The Blade Itself (16 page)

When Danny had left his old life, he’d dumped all traces of it. Except his tools. For some reason, he hadn’t been able to throw them away. In the movies, the bad guys always had a little leather pouch of lock picks, the kind locksmiths used, but he liked the ones he’d made. He kept them in the drawstring bag from a bottle of Crown Royal, hidden in a box of old junk in their basement. For the first time in seven years he unknotted the string.

He’d gotten rusty. The deadbolt held for almost two minutes.

‘Jesus.’ Evan’s coffee and cigarette breath came hard over his shoulder. ‘Took you long enough, Danny-boy.’

Danny gave him the finger, then turned the handle gently, praying the door didn’t squeak. It was always the little things that got you caught.

It slid open with only a whisper from the hinges, revealing what Richard called his mudroom, a slim, chilly space with a washer and dryer, laundry piles on the floor. He could hear the sound of the television turned up loud in another room. Heart pounding and mouth dry, he stepped inside. Evan followed, closing the door behind them.

They stood in silence for a moment, Danny listening to the sounds of the house. Waiting for any semblance of alarm. When nothing came, he opened the duffel and took out two plain black domino masks, like the one Zorro wore. They limited peripheral vision, but tolerably. Danny had to stop himself from laughing when he saw Evan; his square jaw and evident muscles paired with the mask and jeans to give him the look of an underdressed pro wrestler. His partner adjusted the strap, nodded, and then took a step forward. Danny caught his arm and leaned in close to whisper. ‘Wait.’

Evan looked at him quizzically, bounced on his toes, but didn’t move. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty, Danny staring at his boss’s dirty underwear, his palms sweaty. Evan gave him a
what the fuck?
look, his lips turned in a sneer, the waiting killing him. Danny shook his head, held a finger to his lips, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake.

Then the phone rang, and he unclenched. Debbie had come through. They stood still and listened, two rings, the trudge of footsteps, three rings, four, and then from the kitchen, the sound of a sullen twelve-year-old voice.

‘Hullo.’ The word dragged out, offered grudgingly. There was a pause, then the voice again, only different, excited now. ‘Really? I won?’

Danny nodded his head toward the door, and Evan moved forward, kicking at a pile of laundry in his way, sending jeans flying across the floor. A button on one pinged against the hot water heater, and Danny fought an urge to shush him. Goddamn it. He picked his way over to the open doorway to stand by Evan, digging the plastic rectangle out of the bag by feel before he set the duffel down. The molded grip fit his knuckles neatly. His thumb caressed the stud.

From the other room, Tommy’s voice sounded like he’d just found out tomorrow was Christmas. ‘Awesome! What? Sure!’ They heard his footsteps running for the TV room.

Showtime.

Danny stepped into the hall, Evan close behind him. A surreal sort of déjà vu swept over him in a wave as he looked at the polished wood floor and familiar photos on the wall. He’d never expected to be in this house wearing the clothing of a thief. Or in any house ever again, for that matter.

Keeping close to the wall, he inched along the hallway. Through an open door ten feet down, the light of the TV flickered ice blue. He could barely hear Tommy’s voice over
throbbing hip-hop. Debbie would be telling him that they were about to show his name on the screen. Danny’s heart was pounding, but he made himself step lightly, easily, the plastic rectangle loose in his hand. When he reached the door frame, he took a quiet breath and peeked around.

A VH-1 logo flashed across the flat-screen TV. Tommy stood silhouetted against it, the cordless phone pressed to one ear. He wore jeans and a rugby shirt, and bounced up and down, crackling with energy. The shell of preteen world weariness had fallen away, leaving a little boy excited about the prize he thought he’d won.

It was too much. The facts of what he was doing rattled through Danny like an El train. He was a thief – no, worse, a kidnapper – and innocents were at risk. Again.

He’d thought that by coming, he could control Evan, make sure that Tommy didn’t get hurt. But now, standing here, he realized he couldn’t go through with it. No way. If they left now, no one would be the wiser. The worst consequence would be Tommy’s broken heart over a PlayStation that never arrived. Danny would find some other way of squaring up. He turned, intending to motion Evan back.

And found Evan pushing past him into the room, making no attempt to hide himself or be quiet.

Holding a gun in his hand.

All his wavering vanished. Using his left hand on the door frame for leverage, Danny threw himself into the room, raising the rectangle of plastic he’d taken from the duffel bag. Tommy was already turning, the excitement on his face melting at the sight of Evan with a pistol. The phone dropped from his hand, and there was a frozen moment as it fell. Then it struck the wood floor with a loud clatter, and Danny lunged past Evan, thumbing the button on the stun gun and pressing it firmly to Tommy’s shoulder.

There was an electric crackling sound, and the boy went rigid and then slumped. Danny caught him before his head hit the floor and set him down gently.

He turned, anger surging quick now. Evan stood casually six feet away, the gun at his hip, the arm moving loosely, like the revolver was tugging at it.

‘I told you not to bring a gun.’ Danny had to fight to keep from yelling.

‘Yeah,’ Evan’s voice was slow, almost a drawl. ‘I remember you saying that.’

Right then, if he’d a piece of his own, Danny couldn’t have sworn he wouldn’t have pulled it. He straightened, stepped away from Tommy. The stun gun was still in his hand, and that old anger throbbed through his veins. He stared at Evan, the part of his mind that calculated odds screaming at him to stop, to cool out, telling him that a thirty-dollar stun gun was no match for a thirty-eight-caliber pistol. Evan stared back, a hard smile on his face. Ready to play.

‘Hello?’ The tinny voice came from the floor, from the phone Tommy had dropped. ‘Hello? Are you guys okay?’

Debbie’s voice broke the spell. He blew air through his nose, turned away. Picked up the phone. ‘Yeah.’

Her voice sounded thin, a little scared. ‘I heard noises.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He dropped back down to a crouch, checking Tommy’s pulse. It was strong. He turned to look at Evan over his shoulder. ‘Get the bag.’ Danny peeled up Tommy’s eyelids. The pupils looked a little dilated, but okay. To Debbie, he said, ‘We’re going to wrap up here. You’re at a pay phone like I told you?’

‘Uh-huh. A bodega on Western.’

‘Good. Wipe down the phone and go ahead to the trailer. We’ll meet you there.’ He hung up.

There was a thump as the bag dropped down beside him. He could see Evan’s battered boots just beyond. Danny reached for the duffel, unzipped it, not glancing up. ‘The garage is at the end of the hall. Go open the door and pull the car in. Close it behind you.’

‘He okay?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a laugh. ‘Electrocuting don’t count as hurting him?’

Danny looked up. The gun was tucked in the front of Evan’s pants. ‘I needed a way to knock him unconscious without doing him any harm. This is the weakest stun gun on the market. But yeah, when I tried it, it hurt.’

Evan broke into a mocking smile. ‘You tried it on yourself?’

‘Before using it on a kid? Of course.’ He reached in the duffel bag, took out another mask, the eyeholes on this one taped over. ‘It hurts, but the pain doesn’t last, and there’s zero permanent damage. Which makes it a whole lot better than pistol-whipping him the way you planned to.’

‘How long will he be out?’

‘I don’t know. A grown man probably wouldn’t even lose consciousness. So call it fifteen minutes. You going to go get the car, or do you want to wait till he wakes up?’ He turned back to the bag, pulling out Ace bandages and consciously ignoring Evan, who stood still for five seconds, ten, enough to prove his independence. Then he turned and went down the hall, his boots loud with every step.

Danny let his breath out.

Tommy gave a little moan, and one arm jerked slightly. It stabbed Danny’s heart to see it. ‘I’m sorry, kiddo.’ He put one hand on the unconscious boy’s cheek. The skin felt soft and warm, like he was just sleeping, and a bitter wave washed through Danny. ‘I wish none of this was happening.’

Through the floor he felt the faint vibration of the garage door opening. Self-loathing would have to wait. He put the mask on Tommy’s face. ‘But you don’t know this guy. Believe me, he’d be doing this with or without me. And as long as I’m here, you’ll be safe.’

He didn’t add that he only hoped that was true. Jesus Christ, bringing a gun. All those years in prison hadn’t taught Evan anything. Not anything worth learning, at least.

Danny worked swiftly but gently, wrapping the boy in bandages. He was afraid tying his wrists would cut off circulation, so he just looped the fabric firmly around Tommy’s whole chest, binding his arms to his sides in a wide cocoon. He repeated the process with the boy’s legs. It wouldn’t hold against serious effort, but it would serve their needs. Duct tape would have been more secure, but Danny couldn’t do that to a twelve-year-old.

To Evan, maybe.

When he was done, he straightened, thumbed the safety and tucked the stun gun in his pocket. The phone was on
the ground, and he picked it up, walked to the kitchen and hung it up, swinging back through the mudroom to lock the deadbolt. When he returned to the TV room, he found Evan lifting the corner of a framed modern art print and peering behind it.

‘You got to be kidding me.’

‘What?’ Evan asked.

‘He’s a contractor. Even if he has a safe, you think it’s going to have bundles of hundreds?’ Danny sighed. ‘Grab his feet, I’ll get the hands.’

Evan gave him a contemptuous look, bent down and came up with Tommy in a fireman’s cradle. The kid probably didn’t weigh much over ninety pounds, but still, the absolute effortlessness was impressive. Like he weighed nothing at all.

Danny stabbed the TV power, silencing a rap star tricking out his third Lamborghini with gold rims, and took one last look around. Everything seemed clean. ‘Let’s go.’ He shouldered the bag and walked out.

The garage was orderly, no tools or lawn equipment, just a couple of bicycles and space for two cars. Evan had parked the stolen Saab dead in the middle, the trunk gaping open. The inside was lined with thin carpet, and the former owner’s golf clubs took up half the space. They hadn’t thought to check the trunk. Danny shoved the clubs to one side, frustration beginning to infect his cool. It was always the little things that got you caught. If he was going to get Tommy out of this, get himself out of it, he couldn’t afford not to think of everything.

Evan bent over and laid Tommy in the trunk, more gently than Danny expected. ‘Okay,’ he said, brushing his hands off. ‘We done?’

Danny nodded, started to shut the trunk lid, and stopped himself. They didn’t have far to go, but still. ‘One second.’

He turned and went back to the TV room. Half a dozen throw pillows of different colors and patterns rested on the couch. He grabbed three. Who really noticed their couch pillows? He walked back to the garage. The boy mumbled something and pulled unconsciously at his bindings.

‘Shhh.’ Danny ducked down and braced Tommy with pillows. He put one under his head, and the others on either side. Hardly the Ritz, but it would keep him from rolling into the golf clubs or the wheel well. Good enough. He closed the trunk. ‘Let’s roll.’

Evan smirked and shook his head, but reached for the car door. Danny caught the frame. ‘I’m driving.’

For once Evan didn’t argue.

‘Greenleaf, Greenwood, Forest. These dumbfucks live in Chicago, but all their streets have tree names.’ Evan’s voice had a playful tone, the same as when they’d taunted each other playing Pisser all those years ago.

Richard’s house was two blocks behind, and Danny wondered if they had closed the garage door. He knew they had; the worry was just part of the jangling of his nerves as he came down. Same with the urge to giggle, as though they were only shoplifting
Playboys
from a Loop liquor mart. He willed himself cool. They were away, but the job wasn’t over yet. They had to get Tommy to the construction trailer. Then he could let himself relax.

A little.

Because nothing was over, he reminded himself, until Tommy was home. Until Danny could go back to his old life. Paperwork. Project management. Renting movies for couch-lounging Sunday afternoons after Karen slept off her night shifts.

That seemed about as real as a prison fantasy, a late-night conversation with a cellie about what you were going to
do when you got out. The Italian beef with extra peppers, the redhead that seemed like she might wait. The promise that you’d never again do anything boneheaded enough to return you to jail. For a moment he imagined he were still in prison, that the last seven years had just been a particularly vivid dream.

Then he pulled his shit together. ‘Yeah, well. Lots of trees.’

Evan grunted, looking out the window to shaded lawns fronting million-dollar homes. ‘S’pose.’

‘Okay. We head back to the trailer. Debbie meets us there. After we get Tommy inside, I’ll make an appearance at the restaurant construction site. You take the car and get it stolen. Then –’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Evan yawned. ‘We been over this, man.’

‘Then,’ Danny continued, ‘we meet up and make the call. We’ll go over what you’ll say beforehand, but it’ll be short and simple. Then –’

‘Then we get a pint and wait.’

Danny nodded, keeping to himself that he didn’t plan to play buddies. The man wanted a drink, fine. He wasn’t a freshman thief likely to start bragging on his fourth whiskey. But Danny was going home. He flipped the turn signal, his gloves against the wheel suggestive of the coming winter. They’d wind south to Lakeshore – there’d be traffic, but anonymity, too. The stop sign at the corner had a sticker that said rape pasted just below the stop part. He checked his mirror as he slowed.