Lottery (20 page)

North on Powell; left to Hyde—the trolley jolted each time it came to a stop. Caleb forced himself not to turn around. The last thing he needed was another corpse’s eyes staring at him in his nightmares. His heartbeat escalated with every stop. Jackson … Pacific. When the hell was Price going to get off? The thoughts about what could happen if he didn’t get rid of him spurred Caleb on.

As the trolley neared Broadway, Caleb pushed his hand into his pocket and felt the knife. He had to hit his mark the first time. In his mind, he practiced thrusting the knife into the exact right location over and over again—plunge in … twist right … left, and out … in … twist right … left … out.

Moving past Caleb, Price made his way to the door. This was it. Caleb kept his head down and followed.

Stalking Price down the street, past Nick’s Fish Tacos, the smell of fish made Caleb nauseous. South a few blocks, the commercial area turned neighborly. Condos, townhomes, and apartment buildings were so close together, there was barely any space between them.

He watched Price turn into a driveway.

“Now, God damn it,” Weber ordered.

Caleb quickened his step. Heart in his throat, he glanced around as he hurried toward Price. It was after eleven and the blare of television sets reflected through second and third-story windows. The condo Price had turned into had to be worth two, maybe three million. Why the hell did this guy need money?

“Hey,” Caleb called out before Price reached the end of the driveway. “Wondering if you can help me.” Caleb took a quick look up and down the street again. No one around. For some reason, he felt calm.

Price turned around, took hold of the bill on the baseball cap, and pushed it back on his head. “Sure, what can I help you with?” he asked, walking toward Caleb.

A new Cadillac was in the driveway—the steps leading up to the front door were to the left of the garage. Caleb moved to the right side of the car. “I can’t seem to find the place I’m supposed to meet my friend.” Caleb’s hand gripped the handle of the knife. Slowly, methodically he inched it out of his pocket and wedged it against his thigh.

Standing next to Caleb now, Price asked, “What are you looking for?”

Caleb pressed the button on the weapon and felt it click. Heart starting to race, he said, “Nick’s Tacos, I can’t seem to—” He threw a heavy arm across Price’s throat and rammed him back into the car, hard. Envisioning the pillows, he quickly plunged the knife into Price’s chest, twisted it to the right, then left, hearing the crackle of bone before he pulled the knife out. A gush of blood spurted onto Caleb’s jacket … his face … his hands.

“
Ohhh
,
God
,” the gurgling words escaped from Price’s lips as he slumped slowly to the concrete.

Caleb froze, watching the blood trickle out the side of Price’s mouth, the red liquid pouring out of his chest. “
Help me
,” Price whispered in a dying breath.

“Go!” Weber shouted.

Caleb turned and took off in a dead run, the knife clasped in his hand. Between a row of stucco townhomes … through backyards … down a dark street, a few blocks away he ducked into an alley.

Breathless, he pressed his back against the bricks. “Oh, God,” he rasped. Staring down at his hand covered in blood, Caleb opened his palm, letting the knife fall to the cracked pavement. Every emotion exploded inside of him at once; rage, remorse, guilt, and sorrow. He slid his back down the course brick, swallowing back tears.

“Good job,” Weber told him.

Caleb shook his head, tears erupting down his face. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You’ll get over it,” Weber said. “It’s a good day.”

Caleb stayed still for a few seconds. Price had begged for help. Jesus Christ …
he’d begged
.

He stood and took off his blood-splattered jacket. Turning it inside out so the blood wouldn’t show, he sandwiched it underneath his armpit. Robotically, he bent over and picked up the knife. Staring at it for a couple of seconds, he closed it and stuffed it into his pocket. He had to pull himself together. He needed to get the blood off his hands and face.

Finding a garbage can at the end of the alley, he rummaged through it until he found a plastic cup from McDonald’s with a few ounces of soda inside. Trembling, he pulled the top off the cup and poured the sticky liquid over his hands and then splashed it over his face. Walking brusquely back to Broadway, he took the next cable car back to Powell and California, hoping all of the blood was gone.

The look in Price’s eyes when Caleb stabbed him … the blood streaming out of his chest like a faucet …
fuck
.

When Caleb reached his hotel, he took the flights of stairs two steps at a time. The God damned place was so full of junkies, no one even noticed him.

He pushed back the curtain and looking out his window and saw the container he’d tossed the sack into was now filled
beyond capacity. No one would look for, or find, what was left of the pillows.

He’d paid cash when he’d checked in. Cash meant no names, no telephone number, and no address. He’d leave a couple of hundred on the dresser for the mirror he’d busted.

After he chugged the last bottle of gin, he took the knife out of his pocket and switched it open. The blood had now dried to a dark black paste. In the bathroom, he turned on the spigot and waited for the water to become steaming hot. Mesmerized, he held the knife under the water and watched the blood disappear from the blade and handle.

In the shower, he scrubbed so hard, his skin started to sting. Making sure the blood underneath his nails was gone; he let the hot water pulsate over his face, his hair, his arms, and legs. Had someone found Price yet? Was the neighborhood all out on the streets? Police cars and ambulances? Price hadn’t stood a chance, as Caleb had taken him by surprise.

Caleb took out shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt from the duffel and dressed. After he stuffed the hat, sunglasses, jeans, and jacket into his duffle bag, Caleb took another look around the room for anything he’d missed.

Before he closed the door, he wrapped the knife in toilet paper and put it into his pocket so if any remnants of if Price’s blood was left, it wouldn’t show up on his clothing. Walking to the exit sign in the low-lit hallway, he hurried down the stairs and out the back door.

Out on the street, he turned into the first alley he came to. Seeing a couple of street people asleep, he found an empty bed made of holey, frayed blankets.

He set the duffel down on top of the blankets, and then took out the lighter fluid from the bag. After he doused the duffle and blankets, he tossed the container on top, reached into his pocket, and brought out a book of matches. It felt like someone
else was lighting the match, placing the match book on top of the bag, and tossing the lit match on top of the pile. As he walked down the street, he glanced back over his shoulder when he heard an explosion and saw the dark smoke filtering out of the alley.

As he headed down O’Farell Street, it was almost one in the morning. He pulled out the prepaid phone. The voicemails from Price were still on the cell.

Thank God for Weber, as he’d walked him through every single move tonight. Caleb couldn’t have pulled this off without his help.

Left on Natoma, right on Fourth to Howard Street, he walked steadily toward the bay. Waiting on the side of the Embarcadero Highway until there was an opening in the traffic, he jogged across to the other side. As he made his way to the bay, except for a trickling of traffic that crossed the San Francisco Oakland Bridge, no one was around. He took out the knife, brought his arm back over his head, and slung the weapon out into the bay.

Quickly, he crossed back over the highway, and when Caleb reached the Financial District, he called a cab.

On his way home, he remembered the voicemails. He vacillated on whether to listen to them before destroying the cell.

He took the phone of his pocket and pressed ‘1.’

“Hey, O’Toole,” Price started gruffly. A chill went up Caleb’s spine listening to the voice of a dead man. “Can’t make it tonight. Have a commitment with my family that …”

The words sliced through his gut. The person Caleb had just murdered wasn’t Ron Price.

enee couldn’t wait for Justin to get home. She’d kept the secret for two days now, waiting for just the right time to tell him they’d been chosen. She had fed Baileigh early and given her a bath. When Justin got home, Jenee would tell him they were having a late dinner alone.

She’d spent a good portion of the day cleaning the third bedroom. Soon it would become a nursery. Wait … the child in the dream … he or she wasn’t a baby, but a toddler, closer to two or three. She shook her head. Lord, it was just a dream.

Jenee bent over and checked the bubbling lasagna in the oven, smelling the sweet sausage mixed with hamburger. topped with tomato sauce, laced with herbs. The recipe had passed from her grandmother to Jenee’s mother to her. It wouldn’t be long before Baileigh would be making it in her own kitchen. It seemed like only yesterday they’d brought their daughter home from the hospital. Time slipped by so fast.

“Mommy,” Baileigh said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “I don’t want a baby.” Her rosebud mouth puckered into a perfect pout.

Jenee pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. She patted her lap. “Come here, sweetie.”

Baileigh reluctantly walked to her mother, her ponytail bobbing back and forth with each step. Jenee knew all the talk about a new brother or sister had been on Baileigh’s mind.

Jenee pulled her up on her lap and stroked her cheek. “Don’t you want a little brother or sister to play with?”

Baileigh shook her head, her eyes misty. “I just want you and Daddy.”

“But, honey,” Jenee tried to reason, “don’t you remember what we talked about? We have so much love to give. Enough for you
and
a brother or sister.”

“And you’ll still be my mommy?”

Jenee pulled her close. “Always.”

Adding another family member would be a difficult adjustment for Baileigh, as she’d been an only child for almost four years. She and Justin would have to talk about how to handle the transition so Baileigh wouldn’t feel insecure. Lord knew that a baby not only caused a lot of commotion, but demanded attention.

Baileigh placed a tiny palm on Jenee’s cheek. Her innocent blue eyes gazed into her mother’s. “Okay, we’ll keep it until I don’t want it anymore, K?”

“Well”—Jenee kept her eyes locked with Baileigh’s—“I could never give any of my children away. That wouldn’t be nice.”

Baileigh looked down at her bare feet and wiggled her chubby toes.

“Would it?” Jenee prodded.

“What if the baby’s not nice?” Baileigh asked Jenee, a serious expression on her sweet face.

“I promise that your new brother or sister will be nice.” Jenee paused. “And if he or she isn’t, then we’ll have to show them how to be nice.”

“Promise?” Baileigh bounced off her lap.

“Cross my heart.”

When Jenee heard Justin’s truck pull, her stomach tightened. “Why don’t you get on your jammies and pick out a book,” she told Baileigh.

Baileigh put her hand on her hip. “How come I can’t eat with you and Daddy?”

Jenee held back laughter as this was the first time she’d seen Baileigh put a hand on her hip like Jenee did when she was disgusted. She knelt down next to Baileigh, and took her daughter’s miniature hand in hers. “Because sometimes mommies and daddies need to be alone.”

“Why?” Baileigh whined.

“Because adults need to discuss adult things.” Jenee drew in a breath, trying to think of a better way to explain. “Like grown up things.”

“Like what?”

Jenee had learned to think fast. “Oh, like whether we should have carrots or peas for dinner. Who will take out the garbage and—”

“Okay, I’ll go pick out a book.” Baileigh turned and scampered away.

Jenee smiled. The last thing a child wanted to talk about was vegetables or garbage.

“Hey,” Justin said when he walked through the door, “what’s that I smell?”

“Lasagna.”

On his way to the half bath, he said, “Wine
and
lasagna? What’s the occasion?”