Kings of Midnight (26 page)

She told him where the car was. “Stay off the main streets. I'll meet you there, but I need a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

When they were gone, she went back upstairs. She pushed Longo's body away, shoveled all the money back into the duffel bag, zipped it shut. She left it near the stairs.

In the bedroom, she pulled the sheet off, used her knife to slice through the mattress. She pulled stuffing out, tried not to look at Perry's body, the pool of blood.

She put the knife away, went back in the hall, took one of the flares from her jacket pocket. She slid off the plastic sheath, reversed the striker cap, got it lit on the second try. It hissed, began to spew sparks and white magnesium smoke. She tossed it onto the mattress. It caught at once, the flames lighting up the room, shadows dancing on the walls.

The hall was filling with smoke. She took a last glance into the bathroom, then picked up the duffel, carried it downstairs, past Bruno's body.

In the bar, she went behind the counter, swept all the bottles onto the floor. They shattered on the wood, contents running together, the smell of it rising up.

She lit the second flare at the door, tossed it over the bar top into the pool of alcohol. It blazed up blue and yellow, flames tracing the path along the floor where the liquor had flowed. The bar mirror reflected their light. Smoke began to gather beneath the pressed tin ceiling.

She slung the bag over her shoulder, went out, left the door open to feed the flames.

A block away, she felt the first tremor. It started in her right hand, spread up her arm. She opened and closed her hand, felt the muscles spasm and flutter. She was shaking. She squeezed her fist tight until it stopped, turned to look back.

The first-floor windows of the Victory were illuminated from within, a leaping red glow like a thing alive. Upstairs, smoke was seeping from the boarded-up windows, flames creeping along the edges of the plywood.

One of the first-floor windows popped and collapsed, flames licking out. The torn awning caught, began to smoke. Flames sprang up, the faded lettering turning black, then disappearing. The entire awning went up almost all at once, the glow of it lighting storefronts along the street.

When she reached the car, they were waiting there together. She dropped the duffel at their feet. “This belongs to you,” she said. “It's what it was all about, remember?”

Benny looked down at it. Neither of them moved.

“Take it,” Crissa said. “It's yours. You earned it. No one's going to come looking for it anymore. If you don't take it, I will.”

Smoke was drifting up over the buildings, past the moon, high into the sky. She heard the first sirens, coming from somewhere deeper in Brooklyn.

“Make up your mind,” she said. “We're running out of time.”

“She's right,” Marta said.

Benny looked at her. “What?”

“Take it.”

“Smart girl,” Crissa said. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

Their first stop was Bay Ridge, to get the Honda. It was a block away from what would be a homicide scene. If anyone ran the plates, it would be a link back to her.

When Benny and Marta got out, Crissa said, “Meet me down at the house. I have to make a stop first. If you get there before me, just wait.”

Benny looked dazed, tired.

“You okay to drive?” she said.

“I don't know.”

Marta said, “I'll drive.”

“Good,” Crissa said. Then to Benny, “You want to take that duffel with you?”

He looked at the trunk, then back at her, shook his head. “No. I trust you. And after all this, I don't want to get stopped in Brooklyn, have some nosy cop find it.”

“Smart.”

“Getting there,” he said.

*   *   *

Halfway across the upper level of the Verrazano, she pulled over, put her hazards on. It was 3:00
A.M.
, the traffic sparse.

She left the engine running, got out. Cold up here, wind whining around the suspension cables. She could feel the roadway sway beneath her. In the distance, back the way she'd come, a pulsing light, thin smoke drifting past the moon.

A car flew by in the opposite lane, a blur of metal and light. She stepped over the guardrail to the outer railing. Now she could see the water some five hundred feet below, the blue light of the bridge reflected on its surface.

There would be surveillance cameras up here, maybe someone watching her even now. She would have to be quick.

She held the Glock below her waist, ejected the magazine, and dropped it into darkness. Then she disassembled the gun by feel, tossed the pieces out into the void. The shell casings were next, the wind catching them almost as soon as they left her hand. They clinked against the metal supports, disappeared.

A car blew past her, horn blaring. She tossed Benny's phone, then her own. Their last links to what had happened at the Victory.

Another car sped by, narrowly missing the Taurus. Enough risk for tonight, she thought. Time to go home.

She got back in the car, killed the hazards, put her signal on. She waited for a car to pass, then pulled out after it. The darkness of Staten Island ahead, then Jersey. Brooklyn behind her, a red glow in the night.

TWENTY-SEVEN

She woke just after dawn, aching all over, and with a deep soreness in her hips. But the pain in her stomach was gone.

She made coffee, drank it in the kitchen, giving them time to sleep. When she was done, it was after eight. She knocked lightly on the bedroom door.

After a moment, Benny opened it. He looked ten years older, his eyes red beneath the glasses. Behind him, Marta lay asleep on the still-made bed, fully dressed, her back to them. The duffel bag was on the floor.

She motioned for him to come out. He closed the door gently behind him.

“Time to be on the road,” she said. “The sooner the better. I'll drive you. Where were you headed?”

“New Haven. To catch a train.”

“I'll take you. But that duffel's no good for traveling. It'll attract too much attention. Use these.” She nodded at the two new suitcases on the floor. She'd emptied them out, put all her money back in the other duffel.

“Put some clothes on top in each, enough to pass a casual inspection,” she said. “When you get where you're going, do what I said—salt some away in safe deposit boxes. That way you know you've got a stake somewhere if things go sour. What you do with the rest is up to you.”

“Thanks. What about the car?”

“I'll take care of that.” She looked at her watch. “I want to be out of here in an hour.”

“All right.” He looked back at the bedroom door.

“She can sleep on the train,” Crissa said. “Better for both of you to be on the move.”

“It was a rough night for her.”

“For all of us,” she said.

*   *   *

At noon, they were in New Haven. The sky was gray, rain spotting the windshield. Crissa steered the Honda to the curb outside Union Station. There were cars ahead of her, a taxi queue to the left. Benny and Marta were in the backseat, their suitcases in the trunk. Her own duffel was back there, too. It felt safer to have it with her.

“Let me go inside and see what the schedules are,” he said. “I'll leave our bags here, be right back.”

“All right,” Crissa said.

He opened the door, touched Marta on the shoulder. “Wait here, baby. I'll be back in a sec.”

Crissa watched him go inside, people streaming around him.

She looked at Marta in the rearview. “You have family?”

“Parents. In Indiana.”

“You going back to see them?”

“Someday. Benny says we need to get settled somewhere else first. Then we'll find a way.”

Crissa watched the front entrance. They'd passed the New Haven police station less than a block away. She had a sudden image of cops coming out the doors of the terminal, surrounding the Honda, guns out.

“Is that right?” Marta said. “What you said last night? About nobody looking for us anymore?”

“Probably.”

“That's not very reassuring.”

“Maybe not. But it'll have to do.”

Benny came back out, a ticket envelope in his hand. Crissa powered down the passenger window. He leaned in, said, “We're in luck. There's an Amtrak leaving in twenty-five minutes for—”

“I don't want to know,” she said.

He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. “All right, then.”

She popped the trunk, got out. Benny set the first suitcase on the curb. He looked around. “Where are all the redcaps?”

“Wrong decade,” she said. She pulled the second one out. When all four bags were lined up at the curb, she said, “Wait a minute.”

Her back to them, she leaned into the trunk, unzipped her duffel, took out the black velvet bag with the red drawstring, the diamond necklace and bracelet inside.

She lobbed it at him. He caught it in front of his chest.

“What's this?” he said.

“Wedding present. Keep them, sell them, whatever. They're yours.”

He weighed the bag in his hand, looked at Marta, then back at Crissa. “Thanks.”

“You're going to miss your train. And you'll want to keep an eye on those suitcases. Be a shame to lose them at this point.”

“You're right,” he said.

Marta looked at her. “Thank you.”

“Go somewhere far away,” Crissa said. “Keep your head down. Stay safe.”

He bounced the bag in his hand. “Then I guess this is it. Again.”

“It is.” She shut the trunk lid.

“Like I said, I wish I'd known you back in—”

“Your train.”

“Right.” He put the bag in a coat pocket, picked up two of the suitcases. “I guess we'll be seeing you.”

“No,” Crissa said. “You won't.”

She watched them go into the station together, carrying their bags, but staying close, shoulder to shoulder. She stood there for a while. Then she got back behind the wheel.

*   *   *

She returned the Honda at an agency near Newark Airport, got them to call a limo to take her back to Avon.

She waited on a plastic chair in the office, watching rivulets of rain on the plate glass, the duffel at her feet. When the limo drew up, she hoisted the bag, went out.

The driver got out, opened the trunk, reached for the bag.

“No,” she said. “I've got it.”

“Okay, ma'am,” he said. He was dark-skinned, had a lilting African accent. “It's up to you.”

He shut the trunk again, opened the rear door. She put the duffel on the seat, got in after it.

Heading south on the Turnpike, she saw he was watching her in the rearview. She knew how she must look. She was exhausted, sore. She'd sleep for a few hours, then bring Jimmy his money, and call Rathka. See about a plane ticket to Texas.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said. “But that's most unusual.”

“What?”

“That bag you are carrying. It's not a ladies' bag at all. No good for clothes, I would not think. I have never seen a woman like you carrying one.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. It's something a man would carry. A sailor maybe, or soldier. But I don't think you're either of those, are you?”

“No, I'm not.”

“You are a serious person, though. I can tell.”

She didn't respond, looked out the window at the traffic passing by, the sound of the wipers lulling her. She felt herself drifting.

“So,” he said.

She opened her eyes. He was watching her again. “What?”

“Forgive me for asking, I know it is none of my business, but you have made me curious.”

“About what?”

“The bag. What is in it?”

She met his eyes in the rearview. “A million dollars.”

He laughed, nodded. “A million dollars. How is it they say? Oh, yes. ‘Good one.'” He laughed again. “A million dollars. Very good, indeed.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Back home, she dropped the duffel on the floor, broke out a new cell from its plastic packaging. She activated it, punched in Rathka's number.

Monique answered. “Miss Hendryx, I think Mister Rathka's been trying to reach you. Please hold.”

Crissa carried the phone to the sliding glass door, opened the blinds. Rain pocked the surface of the inlet, the water gray and churning, the same color as the sky. In her mind, she saw blackened, twisted embers smoking in the rain, grinning skulls buried in ash.

When Rathka came on the line, he said, “I've tried calling you. There was no answer.”

“I switched phones. What's wrong?”

A pause on the other end of the line. Silence. She felt her stomach tighten. “Tell me.”

“It's our friend in Texas. Something happened.”

“What?”

“That situation I told you about, with another inmate. It came to a head. In a bad way.”

She closed her eyes, drew in breath. “Is he dead?”

“No. He's a little beat up, but he'll be okay, as far as that goes. What I know, I got from our guard. Apparently, there were some threats made yesterday afternoon by that other inmate. Made where others could hear them. Our friend didn't respond, just went back to his cell. Then last night, right before lockdown, he went down to where this other inmate was playing cards, in the common room. He had a knife made from a bed spring. At least, that's what they're saying.”

She breathed in, out. “What happened?”

“They got into it right there. In front of witnesses, a pair of guards, security cameras, the whole thing.”

“Did Wayne kill him?” Conscious she had used his name for the first time, not caring.

“No, but close. They medevaced the inmate out to a hospital not far from the facility. I checked earlier today. He's still in intensive care.”