Authors: Wallace Stroby

The Heartbreak Lounge (36 page)

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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Harrow was sitting on the stone hearth, his back to the fireplace, smoking embers all around him. The right side of his jacket was torn, the shirt beneath it darkening with blood. He held the revolver, a .38, in his lap. He was breathing heavily, looking at Harry, but made no move to raise the gun.

Harry looked at the couch, saw part of the arm had been reduced to torn upholstery and splintered wood. It had caught the brunt of the shotgun blast.

Harrow smiled, turned his head and spit blood on the floor. Smoke rose up around him.

Harry felt something warm and wet on the left side of his neck. He brought his bound hands up, the right one numb, touched the side of his face. His left earlobe was missing, nothing there but a nub of torn flesh. His hand came away red.

Harrow shifted, rolled onto his side, got his knees under him, began to stand. Harry used his boot heels to push himself along the floor, put distance between them. He looked under the couch, tried to see where the Sig had fallen.

Harrow got to his feet, wavered. He spit blood again, then brought up the .38.

Harry looked up. From the angle he was at now, he could see into the kitchen. He saw the overturned chairs, a dark stain on the floor. Errol was gone.

Harrow cocked the gun loudly. A shadow seemed to move behind him. Harrow saw it from the corner of his eye, turned, and there was Errol, the front of his sweater torn, leaning against the doorway for support, the .380 in a two-handed grip.

No one spoke. Harrow looked from Errol to Harry, his finger still tight on the trigger. Errol was breathing heavily, but the .380 was steady, pointed at Harrow's chest, wrists braced against the door frame. Through the torn material of his sweater, Harry could see the blue of the Kevlar vest beneath.

“Enough,” Harry said.

Harrow looked at Errol.

“Just put it down, John,” Harry said. “You need to get to a hospital.”

Harrow shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said. “I don't think so,” and then he pointed the .38 at Errol and fired.

The roar of the two handguns came as one. Harrow staggered back and Errol spun away from the door frame, took a half step and went down on the kitchen floor. Harrow turned
the gun back to Harry, but he was already moving, slamming into the couch, shoving it away from the wall. Harrow fired and the bullet passed through the couch, blew bits of upholstery into the air. Harry's hands closed on the Sig. He raised it up, stood, using the back of the couch for cover, and squeezed the trigger.

The Sig made a dull cough and Harrow spun to his left, turning on his heel. He made a complete circle, came up with the gun again. Harry dropped to the floor as Harrow fired, heard the bullet hit the wall behind him.

Another shot and the couch jumped. Harry kicked it away, started to rise up, the Sig out in front of him, and he heard the loud click of the .38's hammer coming down on an empty chamber.

Harrow aimed, worked the trigger again. Another click. Harry centered the suppressor on his chest, finger tightening on the trigger. The .38 stayed steady, clicked again.

Harrow lowered the gun, looked at it, then back at Harry. He smiled, spit again, then dropped the .38 on the floor and turned away, walked calmly into the kitchen.

Harry aimed at his back, couldn't fire. And then Harrow wasn't there anymore. Harry heard the back door open, felt the cold draft blow through the house.

He came out from around the couch, gun up, went into the kitchen. Wind caught the storm door, blew it back against its hinges. Snow drifted in, settled on the floor.

He went to the door, looked out. Through the wind and snow, Harrow was a dark blur moving toward the woods. Harry aimed at his outline, began to squeeze the trigger, stopped. In another moment the figure was gone, lost in the snow and the howling wind.

He lowered the Sig, stood there for a moment, looking out into the night and the snow. Then he turned away, shouldered the main door closed. The wind whined, stopped. The door thumped and shook in its frame as if something were trying to gain entry.

He put the Sig on the counter, reached with bound hands for the phone.

He didn't feel the cold.

He was conscious of the wind pulling at him, the wetness blown under his collar. His boots were heavy and each step took him shin-deep into snow. He was deep in the woods now, the house a warm glow in the distance. He tried to remember the way he'd come, where he'd left Lindell's jeep.

He took another step, stumbled, fell to his knees in the snow. His fingers and side were numb, but there was no pain. He pushed himself to his feet, walked on, knowing he was lost now.

He took shelter from the wind behind a thick tree, leaned against it. Blood rose in his throat again. He hacked it up, spit, looked back the way he'd come, at his footprints already disappearing.

He reached inside his jacket, shirt stiff with drying blood, felt the four small holes the shotgun pellets had made on the upper right side of his chest. Below them the larger hole, still bleeding, where the black man had shot him. He moved his hand until he touched another entry wound, through the center of his tattoo, where the last bullet had hit him, one from his own gun. His fingertip explored the hole and he was amazed he felt no pain.

He laughed, reached into his pocket, took out the cigarettes. He shook the pack, his fingers numb, until one came out. He lifted it to his face, got the end of it between his lips, let the pack fall. Then he pushed numb fingers into his pocket, came out with the lighter. He thumbed it open, worked the wheel. The flame caught, blew out, caught again. He got the cigarette lit, pulled the smoke in, closed the lighter, dropped it back in his pocket.

He leaned back against the tree, smoking, looked up at the sky through the bare branches. Thought of the boy. Safe and warm on this wild night.

The cigarette was done sooner than he expected. He dropped the butt in the snow, pushed away from the tree. He started to walk again, but his steps were slower, heavier.
He fell, pushed the snow-covered ground away from him, stood up, walked on. It was somewhere right ahead of him, he knew. It was waiting for him.

When he fell the final time, he smiled, because he could see it then, right in front of him, where it had been all along. Always just a few steps away. And now, finally, close enough to touch. The Valley.

“Did I get him?” Errol said.

“You got him.”

Errol was flat on his back on the kitchen floor. Harry pulled the torn edges of his sweater apart. The vest had caught most of the shotgun charge, but Harry knew at that range the bones beneath it might be broken. Two of the pellets had hit above the vest on the left side, leaving small holes in the thick muscle connecting neck and shoulder. Blood oozed from them.

“Go find him,” Errol said, pain in his voice. “Make sure.”

“I will. Just take it easy for now, partner.”

The vest still held the imprint of the pellets that had hit it. On the right side was a deeper dent where Harrow's last shot had impacted. Harry undid the Velcro fasteners and Errol gasped. A misshapen slug fell from the vest to the floor.

“Mother
fucker,
” Errol said.

Harry peeled the Kevlar back. Errol's chest was purplish, swollen, but there were no other puncture wounds.

He winced, caught Harry's hand.

“I'm okay,” he breathed. “Just â¦ let me lie here.”

Harry went to the couch, pulled a cushion free, carried it back and propped it under his head.

“Help's on its way, partner,” he said. “Hang in there.”

Errol nodded, shuddered. “Go on,” he said.

Harry took the Sig from the counter, ejected the magazine to check the load. There were still a half dozen shells in it. He angled his bound hands so he could slide the magazine home again, then got a red plastic flashlight from under the
sink. He went out the back door, the Sig in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

The snow seemed to be slowing, fewer flakes visible in the beam of the barn light. He turned the flashlight on. Immediately he saw the footprints, the snow in them stained pink.

It was an easy trail to follow. When he got to the willows, he saw where Harrow had jumped the creek and fallen. He pointed the Sig out in front of him, knowing the flashlight made him a good target if Harrow was out there and had another weapon.

He followed the blood and the footprints, saw the places where Harrow had fallen, gotten up again. He went deeper into the woods, the wind whining through the bare trees.

Ahead, a dark bundle at the base of a tree, fresh snow already settling over it. He pointed the Sig at it, then went down on one knee. Harrow's blue eyes were wide, the left side of his face in the snow.

Harry put the Sig down, touched his neck, felt the cooling skin there, the stillness. Then he went through the jacket pockets, found the handcuff key. He worked it in the locks, got the cuffs off, dropped them, rubbed snow onto his welted, red wrists.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. He leaned down, stuffed it into Harrow's jacket pocket. Then he stood back up, reclaimed the flashlight and the Sig. Snow whirled around him.

He started back to the house. Somewhere in the distance, far away but clear against the silence of the snow, he could hear the first sirens.

When the ER doctor left, Harry touched the bulky bandage over his left ear, winced.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Ray said.

Harry nodded. They were in the same treatment room Nikki had been in earlier that night. He sat on the table, Ray in a plastic chair. In the hallway, Harry could see a handful of cops, Branson talking on a cell phone.

“A couple inches to the left,” Ray said, “he would have taken your head off.”

“I know. How's Errol?”

“Three broken ribs, hairline crack in his sternum, plus a couple of puncture wounds. No internal injuries as far as they can tell.”

“Nikki?”

“I looked in on her. She's upstairs. Three-eleven. They gave her something for the pain. She's out.”

Branson came into the room, looked at him.

“Busy night,” he said. “I should have just gotten a room here. Would have saved me a lot of driving.”

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“You're a lucky man.”

“Doesn't feel that way.”

“You're alive. Others aren't.”

“That's true, I guess.”

“I meant to tell you earlier. We had to cut the brother loose, the woman too. Nothing to hold them on.”

Harry shook his head.

“He had nothing to do with anything.”

“You could be right.”

“I am. And it's over anyway, isn't it?”

“I don't know,” Branson said. “Is it?”

He made his way down the dim hall to 311. The door was partially open.

There was a curtain drawn between the beds. Hers was on the far side by the window. It had stopped snowing.

She was breathing softly, steadily. The bandage on her face was smaller now, secured by two Xs of surgical tape. He sat on the edge of the bed, touched her hair, the right side of her face. She slept on.

He kissed the top of her head, smoothed her hair. She stirred, didn't waken.

He sat with her that way for a while, until the gray sky began to lighten. And then he left as quietly as he had come.

It was almost noon when Ray pulled up the driveway, parked behind the station wagon. The sun was bright off the snow, birds chirping, looking for food and finding none.

He left the Camry's engine running.

“You want me to come in?”

Harry shook his head.

“Not now. I'll be fine.”

“Still a mess in there, I'd guess. I think the crime scene van only left a half hour ago, if that.”

“I'll be okay.”

“Don't worry about the girl. They'll release her later today. We can find her a place to stay if she needs one.”

“Thanks. What about Errol?”

“CAT scan, MRI were all negative. He'll be okay. And financially he won't have to worry about anything. Company insurance will pick up his hospital bill. Yours too. It was all work-related.”

“Hard to remember that,” Harry said. “Hard to remember that had anything to do with anything.”

Ray put out his hand. Harry took it.

He got out of the car, shut the door, watched as Ray cut the wheel, tried to K-turn in the side yard, back wheels spinning briefly in the snow. He got the car turned around, raised his hand a final time. Harry waved back, watched him disappear down the slope of the driveway.

The living room still smelled of smoke. The fireplace was cold and black, ashes and carbonized wood littering the floor, the hardwood scarred with burn marks. Blood too. On the hearth, in the kitchen. He would leave that for later.

He filled a plastic scoop with birdseed, opened the back door. He threw the feed out onto the hard snow, one scoop, then another. Birds descended noisily, a carpet of black against the whiteness, fed and flew away.

When he was done, he went back into the living room. The Percocet bottle lay on the floor near the couch. Half a dozen pills had spilled out. He gathered them up, replaced them in the bottle, capped it. He brought it into the kitchen, dropped it in the trash.

At the closet, he reached up under the blanket, dragged out the canvas bag he'd hidden there. He took it to the couch, unzipped it, looked at the bills within.

Whose money, finally? Joey Alea's? Tony Acuna's? It was Harrow's getaway money, he knew that much. Enough to kick the door open on a new life.

He dumped the money out on the couch, counted it twice. One hundred and twenty-six thousand.

He thought of Luther Wilkins, head shot in a hospital bed, eyes bandaged. He got out the phone book, made some calls, and within fifteen minutes had Wilkins's address and his mother's name. He put $30,000 aside. He'd FedEx it to her tomorrow, with an unsigned note. When the boy got out of the hospital he would need a lawyer as well, other things. It was a start.

He divided the rest of the money in half, put $48,000 back into the bag, the Amtrak tickets on top, zipped it closed. In the closet, he found a cardboard box, duct tape, a pair of scissors. When he was finished, he had a package about the size of a shoe box. He put the other $48,000 inside, found paper and pen and went into the kitchen. He righted a chair, sat down at the table, trying not to look at the dark smears of dried blood on the floor.

Nikki,
he wrote
. This belongs to you. Trust me. Don't ask where it came from, because I won't tell you. But believe me when I say it's yours.

I have to go away for a while. And when I come back, I might not be alone. While I'm gone, Ray will do whatever
he can for you. If you have any questions, problems, let him know. He'll take care of it as best he can. But know thisâthe danger, the things you've worried about all these years, are gone. And they're never coming back.

And you were, areâand forever will beâbeautiful. Know that too. Some bad luckâand a handful of stitchesâcould never change that.

His hand began to cramp. He put the pen down, worked the muscle beneath his thumb, picked up the pen again.

I'm leaving this package with Ray, to give to you when he sees you. You don't need to tell him what's in it. And he won't ask.

Take care of yourself. Whatever happens in your life nowâmaybe for the first timeâis up to you, no one else. The past is dead. Bury it.

He signed the letter quickly, folded it, put it in the box, taped the end shut.

After a while, when it was late enough, he found the number, used the kitchen phone, listened to the forlorn buzz of the ring a continent away.

“Ellen?” he said when she answered. “It's Harry.”

“Harry, she's been trying to call you, but nobody answered. Hold on.”

She put the phone down. After a moment, Cristina picked up the line.

“It's me,” he said.

“Harry? I had a dream last night, a bad one. It was dark out, you were lost. When I woke up I was crying.”

“I'm fine,” he said. “Everything's okay. I'm coming out there.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” He waited, listening to the silence on the line, wondering what her next words would be.

“When?” she said finally.

“I'm leaving tomorrow. I have some things I need to settle
here first. I'm driving, taking the Mustang. It'll take me a few days. But I should be there by the end of the week.”

Silence again. He didn't interrupt it. Waited.

“Good,” she said. “That's good.”

He felt the warmth in his face, a dampness in his eyes.

“Soon,” she said. “Make it as soon as you can.”

“I will,” he said. And then there was nothing else to say. He replaced the receiver, sat down in the chair, the kitchen bright with the reflected light off the snow outside.

As simple as that, he thought. After all that time.

He sat that way for a long time. And then he started to get ready.

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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