhere out in Rutherford County. Way out in the country. You ever drive a Rolls?”

“Oh,” I said, “you mean it hasn’t been repo’d yet?”

His hand tightened on the pistol, and he took a step toward me. “You’re a smart little son of a bitch, you know that?”

I held out my hand. “I apologize,” I said wearily. “You’re right, I have a terrible attitude. It’s hard to have a good one when-”

I stopped midsentence. Downstairs, there was the creak of a door being opened.

“Who’s that?” Alvy said, her voice tightening.

“I don’t know,” Mac said.

“Well, what are we gonna do?”

“Don’t panic,” he said. “Here, hand me his stun gun.”

She handed over the hunk of black plastic. Great, I thought. It’s getting deeper by the nanosecond.

“Close that door,” he ordered.

Alvy stepped over and eased the door shut. “What now?”

“Just stand here and be quiet.” Mac Ford’s voice had lost its slur. Had adrenaline driven the other chemicals in his body into seclusion?

I sat at Alvy’s desk as the two of them stood stock-still, the gun pointed directly at me. If I jumped him now, he might not shoot. Then again, if I’m wrong, it’s not going to do me any good to get shot even if it does bring help. I’d never been shot before; I once interviewed a cop who said it doesn’t usually hurt much at first. Just a stinging, burning sensation. It’s later, after the shock’s over, that you think the pain’s going to kill you.

Great.

The footsteps grew louder in volume, up the stairs now, left at the head of the stairs, then down the hall toward us. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, and I was beginning to develop a touch of tinnitus.

The steps stopped in front of the door. Mac Ford lowered his right hand and tucked the pistol out of sight behind his leg. Alvy’s hands were knotted into fists and held stiffly at her side. The doorknob turned. I sucked in a deep breath and locked it in. I was trying to come up with a script, but all I could think of was “Help!”

The door moved. Alvy backed off a step.

Faye Morgan stepped in.

Oh, hell, I thought, so it ain’t the cavalry.

“What are you doing here?” Mac asked, bringing the gun up.