A Bad Day for Sorry: A Crime Novel (28 page)

The pounding downstairs grew louder, and Stella willed the firefighters to break the door down, to come in primed for action—but instead she heard Beez’s voice, slightly winded, speaking calmly.

“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming out.”

“Sir, we have a report of a fire at this address.”

“Yeah. Yeah, damndest thing. I think I just got it put out. I’ve had the hose on it out back.”

Funzi stepped away from the bed and gave his handiwork a once-over. Stella glared at him as hard as she could. Funzi wiped his hands on his pants and straightened the collar of his polo shirt and shot her a thumbs-up before he disappeared around the corner.

Tucker’s cries had diminished to a cranky whimper, with a rhythmic pattern to it, and Stella figured Marie had picked him up and was bouncing him quiet, much as she’d done for Noelle all those years ago.

Of course, she’d never done it with a dislocated shoulder. Grudgingly, she raised her opinion of Marie a few notches.

“Gentlemen,” Funzi’s voice boomed heartily from downstairs. “So glad you all came out. Me’n my buddy here can’t figure out what happened out back. Why don’t you all come on this way. . . .”

She could hear their voices at the back of the house but couldn’t make out the words. She strained her wrists against the rope, but flexing her muscles just made it bind more tightly against her skin, cutting in painfully. She wondered if she and Chrissy could maneuver themselves so their hands touched, whether one of them might be able to free the other’s wrists. But there was no way to make the suggestion, not with their mouths taped shut.

Stella fought against the panic in her chest. Was there any way to get to the scissors? She could see them across the room, where Funzi had thrown them against the wall, but they were four feet past the end of the bed, too far away to do any good.

That’s when she remembered the rotary cutter. Rocking her hips, she worked her loose camo pants around, twisting them against the shiny bedspread, until she could touch the top of the pocket with her fingertips. She tried to communicate to Chrissy with her eyes, to let her know what she was trying to do, and though the girl looked confused, she leaned as close as she could to give Stella as much slack in the rope as possible.

She strained against the rope and managed to touch the top of the rotary cutter’s handle, but it was smooth curved plastic, and she couldn’t get a grip on it. She bent backward, forcing her shoulders back and straining her fingers as far as she could, until they slid down the handle far enough to get a grip. Stella grasped the cutter and worked it out of her pocket.

Comprehension dawned in Chrissy’s eyes, and she nodded sharply and looked down at her bound hands. Stella followed the path of her gaze and saw that she was opening and closing her fist, and realized what the girl was trying to communicate: she had more freedom of movement in her hands than Stella did. She wanted Stella to give her the cutter.

Stella didn’t hesitate. She managed to turn the tool in her hands, and pointed it toward Chrissy. She felt the girl take it from her and then she heard a beautiful sound: the snick of the safety being released.

She looked at Chrissy and for a moment their eyes held and she tried to communicate everything she was feeling: encouragement, resilience, and sheer ass-kicking vengeance. Chrissy blinked twice and then she leaned back and Stella felt the pressure of the blade against her restraints.

The blade was wicked sharp, and it spun free, making it hard to control. It was meant to be held firmly against a flat cutting surface. Used against an uneven surface like the knots, it could easily slip off, slicing into the vulnerable flesh of Stella’s hands or wrist.

She held as still as she could, but even so, twice she felt the blade slip and sink into her skin. She tried not to react, knowing that Chrissy needed all her focus for the task, but she felt blood dripping down her hands and pooling in her curled fingers. She’d cut herself with the rotary cutter before, and it was like a cut with a straight razor—so clean and so fast that you didn’t feel the pain at first.

The voices in the back yard faded and then came back louder as the men returned to the house. Stella could hear them in the downstairs hall, laughing now, all worries about the fire
put to rest, and her heart sank. So Beez had managed to obliterate all her hard work with Roy Dean—the unconscious body, the puddle of blood. Well, it wouldn’t have been hard, with a few minutes’ blasting with the hose.

She felt one of the strands of rope strain against the blade, and suddenly it snapped free, the frayed end hitting her fingers. Stella made a sound in her throat, of surprise and gratitude. Chrissy murmured in response, and Stella could feel her tugging at the loosened rope.

Funzi and Beez led the firefighters to the front door, and their voices carried easily up to the bedroom. They sounded almost jovial, like a bunch of guys going to the bar after a softball game.

“I think I’ll have my wife and son go stay in a hotel for the night. You know, don’t want the little guy breathing that smoke,” Funzi said.

Chrissy paused and Stella wished she could pat her shoulder or comfort her in some way, but after a second Chrissy attacked the knots with renewed vigor.

“Not a bad idea, sir. If you call the station tomorrow they can give you the name of a couple of outfits that deal in smoke damage. You know, for the drapes and what-all.”

“Yeah, I guess the rest of it’ll keep us busy for the weekend. So much for fishing.”

“That’s a damn shame.” Another voice. “Hope to see you back on the water soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Just then, Stella felt Chrissy pull the loosened strands free, shoving them out of the way with her fingers, and Stella opened and closed her fists a couple of times to get the feeling
back, noting with dismay that they were slick with her own blood.

She closed her fingers over the handle of the rotary cutter just as Funzi and Beez stomped up the stairs and into the room. She prayed they wouldn’t see the blood seeping under her hands, staining the bedspread beneath her and Chrissy.

Funzi stood in the doorway and leered in. He looked almost maniacal, a grin stretched across his otherwise grim features.

“Isn’t that great?” he said. “Nice to see your tax dollars at work like that, huh?”

Behind him, Beez tagged along. He didn’t look one bit happy. Stella could sympathize. The evening wasn’t exactly a smashing success for anyone so far.

“Ought to rip your head off right now,” Beez muttered.

“You nearly screwed us with what you did to Roy Dean,” Funzi said, his manic voice edging higher. “Leaving him lying out on the ground for anyone to see. Good thing Beez got down there fast. He put Roy Dean into the cushion box. Big old Rubbermaid thing we keep the cushions for the outdoor furniture in? I mean, the thing was perfect, like it was made for holding a body. Only Roy Dean started to wake up. Fucking beat that. He starts to wake up and what’s Beez supposed to do, we got the fuckin’ fire department down our shorts, can’t have Roy Dean making noise and pounding on the box, now, can we? So Beez had to put a bullet in his brain.”

Beez looked away, his face darkening, and Stella felt her face go rigid with horror. She remembered the feel of Roy Dean’s pulse under her fingers, and she couldn’t help thinking
that he had been
alive,
he’d still been breathing when she left him lying on the patio.

She hadn’t killed him. But he was dead anyway, and he wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for her. Did that make her guilty? Did it matter? Before the night was out, more people were going to be dead. Probably her and Chrissy—but not if she had anything to say about it.

“You might as well been the one who pulled the trigger,” Funzi added, as though he were reading Stella’s thoughts. He prodded her tied ankles with a meaty hand. “You cost me one of my men. I might have to, you know, express my displeasure with you before I shoot you.”

Stella looked at the pale skin of Funzi’s stomach, a band of which hung over the elastic waist of his pajama bottoms. She imagined sinking the rotary blade in right there, rolling a nice big slice out of him. Now wasn’t the time, though, not with both of them focused on her and Chrissy. She needed to get one of them alone.

“Marie! Get down here!” Funzi hollered down the hall. His wife appeared in the doorway, holding Tucker in her good arm, with a diaper bag over her shoulder.

Chrissy strained against the ropes and grunted frantically against the tape against her mouth. The sound was heartbreaking. Tucker heard it, and his little blond head whipped around and he arched away from Marie, leaning out with his arms and screaming.

The boy recognized his mama, even with her battered face and tape over her mouth.

Stella figured her heart was going to break right there.
Then she made herself take all that anguish and turn it into honed, sharp fury, pictured it swirling in her gut, ready to burst out and take down all the evil in the room.

Marie struggled to get the boy under control with her good arm, the bag slipping to her elbow and dangling there. Tucker wasn’t a dainty child. He was pink and round and big, and Stella figured it would be a miracle if he didn’t wiggle out of her one-arm grasp, Marie red-faced with the effort of hanging on to him.

Marie didn’t look toward the bed. Stella wanted to scream at her:
Look here, right here, this is Tucker’s real mother. The woman your husband is going to shoot down like a dog, just so you can playact at being Mommy
. She willed Marie to look, but the woman turned away.

“Jesus fuck, Marie, get him out of here,” Funzi said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. “Take the Escalade. Go to the town house. I’ll be there later today. Move.”

He gave his wife a perfunctory peck on the cheek and a little shove, and she staggered down the hall without a backward glance.

That peck on the cheek—noisy, brief—Ollie used to kiss Stella like that, but only if there were other people around. She’d be standing with a group of women at the Knights of Columbus barbecue and he’d come over, flush with a few beers, bringing the conversation to a halt with his lurching, leering presence. The women would all watch as he winked broadly and kissed Stella. Sometimes he’d pat her butt, too. And then he’d wander off to find his buddies and another beer, and there would be this little silence before the conversation started up again, and even though it was a matter of seconds,
it was excruciating, and Stella knew what they were all thinking.

That she was a saint to put up with Ollie Hardesty. And that somebody ought to stop him from doing what they all knew he did.

And then someone would mention that her niece was having surgery for a fibroid the size of a tennis ball, and Stella would stand quietly with the trace of the kiss burning an invisible scar on her cheek.

Stella felt a little sorry for Marie. It was going to be a tough drive, wherever she was going, probably up to the city, fifty or sixty miles with her arm screaming in pain. Maybe they’d get pulled over for not having a car seat—but what would that accomplish? If she and Chrissy didn’t walk out of this place, even if Tucker somehow escaped Funzi and his wife, he’d be headed straight for social services. Foster care. The start of a whole other kind of no-good life.

There were no two ways about it: she and Chrissy
had
to come out of this alive.

Funzi gestured at the women. “So Beez, what do you think of taking the ladies out for a boat ride?”

“Sure,” Beez said, but he still looked pretty crabby.

“Go get the keys, I think they’re still on the cooler out in the garage. Or maybe on the hook in the game room. Somewhere down there, anyway.”

Beez left the room.

“Here’s the thing, girls,” Funzi said, going to the corner of the room where he had thrown Stella’s holster. He picked up the scissors, examined them carefully, admiring the curve of the blades. Then he came over and sat next to Stella on the
bed. “You ladies are the plus-size variety. That’s a problem. Beez and I are gonna have a hard time carrying a couple of heifers like yourselves out of here, so you’re going to have to cooperate.”

Stella glared at Funzi. He was enjoying this. Having fun at their expense. As if to confirm her suspicion, he pulled the hair away from her face, almost delicately, and put the tip of the scissors to the edge of the duct tape gag. Slowly, carefully, he worked the blade under the edge of the tape and cut through it. He was cutting into her skin, too, Stella was pretty sure, given the sharp pain she felt.

Once he got the cut started, he picked at a corner of the tape with his thumb and forefinger. He leaned in close to her face, and Stella could smell him: sweat and body odor and traces of some fruity aftershave.

There was a ripping sound and suddenly her face was a world of pain. Funzi had yanked the tape away in one furious motion, and it felt like it had taken a couple of her stitches out and opened up all her gashes again and stripped a few layers of skin as well. Her lip dribbled blood, no doubt split further than before. She gasped involuntarily and then worked her jaw back and forth, trying to get some sensation back into it.

“Not much of a looker, is she?” Funzi laughed, addressing Chrissy and pointing to Stella with the scissors. “They say she took out her husband. Poor guy, he probably wasn’t sticking it to her enough. That what got you so mad, Stella? Huh?”

He chuckled at his own humor, and Stella squeezed the rotary cutter hard, the handle sticky with her blood.

“But it’s kind of hard to blame him. I mean, even without the shit kicked out of you, it’s not like you’re gonna win the
Miss World title, you know? Now
you
—” pointing at Chrissy with thumb and forefinger cocked, gun-style. “You got some potential. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, calling you a heifer. You see my wife? See how damn skinny she is? Man, she ain’t had anything decent to eat in years. Drives me bat-shit. I’m like, Marie, have a fucking French fry, for Christ’s sake.”

More mirth. Funzi was able to amuse himself pretty easily. “Yeah, but I like you. I do,” Funzi said softly, letting his gaze travel up and down Chrissy. “Nice and soft, probably feel pretty good to sink into, and you’d have plenty to hang onto, you know?”