Shady Cross (16 page)

TWENTY-ONE

11:51 P.M.

“WE DON’T WANT TO SHOOT
you,” Wiggins said, “but we will if we have to.”

“And we’d get away with it,” Martz added. “You broke into our home, engaged in those shenanigans with our alarm system. I think a couple of old men like us, pillars in this community, wouldn’t have a problem convincing the authorities that we had no choice but to defend ourselves using, unfortunately, lethal force. Don’t you?”

Sadly, Stokes did. The guns looked kind of heavy in the guys’ hands. Their arms looked kind of skinny. Stokes was worried the strain of keeping them pointed at him might cause one of them to pull a trigger accidentally.

“Look, fellas,” Stokes said, “we can talk this thing out. For now, why don’t you give your arms a break? Let the guns hang in your hands, pointed at the floor.”

They eyed him with suspicion. But it also looked to Stokes like there was hope on their faces, like they really did want to relax their scrawny arms for a while.

“I’m twelve feet away, guys,” Stokes added. “I couldn’t get three steps toward you before you shot me dead if you wanted to.”

Wiggins and Martz looked at each other, then lowered their guns. Stokes thought about rushing them, but they looked a little jumpy and were liable to kill him even if they didn’t mean to. Plus, again, as war veterans with combat experience, they might still have decent reflexes.

“Now what’s this about keeping my money?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not really yours, is it?” Martz responded. “You stole it yourself, didn’t you? From a dead man?”

“Hell, fellas, it’s more mine than yours.”

“I’m not sure we agree,” Wiggins said. “But we don’t have to. The facts are these: You broke into our house intending to steal from us, so we don’t really feel a great deal of affection for you. And we have found ourselves in dire financial straits—”

Martz cut in. “In no small part due to our lengthy history of philanthropy over the years.”

“Right. And finally, you have a great deal of money in your bag there.”

“Money that we need very badly.”

“Money that, under the circumstances, you could never go to the police to complain about having been stolen from you.”

“So you see,” Martz said, “this truly could not have worked out better for us.”

Wiggins shook his head, indicating his agreement that things couldn’t have worked out better for them.

Stokes shook his head in disbelief. “You’re robbing me,” he said. He wasn’t asking, merely summing up the situation.

“Ironic, we know,” Wiggins said. “Now please step away from that bag.” He raised his gun. Martz did the same.

Stokes shook his head but didn’t move his feet. “I’m having a little trouble here, fellas. This isn’t the way guys like you are supposed to act.”

“Guys like us?” Martz asked.

“Relax, I don’t mean
guys like you
. I mean guys who everyone respects, guys who donate money all over the place, stuff like that. So what gives?”

“Well,” Wiggins began, “as we told you, we’re nearly bankrupt.”

“And we’ve been forced to sell many of our most treasured possessions,” Martz added, “which pains us more than you can imagine.”

Wiggins nodded. “And, well, we don’t want to do that any longer.”

Stokes blew out an exasperated breath. “But stealing? With an innocent kid’s life at stake?”

Martz sighed. “We’d rather not steal, but we’d
much
rather not lose our precious antiques. It took us nearly a lifetime to collect them. We chose nearly every item in this house with great care, after much searching for just the right piece. Nearly everything of value in this house, everything we own, comes with a story, a story special to Hugh and me.”

“That’s right,” Wiggins said. “Do you see that end table? It’s nineteenth-century Italian neoclassic. We picked it up during a wine-tasting trip to Napa Valley ten years ago. A wonderful vacation.”

“And that late Regency mahogany
secretaire
bookcase behind you?” Martz asked.

Stokes turned and saw a bookcase.

“It was crafted in 1829. Notice the cavetto cornice, the turned
rondle
decoration, the astral glazed doors—with the original glass, mind you, as well as the original brass beading and knobs. Even the lock and key are original. Extraordinary, isn’t it?”

Stokes still saw a bookcase.

“It’s one of our favorite pieces. Not because it’s worth close to twelve thousand dollars, but because it was a fiftieth-birthday gift to me from Hugh.”

“Do you see now?” Wiggins asked Stokes. “Maybe a little? Far beyond the fact that the items here have considerable monetary value, everything here has special meaning to us.”

Stokes said, “Yeah, but—”

Martz interrupted. “Hugh and I have ingratiated ourselves to the members of this community through our charitable works and, with very few exceptions, we have been treated with nothing but respect. Still, we have always been outsiders. We’ve had only each other, really, for so many years. Only each other and this house.”

“And all the wonderful things in it,” Wiggins said. “And every item we’ve had to sell so far, and there have been quite a few, has been painful to part with.”

“So maybe you can understand,” Martz said, “why we need to do this. The money isn’t yours anyway. And with it, we can keep from selling the rest of our treasures, maybe even buy back some of what we’ve been forced to sell off.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Wiggins said, “we really are very sorry.”

“But we are also quite desperate,” Martz said, “and will do anything to keep our home together, and by that I mean the precious items in it.”

“And what about the little girl?” Stokes finally asked.

Martz frowned. “That’s regrettable, of course. We don’t want to see her hurt. But in the end, it isn’t our business, is it?”

“It really isn’t our problem,” Wiggins added.

“Besides,” Martz continued, “she won’t be hurt. Kidnapping is a serious crime, but murder is much more serious. When the kidnappers realize they won’t be getting their money, they’ll let the little girl go.”

“You really believe that?” Stokes asked.

Martz hesitated just long enough for Stokes to see that he didn’t believe it, not for certain. “I do believe it,” Martz said. “We both do.” He looked at Wiggins, who nodded. Stokes could tell that Wiggins didn’t believe it, either.

“So here’s how this will work,” Martz said. “We’ll escort you to the kitchen door, the one through which you entered our house, and we’ll see you out. You will walk six feet in front of us. If you stop, we’ll shoot you in the back. If you run, we’ll do the same. If you turn around, we’ll shoot you in the chest. When we get to the door, you will step outside and walk ten feet into the backyard. We’ll have our guns trained on you the entire time. When you are outside, ten feet from the door, we’ll lock the door, activate the alarm, and assume we’ll never see you again, because in the morning the money will be in one of our bank accounts.”

“And as for breaking in here ever again,” Wiggins said, “I think you can see it would be a bad idea. Our security system truly is top notch, we’re armed, and we no longer keep large amounts of cash in the house.”

Stokes simply could not believe this was happening. After all he’d gone through so far today, that he could lose the money to people that
he’d
been trying to rob in the first place was unbelievable.

Martz motioned with his gun, indicating the direction he wanted Stokes to walk. Stokes didn’t move. Martz motioned with his gun again. “Let’s go now.”

Stokes had had enough. “No.”

Martz blinked at him. “What?”

“I said no. I’m not leaving. Not without the money anyway.”

“We have guns,” Wiggins reminded him.

“I know,” Stokes said, “and you know how to use them. I get it. But I’ve had a really long day. It started out at the police station, which is never any fun. Then I flipped my motorcycle over a guardrail, which wasn’t a lot of fun, either. But then I found all this money, and I could have skipped town with it, but I decided to do the right thing, get a little girl out of the hands of kidnappers, probably saving her life. And when this is all over, for all my effort, I’ll probably go to jail for the rest of my life. So I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you keep this money. Not when I could have just kept it myself in the first place. And not when a little kid could die for it. So fuck you, I’m not leaving without the money.”

Wiggins looked at Martz uncertainly. Martz returned a similar look before turning to Stokes. “Remember, we could shoot you dead and almost certainly get away with it, especially given your history and reputation.”

“I know,” Stokes said.

“And the police would never know a thing about the money. We could hide it long before they got here.”

“I see that.”

“And we’ve told you how desperate we are to have that money.”

Stokes nodded.

“And still, you won’t leave without it?”

Stokes shook his head. “Guess you’re gonna have to shoot me.” He held his arms out in front of him, his palms up, and made an exaggerated shrug that said,
It’s out of my hands now. Your move.

Martz and Wiggins exchanged another long look. Finally, they seemed to come to some silent agreement. Wiggins lowered his head and Stokes knew he’d successfully called their bluff. So when Martz shot him, he was surprised—so surprised that someone could have knocked him over with a feather if the bullet hadn’t already done the job.

TWENTY-TWO

11:57 P.M.

AFTER MARTZ PULLED THE TRIGGER,
things happened fast. Stokes’s arms were still slightly away from his body and the bullet ripped along the inside of his left biceps, between his arm and his chest, ten inches away from his heart. Shock and the searing sting of the bullet creasing his skin made him spin and fall to the floor. As he dropped, he heard glass shattering and wood splintering and someone shouting. He thought he’d cried out in pain and surprise, but unless he was able to do so in stereo, the cries he heard hadn’t come from him. He looked up and saw Wiggins and Martz—Martz with his gun still up in firing position—staring with horror. But they weren’t staring at him, the man they’d just shot. They were staring over his head.

“The Regency bookcase,” Wiggins cried. “Arthur, you shot it.”

And he had. After burning a trench across the inside of Stokes’s arm, Martz’s bullet had shattered the glass in the door of the $12,000 bookcase behind him, then blown a hole in the back of the thing. From the looks on the faces of the antique dealers, you’d have thought they shot one of their mothers.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Stokes ignored the blazing pain in his left arm and with his right hand grabbed the backpack, heavy with money, off the floor. In one fluid motion, he sprang to his feet and used the momentum of his rising to increase the power of his throw as he spun and hurled the bag at Martz. The throw didn’t catch the guy in the face and knock him to the floor or anything, but the backpack sailed at his midsection. Instinct made him drop his gun and protect himself from the impact. The bag bounced harmlessly off him, eliciting a little “Oof,” but the gun fell from his hands, which is what Stokes had hoped for. So Stokes, who had followed the backpack across the room, headed straight for the still-armed Wiggins, prayed the old guy was too shocked by both Martz shooting the antique and Stokes’s flinging the backpack at his partner to squeeze off a shot, because if he did, and if the bullet hit Stokes anywhere important from only a few feet away, it would all be over.

But Wiggins didn’t shoot. Stokes reached him in three steps, shoved his gun hand to the side, and punched him in his wrinkled, senior citizen face. Wiggins dropped his gun and staggered back against a wall, knocking a mirror to the floor, shattering it. Stokes turned, kicked Wiggins’s gun away, and lunged for Martz’s just as the older man shook off his stupor and reached down for the weapon. Stokes got there first and Martz straightened up. Stokes stepped over to the other gun. He picked it up and tucked it into his jeans at the small of his back. Martz saw the gun in Stokes’s hand, and the look in Stokes’s eye, then moved to his fallen friend and knelt beside him.

“You punched him,” Martz said to Stokes, though he was looking at Wiggins.

“You
shot me
,” Stokes said.

“You don’t seem badly hurt, Hugh,” Martz said to Wiggins. “Our mistake, you realize, was in standing too close together. Stupid.”

“Your mistake was shooting me, you assholes,” Stokes said. “I can’t believe you shot me. You tried to kill me.”

He was shaking with anger. Or maybe fear. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline raging through his system. Felt like anger, though, as he seriously considered just popping the two old men. But that moment passed quickly. He wasn’t a killer. Well, he’d actually killed two people in the last twenty-four hours, one with his motorcycle and the other with a bookend, but he hadn’t meant to kill either. But, Jesus, he was pissed.

“I just cannot fucking believe you tried to kill me.”

Martz looked sheepish. “I suppose an apology wouldn’t do much to calm the waters, would it?” he asked.

“Shit no.”

“Are you going to kill us?”

Stokes blew out a breath. He sighed. “Not unless I have to. Goddamn it, though, I really should. Shit.”

Martz was holding his partner’s hand.

“He OK?” Stokes asked. The question had just slipped out. He didn’t actually give a shit.

“I’m fine,” Wiggins said. He started to rise and Martz helped him to his feet. Wiggins swooned a little and grabbed Martz’s arm for support. Stokes watched and felt his own arm throb. He tried to keep from shooting someone. He was tense and angry, so when the cell phone in his pocket shrilled he nearly fired a shot at the old guys by accident. He forgot he’d left the ringer on. Normally if he was breaking into a house, he wouldn’t even be carrying a phone, but if he happened to have one on him, he’d set it not to ring but to vibrate only. But in this case, he just didn’t bother, thinking that by the time the top of the hour rolled around again, he’d already have the house’s occupants under his control.

“Don’t move,” he said, nodding down at the gun in his hand for emphasis, “and don’t make a sound.”

The phone rang again and Stokes answered his midnight call. Wiggins and Martz watched him as he spoke.

“I’m here.”

“Good,” the kidnapper said. “Still got the money, right?”

“Sure.”

“And your evidence, I assume.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Things go smoothly, this will all be over soon. Things
are
going to go smoothly, right, Paul?”

“They will on my end,” Stokes said.

“And no heroics, right?”

“Me?” Stokes said.

“Yeah, you. You decide maybe you can save Amanda and bring some kidnappers to justice, maybe even keep your money to boot. Nothing like that, right?”

“I’m not the heroic type.”

“I didn’t think so, but I wanted to hear you say it. And you’re not gonna cheap out on us either, right?”

“Cheap out?”

“Yeah, like maybe show up with only a hundred grand and figure we’ll be satisfied with that. We won’t be. We know you have our three hundred and fifty thousand, so don’t try to cut a last-minute deal. Got it?”

“I got it.”

“Good. We’re getting close now, so I really need to make sure you understand. If things don’t go
exactly
like we discussed, things aren’t gonna turn out good. Answer the phone at Laund-R-Rama at one thirty, be there alone with exactly three hundred and fifty thousand and the evidence you say you have. If it doesn’t go just like that, we’ll kill your daughter. We won’t make her suffer, don’t worry about that. We’re not animals. But we’ll put a bullet in her head.”

“Don’t worry,” Stokes said. “Things will go exactly like you said. I just want Amanda back.”

Wiggins and Martz, who were still watching him, dropped their eyes a little. The kidnapper was silent for a moment, perhaps gauging Stokes’s sincerity, perhaps just scratching himself somewhere. Finally, he said, “The kid’s still asleep. Want me to wake her?”

“No. Let me hear her breathing again, like last time.”

A moment later, Stokes heard the soft, peaceful sleep sounds of a little girl breathing. A moment later, the gentle breathing was gone and the kidnapper was back.

“Good enough?”

“Yeah,” Stokes said.

“Got another car yet?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I borrowed one. I’m all set there.”

“OK then. I’ll call you in an hour, to keep our end of the bargain. After that, I’ll call you at the Laundromat a half hour later and tell you what to do next. And an hour after that, at two thirty, we get the money and the evidence, you get the kid, and this is all over.”

The line went dead. Stokes put the phone into his pocket.

“That was the kidnappers?” Wiggins asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you really not going to kill us?” Martz asked.

Stokes sighed. “I want to, but I shouldn’t. You’re right. If you’d killed me, the cops would have pinned medals on your bony chests. If I kill you, it’s different.”

Besides, he just wasn’t a stone-cold murderer, despite the fact that one of the men in front of him had just tried to kill him.

“So what happens now?” Martz asked.

Stokes shrugged. “I take my money and leave. Try to find another hundred and three grand before I have to be somewhere at one thirty. Then I try to save the kid.”

“And what about us?”

“You? I don’t give a shit what you do. Just don’t call the cops on me, at least not tonight. If you have to do that, for insurance reasons or something, do the right thing and wait until tomorrow. Give me a chance to save the girl. Other than that, I don’t care what you do. So good-bye, good night, and fuck you for trying to kill me.”

Stokes snatched the backpack off the floor, along with his cowboy shirt with the eyeholes cut in the back, and started for the back door.

“You’re bleeding,” Wiggins said.

“On our Persian rug,” Martz added.

Stokes kept walking. “Screw your rug and screw you guys.”

“Wait,” Wiggins said. “We have a first aid kit. I still remember enough of my training to be able to do a field dressing.”

“Let him go, Hugh,” Martz said.

“The least we can do is repair the damage we did, Arthur.”

Stokes heard Martz sigh behind him. His arm hurt. Blood ran down it. If he didn’t let them patch him up, he’d have to find a way to do it himself before long. He stopped and turned. He noticed the shattered mirror on the floor, the one that broke when he’d knocked Wiggins into it. Crazily, he wondered which of them would be cursed with the seven years of bad luck. The person who knocked it off the wall, or the person who shoved that guy into it. Who was Stokes kidding? If he lived long enough, the curse was certainly going to be his.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” he asked the older men.

“Under the sink in the kitchen.”

He jerked his head. “Come on.”

Stokes sat at the kitchen table with Martz’s gun in his right hand and Wiggins’s tucked into the back of his jeans while Wiggins dressed the wound on his left arm. Martz watched from a seat across the table, where Stokes had put him. While Wiggins cleaned and disinfected the wound, Stokes grimaced and called him vile names. When the man finished his work, he handed Stokes some extra gauze and tape. Stokes thanked him, then said “Fuck you” to them both one last time before walking out the door. At least he had a couple more guns, in case he needed them, which he hoped he wouldn’t. He also had his very own bullet wound. What he didn’t have was the rest of money he needed to get Amanda back alive.