Thomas Perry: Blood Money

That was the anvil. He would have to prepare a hammer for it. He would need to institute a flying squad. Every time the defenders got hit, a ready, massive force would sweep in and smash the invaders from behind. He would probably need two or three squads. Chicago was too big for one group to cross whenever there was trouble.

DeLuca glanced toward the window, and things looked different. After a second, he realized that the pair of security lights on the eaves above the window that went on at night and off at dawn weren’t illuminating the yard. He walked to the window and looked up. Both bulbs had burned out. He sighed in frustration.

He would have liked to have one of the soldiers who came later replace the bulbs. But he couldn’t call in his people for a fight to the death and give them chores like handymen. Besides, by then it might be dangerous. Once he called everyone in, the enemy would know he was on to them. These might be the last few hours when a man going up on a ladder in front of the house would be entirely safe. He decided to forget the bulbs.

He looked out the window at the light fixture in hatred. He couldn’t just forget it. That light was the one that illuminated the thick shrubbery along the house, and the middle section of the driveway. Leaving those areas dark wasn’t safe. They were the spots where a hit team could sneak up to the house.

DeLuca went to the basement and returned with a stepladder, then went to the cupboard in the laundry room and found two new bulbs. He went out the kitchen door with the two bulbs under his left arm and the aluminum ladder banging his knee at each step, and came around to the front of the house.

He set the bulb box on top of the thick hedge, opened the ladder and planted it firmly in the dirt under the eaves, then climbed up to reach the dead bulbs. He began to unscrew the first one, but it came too easily. On a hunch, he turned it clockwise.

The light came on. DeLuca’s heart began to pound. He whirled, and the shot pierced his left eye. He was dead, but more shots came rapidly, punching into his chest, his belly, his arm as he fell, then pounding into the side of the house where he had been, and through the window.

When Di Titulo heard the gun’s click-click-click , he opened his eyes. DeLuca was gone, but Di Titulo dimly understood that he must have been hit. There was blood on the side of the house where he had been. Di Titulo sprang to his feet and crashed through the hedge. He hurried across the lawn to the street as the car pulled up.

As Di Titulo ducked through the open door to the back seat, he realized he still had the gun in his hand. The car moved off so fast that the door swung shut, then rattled all the way to the corner. When the car bobbed in a half stop before the turn, Di Titulo put the gun in his left hand and slammed the door shut. He felt the gun being taken from his left hand, and turned to look at Saachi.

The thin, cadaverous face was close to his, and the odor of cigarettes was overpowering. The pointed teeth were bared all the way to the gums, and Di Titulo sensed it must be a smile. “You okay?”

Di Titulo felt pressed with claustrophobia. He wanted to open the window, to push the door open and get outside. He wanted the car to stop, and he wanted it to reach the speed of light. He hadn’t understood what Saachi had said, but he knew what it must have been. “That was … awful.”

Saachi nodded. “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”

Di Titulo’s eyes widened. “I thought … I’m not a … I thought it was just this one, because of the bomb in my car.” Saachi looked at him, but his face showed no sign that he had heard. Di Titulo tried again. “I’m a businessman.”

Saachi looked ahead over the driver’s shoulder. “As of two minutes ago, we’re at war. Everybody’s a soldier.” He turned suddenly to hold Di Titulo with his eyes. “This is your job now. Get good at it.”

41

Jane looked up at the second-floor window beside the big maple tree. The bedroom light was off, but she had seen a glow in the casement windows at the front, and now she could see that the kitchen lights were on. She stepped to the back door and reached for the knob, but it swung open and Carey took a stride toward her and gathered her into his long arms, holding her gently and rocking her a little. It felt warm and safe and restful.

After a long time she said, “I guess you do remember me.”

He kept her in his arms. “Sure. You’re the reason I never felt the urge to get a cat. I already have something sleek and beautiful that never comes when I call it, just drops in when it feels like it and goes away again.”

She burrowed deeper into his arms, then leaned back and lifted her face to kiss him. The kiss was soft and leisurely and perfect. “Can I come in?”

They walked through the little entry into the big old kitchen, where Jane could hear the watery chugging of the dishwasher. She stepped into the dining room and ran her hand along the smooth surface of the table.

“Checking for dust?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t need any dust right now, thanks. This feels more like one of those occasions for champagne, and I can’t remember if we have any.”

“Of course we do,” he said. “I’ve always kept some in case somebody spills something on the carpet.” He pulled a bottle from the refrigerator and peeled off the foil.

“Champagne doesn’t do that. You’re thinking of club soda.”

“Oh?” He popped the cork. “This isn’t any good, then.” He stared at it sadly. “Might as well drink it or something.”

Jane reached into the cupboard for a pair of tulip glasses. “I think we have to. Otherwise, when we put a note in the bottle, it’ll get wet.”

They sipped their champagne and walked into the living room. She turned and faced him. “Have you seen these nice clothes I bought?”

“Very fetching, as my grandmother would have said.”

She began unbuttoning the blouse with her left hand, then glanced at him. “Have you been sufficiently fetched?”

“More than enough,” he said. “I wouldn’t need to see them again for a long time.”

“Good.” The blouse slipped off her shoulders. She undid the clasp of her slacks and stepped out of them, and Carey’s arms enveloped her again. There was the gentle touch of his fingers that gave her chills, then the warm, firm feeling of the palms of his hands, smoothing her skin, defining the shape of her body, always moving as though he needed to touch her everywhere at once. She needed it too, as she had needed to take off her clothes in the first minutes after she saw him.

It wasn’t just because she felt she couldn’t wait, but because part of it was showing him that this was what she wanted. And she wanted to see and feel his joy at knowing that she did. Her own hands were nimbly, urgently undoing buttons and buckle and slipping off his clothes. They made love where they had stopped in the living room, then went upstairs to their bedroom and lay in the dark on the cool, clean sheets with the warm summer breeze pushing in the curtains to direct itself across their bodies. After that they lingered over each moment, letting the night reach its dark, unchanging no-time, pretending that night was permanent and they could stay like this forever. Hours later, Jane caught sight of the glowing red digits of the clock on the nightstand, and wasted a second hoping she had read them wrong.

She said, “It’s nearly three A.M.,” but his lips pressed against her mouth to silence her, then stayed. His hand moved gently along her throat, and already her feelings were building again.

When she was able to look at the clock again, she heard the first tentative chirps of a sparrow in a tree across the back yard. She turned away from it to look beside her at Carey, and she could see that he had fallen asleep. She very softly placed her hands under his heavy forearm and held it while she slipped out from under it, then set it down on the bed where she had been.