This Wicked World (42 page)

He rips the dirty bandage off his forehead and crumples it in his fist. The windshield wipers scrape across dry glass. The storm has eased up, and a band of brilliant blue in the distance augurs its passing.

Robo is busy with the money he snatched from the mud.

He counts the bills three times before announcing, “There’s almost forty grand here.”

“That’ll do,” Carl says.

The money makes Boone feel better. At least Robo and Carl will get something for putting their asses on the line. He drops his head and grinds his palms into his eyes. “I want to apologize to you guys,” he says. “I have no idea what happened out there.”

Robo slaps him in the head with a stack of hundreds and says, “I’ll tell you what happened: the strong survived, just like they’re supposed to.”

Strong? The shit some people sell themselves. It can break your heart and make you laugh all at the same time.

V
IRGIL CHECKS HIS
phone again, makes sure he’s got a signal. Olivia should be calling any time now to tell him how things went. He’s feeling a little muzzy today. Most of last night is a blur, but he knows that he ended up on Amy’s bed. At five this morning he awoke there beside her and lay confused as hell for a while before running to the toilet to puke himself empty. He’s pretty certain he didn’t fuck her, but he can’t be sure, and she’s not talking. Not a word all day. And she won’t eat either. He sure hopes he didn’t fuck her.

He aims the remote at the TV and cycles through the channels. Nothing holds his interest for more than a few seconds, so he stands and walks to the front door. Tigger meows at him and leaps into the weeds when he steps outside. Olivia told him to bring in the mail every day while they’re here, so nobody wonders what’s up with Eton and decides to check on him. There’s nothing in the box but coupons for a Mexican supermarket.

A silver Audi coupe pulls up to the curb in front of the house.

The guy who climbs out of it is one of those Hollywood dickheads with the blond highlights and the Bluetooth. His jeans look like something a chick would wear.

He stands on the cracked and stained sidewalk and says, “Eton around?”

Virgil gives him a hard look. “He’s on vacation.”

“Well, check it out” — the guy comes closer and lowers his voice — “you wouldn’t know where I could get some weed, would you?”

Fucker could be a cop, but, no, not with those gay-ass sunglasses. Virgil decides that it ain’t no sin to make a little easy money while he waits for Olivia.

“What do you need?” he asks Hollywood.

“Just a quarter.”

“Wait out here.”

Virgil runs upstairs to Eton’s file cabinet, opens the top drawer, and sorts through his stash until he comes up with what looks to be a quarter ounce of marijuana sealed in a Ziploc bag. Hollywood is standing on the porch when Virgil returns, jumps when he opens the door.

“That’ll be one fifty,” Virgil says, waving the bag.

“Really?” the guy says. “Eton usually charges me one twenty.”

“You see Eton anywhere?”

Hollywood frowns but reaches for his wallet.

When he drives off, Virgil decides to sneak upstairs to check on Amy. He’s a little worried that she might be up to something. She’s been acting awfully strange.

He turns the TV up to cover the sound of his approach and ascends the stairs slowly, pausing on each step to count to ten. Once in the hallway, he drops to his hands and knees.

A floorboard creaks beneath him. He waits, head down, but the only sounds that come to him are the TV and the wind outside.

The door to the bedroom is ajar. He eases forward and peeks in. Amy is lying on the bed just like he left her, hands and feet tied to the bed frame. Her eyes are closed. Nothing fishy at all.

He’s thinking he ought to wake her up anyway, double-check her bonds just to be sure, when a rustling gets his attention. He rests his cheek on the floor and squints into the dark cavern beneath the bed. Dust bunnies as big as his fist, a dead woman’s slippers, and a rat. A greasy black rat staring back at him.

Virgil scrabbles to his feet, all sneakiness forgotten. He races down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time back to the living room, where he falls onto the couch and lifts both feet off the floor. He’s going to stay right here, smoking bowls and playing Call of Duty until Olivia shows up, and when she does, he’s checking into a Motel 6.

B
OONE WALKS PAST
the house Olivia gave him the address to, the hood of his jacket up to hide his face. It’s a dilapidated Craftsman foundering on an overgrown lot. Two stories, boarded-up windows, a blue tarp nailed to the roof to stop a leak.

Everything’s shut up tight, as far as Boone can see. The place looks deserted. He wonders if, as a final fuck you, Olivia sent him panting to a long-abandoned firetrap. Only one way to find out.

He returns to the Olds, which is parked half a block away. He drove over as soon as Carl dropped him off at the bungalow. Carl offered to come with him, but Boone told him no, he’d already done enough, and someone had to pick Robo up from Doc Ock’s. He slips into the car, reaches under the seat for the Ruger Robo lent him, and stows it in the pocket of his jacket.

A police car appears as he’s walking back to the house. He keeps his head up, eyes straight ahead. One foot in front of the other, nice and easy. The cruiser rolls past, the cop behind the wheel too busy jabbering into her phone to notice him.

Boone steps through a breach in the broken-down picket fence and jogs to the corner of the house, one hand in his pocket to keep the pistol from bouncing out. Pressing his back to the wall, he listens for sounds from inside. That’s a television, for sure.

He moves to a window and goes up on his toes to peer through it. Heavy drapes block most of the view, but a thin gap reveals Virgil lying on an overstuffed velvet sofa in the darkened living room, video-game controller in hand, a Glock on the coffee table. No sign of Amy.

Boone creeps farther along the side of the house. The next window he comes to is covered with plywood, and the next. When he reaches the backyard, he draws the Ruger and thumbs the safety.

Two steps lead up to the back door, which opens onto a cluttered utility room containing a washer, dryer, and water heater. The door is unlocked but held shut by a hook-and-eye fastener. Boone pulls the door open as far as it’ll go, then slides the blade of his pocketknife into the space between the door and the jamb and lifts the hook out of the eye.

The door opens with a squeak. Boone pauses, alert for footsteps. Nothing but the sound of gunfire and explosions drifting out of the living room. The door between the utility room and the kitchen is wide open, and he steps through it.

The sink is full of crusty dishes, and a dried-out slice of pizza sits in a delivery box on the counter. Boone’s shoes stick to the linoleum as he moves toward another door. He’s careful to avoid a puddle of brown liquid that’s leaked out of a trash bag slumped against the stove.

He holds the Ruger in a two-handed grip, elbows bent so that it’s pointing at the ceiling. Sidestepping to the doorway, he leans over to peer through it, only his head exposed. The dining and living rooms flow together. Both are dark, cluttered with antique furniture and dusty knickknacks.

Virgil is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, wrapped up in the game he’s playing. Boone pulls back into the kitchen to work through what comes next. There’s no stealthy way to take the kid out. It’s going to be all about speed and surprise. He picks up a can of SpaghettiOs off a shelf. He’ll toss it into the room as a diversion, then charge in and do his thing.

He draws back the can, steps into the doorway, and comes face to face with Virgil, who is on his way into the kitchen. The kid yelps and drops the plastic cup he’s carrying. Before Boone can grab him, Virgil turns and runs. He heads across the dining room to a staircase leading to the second floor instead of toward the Glock.

Boone is right on his tail, pounding up the stairs behind him. He gets a hold of the kid’s Rays jersey as Virgil reaches the upstairs hallway. Yanking him to a stop, Boone brings his other hand around to slam the gun into the side of the kid’s head. Virgil’s legs go all loosey-goosey, and he drops to the floor.

Boone crouches next to him and swings the pistol from side to side to cover the doors opening onto the hallway. No movement, no sound but his own breathing.

“Amy!” he shouts.

“Jimmy,” comes the reply from the first door on the left.

Boone grabs Virgil’s jersey again and drags the kid behind him down the hall. He opens the door, and there’s Amy, tied to a bed.

“Is there anybody else in the house?” he asks.

“Just him,” Amy says with a nod at Virgil.

The kid moans as he comes back to consciousness, tries to sit up. Boone puts a foot between his shoulder blades and presses him to the floor.

“Stay down,” he barks, and Virgil goes limp.

Boone steps over to the bed and uses his knife to cut Amy loose. She sits up and rubs her wrists and ankles. Her hair is tangled, and dark circles ring her eyes.

Boone places a hand on her arm and says, “You all right?”

“Give me a second,” she replies, and Boone can feel her shaking.

“Tell him I didn’t hurt you,” Virgil says from the floor.

“Shut up!” Boone snaps.

“You’re by yourself?” Amy says. “No police?”

“No police,” Boone replies.

“Should we call them?”

“No,” Boone says.

Amy stares at him long and hard, then shakes her head, disappointed. She stands gingerly, one hand clutching the bed frame until she can trust her legs to hold her up.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she says, anger and disgust in her voice. She pushes past Boone and steps over Virgil on her way out.

I’ve lost her, Boone thinks.

As soon as he hears the bathroom door close, he pulls Virgil to his feet. The kid whimpers and brings up his arms to protect his head. “This was all Olivia’s idea,” he says.

Blood dribbles from a cut under his eye, and a lump is rising on his cheek. Boone contemplates slapping the piss out of him, giving him a beating he’ll never forget, but knows he’ll just regret it later. Instead, he pulls the kid close and hisses in his ear, “Time to go.”

“Can I get my shit?”

“You’ve got about five seconds.”

Boone follows him into a room across the hall and stands over him while he frantically stuffs clothes into a Nike gym bag. When he’s finished, Boone takes hold of his jersey and pushes him downstairs.

“My shoes,” Virgil says as they’re passing through the living room.

Boone walks to the coffee table and uses his foot to push the Glock off and kick it under the couch. He hooks the laces of a pair of Adidas lying on the floor and carries the shoes to Virgil. The kid balances on one leg, starts to slip the left shoe on, but Boone pokes him with the barrel of the Ruger and says, “You can do that later.” He unlocks the front door and pulls it open. Virgil steps out onto the porch, then turns to face him.

“What about Olivia?” he asks.

“She’s dead,” Boone replies.

Sudden tears shine in Virgil’s eyes. “Was it you that did it?” he says, his voice hoarse.

“The men they went to meet in the desert fucked them over,” Boone says. “Shot her and Taggert.”

Virgil nods slowly, lost in thought, then wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and walks off the porch and out to the street.

Boone closes the door and finds Amy watching from the bottom of the stairs. She glowers at him and walks to the dining room table to rifle through a purse sitting there.

“Everything in it?” Boone asks.

Amy pulls out a pair of sunglasses and a ring of keys. “What do you care?” she says. “You just let the guy who held me hostage walk away scot-free.”

“We can talk about it now,” Boone says. “But it’s probably better if we get moving.”

Amy puts on the glasses and rushes past him. He follows her out to the porch and closes the door behind them.

Amy pulls up short when she reaches the sidewalk, looks both ways on the street. Her knees begin to tremble, and a sob rolls through her body. Boone can’t stop himself; he moves in and wraps his arms around her. She tries halfheartedly to shake him off, then stands with her head bowed, quietly weeping.

“My car,” she says.

“They probably parked it close by,” Boone says. “We’ll find it.”

He steers her to the Olds and helps her into the passenger seat. It’s hot inside, so he rolls down the windows. Amy digs some Kleenex out of her purse and blows her nose. Boone decides to drive around the block, see what they can see.

Amy spots the Civic as soon as he turns the first corner, parked under a tree, covered with bird shit. She’s out the door before Boone can say anything. He waits while she unlocks the car and slips inside.

“Want me to follow you?” he calls to her.

She doesn’t respond, just drives off. Straight to the cops for all Boone knows. And how can he blame her?

N
OT TO THE
cops, though — home. Boone pulls up to the bungalows after stopping at the store for dog food and is relieved and grateful to see the Civic out front. He parks the Olds and walks up the steps. Amy’s door is closed, her blinds down.

Joto barks and tries to leap into his arms when he enters his place. Boone cleans up the messes the dog made, then takes him for a quick walk. When they get back, he pulls a beer from the fridge and calls Carl, who tells him that it only took the doc an hour to patch up Robo’s bullet hole and that the last he saw of him when he dropped him in the valley, he was fighting off his kids, who wanted to crawl all over their dad.

“I guess it went okay with you,” Carl says.

“She’s safe and sound,” Boone replies.

“Ock cost us five hundred,” Carl says. “I let Robo hold the rest of the money till we have a chance to sort things out. You think that’s okay?”

“It’s fine,” Boone says. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow or something.”

He feeds Joto, grabs another beer, and is out cold on the couch before he’s halfway through it. He dreams of floods and fire and Olivia’s dying face until he pops awake about midnight, shaking all over. It’s going to be rough for a while. You don’t squeeze a thing like this into your old life. You have to tear down and start over, build a new one around it.