Night Thunder (3 page)

She left the studio at a run, hailed a cab at the corner, and gave the driver her address as she jumped into the backseat. When she reached her building she spared only a quick nod to the doorman as she strode past and punched the elevator button. She’d never heard that note of frantic urgency in Ricky’s voice before. Even when they were kids on Jefferson Street, there’d been a cool toughness about him that had made it appear he had no problem keeping every emotion in check. Tonight he’d sounded almost unraveled.

What the hell is in that box?
she wondered as she fitted the key in her lock.

She half expected the package to have disappeared when she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, but it was right where she’d left it under her sweaters.

She stuffed it into her black leather work tote and in less than a minute she was hailing another cab.

It took nearly an hour to get to Brooklyn zooming straight across the Manhattan Bridge, down Flatbush and cutting through Grand Army Plaza, and by the time the cab turned onto Vanderbilt and braked before the small brick house on the left side of the street, her nerves were shot. She felt queasy, her hands were shaking, and she didn’t know if it was from having skipped dinner or from anxiety, but she heard herself ask the driver to wait in a breathless voice that sounded completely unlike her own.

Clearing her throat, she climbed out of the cab and hurried up the cement steps, feeling the package swaying inside her tote. It was nearly ten o’clock, and the windows of many houses on the street were open to the April night. She heard a radio blaring rap, smelled the aroma of pizza drifting from one of the windows. Down the block, a dog yapped, rapid and staccato. She saw kids skateboarding around a corner—a few people sat on porches in aluminum chairs, enjoying the spring air.

She rang the doorbell of the silent brick house and waited.

Chapter 2

THIRTY SECONDS DRAGGED BY. THERE WAS NO answer.

She rang the bell again and followed this up immediately with three sharp raps on the door.

Still no answer. This wasn’t right. And it wasn’t good, not at all.

She checked the slip of paper again, confirming the address, then turned to the cabdriver.

He was hunched over the steering wheel, watching her, looking irritated as hell. “One minute,” she called as imperatively as she could with her heart beating in time to the rap music, and she pounded on the door again.

Damn it, Ricky,
she thought. Maybe Archie was late. Maybe she should leave the package on the front porch for him.

Or . . . inside.

She gave the doorknob a little jostle, praying it wouldn’t turn. But it did. The door gave and she pushed it open an inch just to see if she could.

Damn. She didn’t want to go in there. The entire situation was freaking her out. But if she went in, she could leave the package on a table or something and when Archie got here, it’d be safe.

The cabdriver leaned out the window. “Lady, I’m not supposed to just sit. You want me to take you someplace or what?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Wait one more minute.”

She shoved the door open and stepped inside. There were lights on, and a window air conditioner whirred somewhere.

“Archie?”

No answer.

The house was warm, though, and cluttered, with a tiny hall and a brown-carpeted living room filled with a mismatched jumble of older furniture that contrasted with the gleaming, twenty-first-century wide-screen TV dominating one wall. There was a wood coffee table in front of a cracked black leather sofa and she hurried toward it, planning to leave the package right there, next to three empty beer bottles and a pile of laundry. But then she heard a noise coming from a back room.

Not just any noise—one that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. It was a moan.

For a moment, Josy froze, then she started toward the sound. She heard another moan—it seemed to be coming from the kitchen up ahead.

She saw him as soon as she reached the doorway. He was lying facedown on the linoleum floor. There was blood everywhere—beneath him, on the counter, the refrigerator, the floor. The queasiness rushed to her head and she sucked in a deep breath to steady herself.

“Oh, God.” Shock ripped through her. She ran to him and knelt down. He was young, tough-looking, twentyish. His face was turned toward her and she saw that his brown eyes were open. They looked glazed, sad . . . dim. She also saw the bullet hole that had torn through his thin shoulder blades and gouged out a hole in his faded green cotton shirt.

“Archie?” she gasped. “Archie, hold on, I’ll get help.”

She groped in her tote for her cell phone, but before she could find it, he wheezed, “No . . . get outta here. Take the package . . . get out . . .”

She ignored him and punched in 911, still on her knees beside him.

“A man’s been hurt. He’s bleeding. We need an ambulance.” Her voice was high-pitched, rapid. “The address?” She gave it in a rush. “Yes, he’s conscious, but there’s blood all over the—”

Suddenly, the wounded man’s arm shot out and grabbed the phone. His finger jammed against the
end
button, and then, groaning, he threw the phone as far as he could. It slid to a rest only five feet away, against the base of an electric stove.

“No . . . cops,” he told her, but his voice sounded even weaker than it had before. “Get out . . . take the package . . . go . . .”

Her cell phone rang and she scrambled across the floor to grab it, half expecting the emergency operator to have traced the call and called back for more information.

But Ricky’s voice yelled in her ear. “Josy, change in plans. Don’t go to the address I gave you—”

“I’m already here. Ricky, a man’s been shot. I think it’s Archie! You’re Archie, aren’t you?” she asked the man on the floor, whose eyes were now closed, scaring her half to death.

“Yeah. Lemme . . . talk to . . . Ricky . . . tell him . . . Hammer . . .”

“Ricky, what the hell’s going on?” she shrieked.

“How bad is he hurt?” Ricky ignored her question. “Did you call an ambulance?”

“Yes, they’re on their way—”

“Then get the hell out of there, Josy. Now!”

“Oh, no. Ricky . . . Ricky, I think . . .”

The man’s eyes were closed again. He wasn’t even moaning now.
Please,
she prayed silently, forgetting about Ricky, forgetting about everything except the man lying in his own blood on the floor.

“Archie,” she cried. She set the phone down, reached for his wrist, felt for a pulse. She hadn’t done this since they’d learned it in health class in high school. She hadn’t been good at it. She couldn’t feel one now. Shouldn’t she be doing something else? Mouth to mouth? Putting pressure on the wound?

She couldn’t feel a pulse. He looked so still, so . . .

“Ricky, I think . . . he’s dead!”

She heard the scream of an ambulance in the distance.

“Josy, you still got the package? Take it with you right this damned minute and get the hell out of there!” Ricky roared into the phone.

“But I can’t leave—”

“Yes, you can. For me, Josy. I can’t let the cops get that package, you see? Get outta there. If he’s going to make it, the paramedics will save him. All you can do is get the hell out!”

She was still frozen, still staring at Archie, who hadn’t moved a muscle, when she heard something else.

The front door, squeaking open. Low voices.

Pure instinct had her surging to her feet, trembling, edging out of sight of the front part of the house. She held her breath, clutching the cell phone, fear rushing at her.

“Josy, do you hear—” She hit the
end
button to blot out Ricky’s shout and turned off the phone. Whoever was out there, it sure wasn’t the paramedics. Maybe whoever had shot Archie had come back to finish him off. Though from the looks of it, there was no need, she thought, her gaze shifting to him and then quickly away.

She’d never seen a dead man before, but she was pretty sure she’d seen one now.

She wanted to scream, but she clenched all her muscles tight, took a deep breath, and leaned forward ever so slightly so that she could peek around the doorway and down the hall. She just caught a glimpse of a man with dark blond hair dressed all in black—black blazer, black slacks, and a black gun in his hand.
Now, there’s a fashion
accessory I can do without,
she thought, jerking back out of sight.

Ricky was right. She had to get out of here.

There was a side door off the kitchen. She edged toward it, praying the floor wouldn’t creak. She took one last look back at Archie, who hadn’t moved or spoken a word, and opened the door.

It led outside into a small unfenced yard. Carefully, she stepped out and closed the door after her.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the hot darkness, but the moon riding high overhead helped and she saw a maze of backyards on either side of her.

She ran toward the left and glanced at the street, praying the cab was still there, knowing it was her best chance.

It was gone.

Choking down panic, she veered away from the street, clutching her tote close, running faster than she’d ever thought she could in sandals with two-inch heels.

She dashed through yards, past swing sets and fig trees and marigold gardens, running, running. She nearly ran over a couple of teenagers drinking beer on a beach towel spread across the grass and slowed down long enough to ask them where the nearest subway station was.

They pointed her toward the Fort Hamilton stop, and she stumbled on. She had no idea how long she ran before she reached it. Every so often, she twisted her head around, trying to see if she was being followed. She wasn’t—yet. But even when she reached the F train and sank onto a seat in the back, she couldn’t believe she’d gotten away.

“Faster,” she urged the train silently, as she slumped back, clutching her sides. Her head was pounding with the vision of a dead man on a linoleum floor, and another man with a gun, searching the house, looking for . . . what?

The answer was obvious. For her. Or the package.

Possibly both.

I know I owe you, Ricky,
she thought miserably,
and I’ll
always be grateful—but what the hell have you gotten me
into?
A shudder racked her shoulders, and serious nausea clogged her throat.

She pulled the tote closer and peered inside at the dark shape of the package. She needed to know what was inside it. And more important, she thought, fear eating through the inner lining of her stomach, how the hell was she going to get rid of it?

By the time she reached the door of her apartment and had to try three times to fit her key in the lock because her hand was shaking so badly, she’d decided that things couldn’t get any worse.

But then they did. She opened the door at last and gasped.

Her lovely, tidy, chic, and comfortable apartment, the one place that felt more like home to her than any place she’d lived in except for her childhood bedroom before her parents had died, looked like a hurricane had blown through and left a wake of destruction.

The sofa cushions had been slashed and dumped on the floor, lamps were knocked over, the coffee table kicked aside. Her lovely rose silk bedding was in a heap on the floor and the drawers of the antique Regency dresser she’d so painstakingly refinished had been overturned, her clothes strewn everywhere imaginable.

Even her trash can in the kitchen had been upended. Garbage lay everywhere on the previously shining white-tile floor, alongside pots and pans, cracked dishes, and boxes of Cheerios and macaroni and cheese and broken chocolate chip cookies.

Shock and anger raged through her, along with the slick rush of fear.

What the hell is so damned important about this package?
she thought furiously, and reached into her tote to pull it out. She glared at it a moment, then started to rip the brown paper off, but she stopped dead when her apartment phone rang.

“Josy! Josy, are you there? Damn it, Josy, why’d you turn off your cell? Answer me!” Rough fear throbbed through Ricky’s voice. Somehow, she found her own.

“They were here, Ricky. In my apartment. They’ve ruined . . . everything.”

“They tossed your apartment? Jesus. Josy, I’m sorry.” She heard him suck in his breath. “You don’t know how sorry I am. Things weren’t supposed to go down this way. I never thought . . . listen, you need to get out of town.
Now.
”

“Out of town? No, Ricky, that’s crazy. I need to call the police!” She sank down on her stripped-down bed, still holding the parcel.

“Josy, listen to me. That’s the worst thing you can do. They want what’s inside the package and they’ll kill you to get it.”

“That’s why I have to get rid of it—fast.” She heard her voice rising, on the brink of hysteria. “The police can take it off my hands and—”

“Josy, I’m not sure who we can trust at the police department. I was set up . . . and until I know for sure how many were involved, I can’t go to them and neither can you. Pack a bag and—”

“Are you crazy? I have a job. My boss is expecting me to turn in sketches for the fall collection in two weeks. Running away is
not
an option—”

“Neither is dying,” Ricky yelled at the other end of the phone.

That stunned her into silence. Ricky continued more quietly, but with that same urgency she’d heard the first time he called about the package.

“I never should have gotten you mixed up in this. I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought . . . never mind. You have to get out, Josy, tonight, right now. I’m nowhere near the city, or I’d get you out myself, but I can’t come back. I can’t be found, not yet . . . and you can’t be found either. So pack a bag, take the package, and go somewhere no one would expect. Not to any friend, anyone they could find out about or locate. Go someplace where you can get lost for a while, until I can get to you and take the package back.”

“Ricky . . .” She could barely speak. Her voice was a hoarse, sick rasp. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yeah. I’m asking you to save your life. And mine. You know I wouldn’t unless this was really important, Josy. These guys don’t fool around. They can’t get that package, and they can’t catch up to you. They’re not the type to ask questions and leave quietly, you know what I mean?”

Her heart was pounding like the roar of the subway. She felt as if she were in a movie, the loud, violent, gritty kind of movie she didn’t especially care for . . . only it wasn’t a movie, it was her
life
.

“How are you going to find me? Shouldn’t I tell you where I’m going?”

“Not now—not on this line. Just go . . . and I mean now. Grab the package and get out—don’t use your cell phone once you disappear, buy a disposable, one with no contract, nothing to trace back to you, and don’t use it until I tell you. Open a new e-mail account on Hotmail and send me an e-mail when you’re settled and safe. Then I’ll get you instructions. Don’t use my regular screen name. Middle name, Josy. You know the one.
Middle name
. Add my age. I’ll contact you when I can and take the package off your hands. Oh, hell, I gotta go—”