Shady Cross (15 page)

Stokes trotted back to the house, ran through the same routine, and was back behind his tree before the alarm had been shrieking for six seconds. Lights came on in the house again, in the now familiar pattern—bedroom, upstairs hallway, downstairs foyer. This time lights turned on upstairs in the colonial to the left of the Victorian. A silhouette appeared at the window. Stokes knew he couldn’t be seen where he was hiding, especially not by someone standing in a room with the lights on, so he returned his attention to the Victorian. The alarm ceased. The phone rang. Light flooded the kitchen again, but this time both gray-haired Martz, in his blue pajamas, holding the telephone to his ear, and smooth-headed Wiggins, in paisley silk pajamas, crossed the room to the back door. They both tested the knob and found it to be locked. Martz reported that to the alarm company. They both inspected the door frame, and Martz reported those findings, too. Stokes shifted so he was fully behind the tree now, peering out through a tangle of low branches, all but invisible from the house. Both Martz and Wiggins opened the door and inspected the knob on the outside. Martz said something into the phone, then spoke to Wiggins again. Stokes couldn’t hear what they were saying. They debated for a while before Martz lowered the phone and ended the call with a punch of a button.

Stokes watched closely.

The older men pulled the door shut. They left the kitchen, turning off lights as they made their way back upstairs.

They hadn’t reactivated the alarm.

Stokes looked up at the neighbor’s window. It was dark again.

He checked his watch: 11:36. He waited two more minutes before recrossing the lawn, backpack over his shoulder this time. He looked through the window of the back door and saw the light on the alarm panel glowing green. He took the tools from his back pocket and unlocked the door. He returned the tools to their leather case, returned the case to the backpack, and stepped into the quiet house. He doubted the old guys were asleep just yet. More likely they were debating just what to say tomorrow to the alarm company that had obviously installed a defective system.

Stokes moved through the house. Enough light spilled in through the various bay windows to guide him through the living room and into the den. Even in the dim light he could see that the place was beautifully furnished, probably with valuable antiques. The rooms were a little emptier than he would have expected, his mind conjuring images of dusty old houses he’d seen in movies, crammed with solid, imposing pieces of furniture—armoires, secretaries, bookcases, whatever. Perhaps the old guys liked things a little less cramped. Perhaps that was better taste. Stokes had no idea.

He saw a rectangular area rug in the center of the floor of the den. He put his backpack down and very quietly moved two armchairs and a small, round table to the side of the room. Rolling back one end of the rug, he saw in the floor a little wooden trapdoor—maybe two feet square—with a small, recessed metal handle. He pulled on the handle and the trapdoor swung up.

In the space beneath it was a combination safe.

Lenny never mentioned a safe.

Damn it.

This complicated things. Stokes wasn’t a safecracker. Now, he would have to—

A sound made him turn around. Martz was standing in the doorway pointing a big handgun at him. Wiggins stood beside him. The son of a bitch had a gun, too.

TWENTY

11:43 P.M.

“PLEASE PUT YOUR HANDS UP,”
Wiggins said. His bald head looked shiny, like a sheen of perspiration had sprouted on it. Stokes figured he was probably nervous. He also figured that if
he
were bald, he’d probably have the same sheen on
his
head just then. Staring into two gun barrels was making him a little anxious, too. He raised his hands.

“Easy, fellas,” he said. “Careful with those things.”

“We know how to use them,” Wiggins said. “It might surprise you to know that we both served in the military. It’s where we met.”

“I did two tours in Vietnam,” Martz said. “I’ve killed people,” he added, not proudly, just stating a fact.

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Wiggins said, “but I could in the right circumstances. I’m sure of it.”

“The point is,” Martz continued, “we know how to use these weapons and are willing to do so if we must. You understand?”

Stokes looked at the way they held their guns. They weren’t just a couple of senior citizens who bought guns for protection, then stored them unloaded on the top shelf of a closet, behind a hatbox and a stack of moth-eaten cardigans, praying they’d never have to use them. No, the guns rested comfortably in their hands. They knew what they were doing.

“Yeah,” Stokes said, “I understand.”

“Good,” Martz said. “Now, at first we thought something was wrong with our security system, with the sensor on our back door, just like you wanted us to think. We’d gotten back upstairs again when we got to thinking that we’d spent a heck of a lot of money on our system—”

“A
heck
of a lot,” Wiggins interjected. “So we thought maybe the system was working just fine after all, and maybe somebody
wanted
us to think our system was faulty so we’d leave it turned off.”

Martz nodded at his partner. “So we left it off, just like you wanted, only we came back downstairs—”

“In the dark this time.”

“Right, in the dark, but this time we brought our guns with us.”

Stokes waited for Martz to add something, to continue the little dance these two did, finishing each other’s thoughts and sentences like an old married couple, which was essentially what they were. But he said nothing.

“Mind pointing those things somewhere else?” Stokes asked.

“I don’t think so,” Martz said. “Now please, take off your mask.”

Stokes didn’t see any way he could refuse, so he tugged the shirt from his face and let it fall to the floor.

Martz studied Stokes’s face. He turned to Wiggins. “Do we know him?”

“We don’t,” Wiggins said. “Unless he’s the one who broke in here a few years ago, threatened to hurt you until we gave him our money.”

“Wasn’t me,” Stokes said.

Martz ignored that. He looked at Wiggins. “Is he the same one?”

“I’m not,” Stokes insisted. They continued to scrutinize him, and Stokes realized that his fate might rest on whether he could convince them that he wasn’t the guy who had previously traumatized them. “It wasn’t me. That guy’s name was Lenny, and he’s in prison now and will be for another seven or eight years.”

Wiggins and Martz seemed to think about that. “You came here to rob us,” Wiggins said. It wasn’t a question.

“That’s right.”

“Not a very good idea.”

“I see that now.”

“Are you armed?”

Staring at the two older gentlemen with the big guns, Stokes formed a radical plan. He’d try the truth on these guys, see where it got him. It was either that or rush them, and he wasn’t eager to do that, not with a couple of Vietnam vets, at least one of whom had seen action and who claimed to have killed and wouldn’t be afraid to do so again—a claim Stokes wasn’t eager to put to the test.

“I’ve got a policeman’s baton in my backpack here,” he said.

“Where’d you get a policeman’s baton?” Martz asked.

“From a policeman.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“Did you hurt him?”

“Just a little. But I talked to him after, and he was fine. He even offered to forget the whole thing.” Which was technically true, though Stokes left out the part about having to let Martinson go free if he wanted that forgiveness.

Martz nodded, thinking. “That bag looks like it’s got more than just a policeman’s baton in it. What else do you have in there?”

Sticking with his truthfulness plan, Stokes started his answer by saying, “First, let me tell you why I’m here.”

“You’re here to try to rob us,” Wiggins said.

“Well, yeah, I am. But let me tell you why.” Before they could object, he continued. “A little girl has been kidnapped. She’s six years old, I think. I’ve talked to her. She’s scared. Both her parents are dead. And her stepmother, believe it or not, was actually in on it with the kidnappers. They want three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, or they’ll kill the girl.”

Wiggins nodded as he listened. Martz frowned.

“Who is she to you?” Wiggins asked. “The little girl.”

“Nobody. Never met her.”

They considered that for a moment before Wiggins said, “If the stepmother is in on it—”

Martz finished for him, “That means the father must have been the one from whom they wanted the money.” They looked at each other, seeming pleased with their deduction. It wasn’t all that terrific a deduction, not too great a leap of logic to get there, but at least they were paying attention to the story, even enjoying it a little, which was kind of weird, but so long as they weren’t telling him to shut up or, worse, shooting him, Stokes didn’t care if they made something of a game of it.

“Right,” he said. “They wanted the money from the father. And he got it.”

“The money?” Martz asked. “He got it?”

Stokes nodded.

“And he didn’t call the authorities?” Wiggins asked.

“The kidnappers said they have people with the police and the FBI secretly working for them. The father ignored that, called them, and the kidnappers cut off one of the girl’s fingers.”

Wiggins’s eyes widened. “They really have someone inside the police department then?”

“Yeah,” Stokes said. “Maybe the FBI, too. So the father got the money and was planning to pay them later tonight.”

He paused.

“But?” Martz said.

Stokes sighed. “He had a car accident. I found him.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“And you found the money,” Wiggins said.

“I found the money. And I’m planning to use it to ransom the girl.”

Martz frowned at him, the picture of skepticism. “And you never thought about keeping it?”

Stokes snorted. “Shit, yeah, I thought about it. Of course I did. I thought hard about it. But then I made the mistake of answering the guy’s cell phone when the kidnappers called. I talked to the girl.”

They said nothing for a moment. The men were scrutinizing him again. He was fed up with people doing that today.

“I have to say,” Martz said, “you seem the sort who would be more likely to keep the money in these circumstances.”

“Yeah, I probably am more that sort of guy.”

“But this is different somehow.”

“Guess so,” Stokes said.

Wiggins shook his head. “That’s a lot of money.”

“I know.”

“So why help the girl instead of keeping it?”

Stokes shrugged. “It’s complicated. But I have my reasons. I think.”

Martz nodded slowly. He seemed willing to accept that. “Your bag then,” he said. “If you’re telling the truth, the money’s in there.”

“It is. All but a hundred and three thousand dollars of it.”

“What happened to the hundred three thousand dollars?” Wiggins asked.

“I had to give it to someone. Well, a few people.”

Stokes expected them to ask who he gave it to, but they didn’t. They were thinking. They regarded him for a long moment. Then they looked at each other. They seemed to be communicating through pure thought. They swung their gaze his way again. They appeared to be sizing him up yet again, goddamn it, taking his measure.

Finally, Wiggins spoke. “And you came here, hoping to steal at least a hundred three thousand dollars to make up for the money you
had
to give away.”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“So you’re using your criminal powers for good now instead of evil,” Martz said.

“Guess so. For tonight anyway.”

“Ironic.”

“Guess so.”

“So you’re saying you’ve got almost two hundred fifty thousand dollars in that bag,” Wiggins said, “money you intend to simply give away, out of the goodness of your heart, to save a little girl you’ve never met.”

“That’s right.”

“You can understand if we’re a bit dubious,” Martz said.

Stokes didn’t know what
dubious
meant. “I’m telling you the truth.” He nodded toward the bag at his feet. “May I?”

They considered for a moment. “Slowly,” Martz said.

Stokes bent down and, moving very slowly, unfastened the flap on the backpack and opened it. The men looked at the bundles of money inside.

“You see,” Stokes said as he closed the bag again, “you send me to jail, that little girl probably dies. But,” he ventured, inspiration coming to him in a flash, “if you were to, say, loan me a hundred three thousand dollars, we might save her life together.”

They looked at him in silence.

Stokes trudged on. “This really isn’t so different from the money you’ve been giving away for years, money you give away to help people. Haven’t you guys donated a bunch of cash to the library, the hospital, schools, places like that?”

They nodded in unison.

“Well, this is no different. You’d be giving money to help get a little girl away from some very bad men. Men who have already hurt her, who might even kill her if we don’t help her.”

They looked at Stokes a moment longer, then at the bag of money, then at each other. They seemed to exchange a few more telepathic thoughts before apparently coming to a decision. They turned to Stokes again.

“You made a mistake coming here,” Martz said.

“I realize that.”

“No,” Wiggins cut in, “he means we don’t have any money in the house.”

“What?” Stokes frowned. “But I thought you guys didn’t like banks. You used to keep most of your cash hidden here.”

“That’s right. We used to.”

“But if you don’t have any money here,” Stokes said, “what’s in the floor safe?”

“Nothing. It’s empty,” Wiggins said.

“So you put all your money into banks now?”

Stokes sighed. He’d counted on them having a more deeply rooted distrust and fear of banks.

“You don’t understand,” Martz said. “We’re not putting money into banks, either. The fact is, we just don’t have any money anymore.”

“What? Wait a second, guys,” Stokes said. “What about all the money you give away?”

“We gave it all away,” Wiggins said.

Stokes didn’t understand. “All of it?”

“Well no, we didn’t give all of our money away. We spent some of it on living expenses, some on back taxes—”

“And we paid off a few creditors,” Martz added.

“Right,” Wiggins said. “The point is, our store stopped being profitable quite a while back.”

“This economy has not been kind,” Martz said.

Wiggins added, “We’ve been in the red for a long time now. We’ll be closing our doors very soon.”

Stokes shook his head. “But your donations—”

“Stopped two years ago. We’re nearly bankrupt.”

Now it was Stokes’s turn to be skeptical. “Hold on, you say you’re broke, but you somehow found enough money to spend, what was it, a month and a half in Italy?”

“We needed to get away. We hung a sign on the door of our store saying we were going to Italy. For the sake of appearances, of course.”

Martz looked sheepish. “Actually, we spent six weeks at Hugh’s brother’s house in New Jersey. We went there to get away for a while—from our business, from our creditors. We took with us photographs of many of our fine antiques. Some from our shop, though there aren’t many good pieces left there, and many from our house here.”

“My brother is a man of means,” Wiggins said. “And he has exquisite taste. He kindly offered to give us very fair prices for many of our pieces to help us manage our debt, to pay back more of our creditors. He’s buying from us some of the pieces you see in this very room, in fact.”

“You’re so poor you have to sell your furniture?” Stokes asked. This was a big waste of time. He sighed.

Wiggins nodded sadly. “We’ve already sold many of our favorite pieces to dealers in other cities.”

Stokes looked around, again noticing that the house seemed to be furnished more sparsely than he’d expected.

Martz said, “Eventually, we’ll have to sell the house, too.”

“But everyone in town thinks you’re still rich.”

“A charade we’ve managed, until now, to maintain. Our creditors know, naturally, but they also know we’re trying to pay. Most of them aren’t interested in slandering the good names of a couple of old, local businessmen like us.”

“If you’re broke, why the hell did you spend so much on a security system and a floor safe, especially if there’s less and less in here to protect?”

“Those were the last significant purchases we made, I’m afraid,” Martz said, “shortly after your friend stole sixty thousand dollars from us, but right before business took a sharp downturn.”

Stokes blew out a breath. “So you can’t give me the hundred thousand dollars?”

“No. As you put it, we’re broke.”

“Which is why,” Wiggins added, “I’m sorry to say, we’re going to have to keep that money you’ve got there.”

Stokes wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He looked at the two older men. Looked at their eyes. Then at their guns.

“You gotta be shitting me.”