“That’s all right, sir. Hicks won’t have that information either. With any luck we can stay one step ahead of him.” He brought out a notepad and pen and sat on the edge of the bed. “Now I need the names and addresses of your closest relatives, other people Hicks might use as leverage, you understand what I mean?” Keith nodded. “Especially the ones who live in the area. I understand you were on your way to visit family for the holidays when the accident took place?”
“Yes, my sister Lee, last name Merrick. She and her husband Dale live in one of those condominium complexes, twenty-eight-eighty-six Sayles Crescent, suite seven-eleven. It’s just off—”
“I know Sayles,” Raybould said, jotting it down. “Anybody else?”
* * *
Hicks watched him come out of the hospital, moving like he had forever. He paused on the steps and raised his eyes to the night sky, dull orange up there with low cloud cover and reflected city light. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a frosty streamer that hung on the still winter air. Now he flexed his shoulders and lit a smoke, ritualized gestures Hicks recognized from their years together, Raybould psyching himself up, committing to a course of action. The son of a bitch was like a machine, never slept, nobody he cared about but himself. Hicks couldn’t believe he’d once admired the guy. Those early days together, Hicks telling his wife about his new partner, the man like a god to him then. Streetwise and crafty, feared wherever he went, hallmarks of power Hicks secretly wished for but could never command. And as much as it tormented him, he understood why. At the bottom of things, where it mattered, Hicks was afraid. To lose what he had, to get hurt, to die. Raybould was encumbered by none of these fears. The fucker was barely human.
Hicks squinted through the windshield now. Was he talking to himself over there? He turned back to the surveillance panel and adjusted some dials. Static. Fucking thing. He’d had it working nicely for a while, heard Raybould asking the receptionist where Whipple was, then he’d lost the signal. Shit…ah, there.
Not talking. Singing something…
Now he was moving, heading for his car a half block away.
Hicks started the van. He waited until Raybould pulled away from the curb, then fell in behind him, giving him lots of room. The trip was a short one.
––––––––
Something cold touched Steve’s neck at the base of his skull. Even before he opened his eyes he knew what it was. His body froze.
A male voice came from behind him now, oily smooth, oddly familiar in the dark. “You know what that is. I’m impressed.”
Kate lay naked beside him, still sound asleep. Steve squeezed her arm, waking her.
“You lovebirds keep it down now,” the voice said. “If I have to shoot you here, we’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”
“Who are you?” Steve said, feeling Kate tense beside him. He held onto her, doing his best to steady her.
“The lucky ticket holder,” the voice said, “come to collect his reward. And Kate, I’d just like you to know, I’m not the guy who stole it from you. It just sort of…fell into my hands.”
“If that’s all this is,” Steve said, “why have you got a gun to my head?”
“Two reasons, since you asked. The first is a matter of sincerity. I saw your news spot, Kate, and quite frankly it reeked of setup. In my opinion, you have no intention of paying that reward.”
Kate said, “That’s not—”
“Keep it down,” the voice said. “The second has to do with the law, possession being nine-tenths thereof. I’ve got the ticket. I had to kill to get it and take a bullet trying to keep it. That thing has caused me nothing but grief since the moment I set eyes on it. So I figure it’s mine. I’ve earned it. And I’m not giving up a thin fucking dime’s worth. So now Kate, you’ve got a problem. To get that problem behind you, all you’ve gotta do is a little footwork. You do that and get it right, and by this time tomorrow you can be back on the workbench with Constable Seger here, doing whatever it is the two of you do. Are you catching my drift?”
Kate said, “You want me to cash in the ticket and give the money to you.”
“Give the girl a candy apple. Exactly. You’re going to cash in the ticket, then do some banking for me.” He poked the muzzle of the gun into Steve’s neck, startling him. “And while you’re busy doing that, I’m gonna keep Romeo over here amused.”
The bedside lamp came on and the man rose up from his crouch, showing himself in the sudden light, letting them see the gun. “But before we get to all that,” he said, “we’re going for a nice long ride in the country.” He tucked the gun under his arm and clapped his hands together twice. “Okay, kids, rise and shine. Lots to do before sunup.”
Steve got out of bed with his hands raised, his gaze ticking to his service pistol, hanging in its holster on the coat rack five feet away. He looked again at the man with the gun, placing him now as his eyes adjusted to the light. He said, “Detective Raybould.”
Raybould smiled. “Good for you, son. Your mom’d be proud.”
Steve looked over his shoulder at Kate, still under the covers, then back at Raybould. “Uh, she’s naked. Do you mind…?”
“Tell you what, Constable. If I see anything I’ve never seen before, I’ll put my hat over it.”
“It’s okay, Steve,” Kate said. She sat on the edge of the bed, managing to dress without exposing herself very much.
Steve got his jeans off the back of the chair next to the bed, his gun just a short reach away now. His palms were slick with sweat.
Had he left a round chambered? The safety on?
Raybould said, “So near and yet so far, eh, Rookie?”
Steve felt the tension, the readiness to act, drop out of his muscles like a physical weight, replaced by a dull sickness in the pit of his stomach. He started pulling on his jeans.
“I’ve slept with mine under my pillow for the past ten years,” Raybould said. “When I sleep.” He leaned into Steve’s line of sight, the gun back in his hand. “Put it out of your mind.”
As Steve finished dressing, he recalled the look on his mother’s face when she introduced him to Raybould the other day, the intimidation so clearly registered there. His mother wasn’t afraid of anyone and this guy had fazed her. That told him a lot. He’d have to choose his moment carefully.
When they were dressed Raybould walked them to the exit, telling them to bundle up warm, a smart-ass tone in his voice, the whole thing a game to him.
“By the way, Steve,” he said, “a grade-schooler could pick this lock. You should invest in a good solid deadbolt.” Giving advice at gunpoint. He pointed to Steve’s keys on the table by the door. “Those your keys?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, here’s where we establish trust.” He glanced at Steve. “And find out just how much your hide means to the little lady.” To Kate he said, “Us boys’ll go in my car. You’re going to follow in Steve’s.” He touched her chin, raising it. “And believe me, Kate, you can’t even begin to imagine what’ll happen to loverboy here should you decide to take a detour somewhere along the way. All set?”
Nodding, Kate picked up Steve’s keys. Steve reached for her arm and Raybould tapped him on the back of the head with the gun, hard enough to make him stagger. He got right in Steve’s face.
“I want you on your best behavior, Constable. I know ways to hurt people you never heard of at the academy. Understood?”
Steve nodded, trying to shake off the fog that swirled in his vision, trying to remember his training and remain calm.
Kate put her arm around him and led him out the apartment door.
* * *
Hicks saw them come out of the building in single file, the first thin shafts of daylight angling in over the rooftops now. He’d caught snatches of conversation on the receiver, something about amusing Romeo, hurting people at the academy, strange shit like that, Raybould doing most of the talking. Hicks had been set to say fuck it, bust in there with his .45 blazing, when Raybould said something about a drive in the country. Out of town suited Hicks better than getting into it here in the city, so he decided to wait. Learn something from the prick. Patience, following the path of least resistance, all the crap Raybould used to lecture him about during stakeouts.
They were splitting up now, Raybould leading the boyfriend to his car, the girl going the other way, around the building and out of sight.
What the hell?
Hicks worked a couple of dials on the unit, trying to catch what Raybould was saying to the boyfriend. He could see the gun in Raybould’s hand now, pressed against his thigh, screwing up the reception. He wished Bryan was still around.
Fed up, Hicks slammed the lid shut and slouched down in his seat, watching to see what would happen.
* * *
On the way to the car Raybould said to Steve, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, kid, that girl is
fine
.” Goading him. “I may have to rake a piece off that myself before the day is out.”
Steve spun on him saying, “You lay so much as a finger on her—” and Raybould hit him again with the gun, drawing blood this time, the kid seeing it on his fingers as he sank to his knees. That was good. Get his attention then take him to school. He hunched over the dummy and put the muzzle to his cheek.
“You’re thinking with your dick now, Constable. That’ll get you killed. You’re of limited use to me, so I suggest you behave. Now get up and shut up.”
The kid did as he was told. Raybould opened the passenger door for him and the kid got in, putting his seatbelt on like a good citizen. Raybould went around the hood and climbed in beside him. For peace of mind he handcuffed the kid to the door, both hands, nice and snug.
“Okay, chum,” he said, leaning back in his seat, “I’ll only say this once. I have a set of rules I give to all the creeps. I picked them up in grade school from a nasty little nun named Mary Aloysius. I hated the fucking things then, broke ’em every chance I got, but over the years I’ve come to see the sense in them. They’re simple, but firm. Follow them and you’ll do all right. Are you ready?”
Steve nodded.
“Number one, speak when you’re spoken to. Number two, do what you’re told, when you’re told. And number three, don’t give me any lip. Simple enough?”
“Simple enough.”
“Good,” Raybould said. He turned in his seat to look out the rear window. “Now, let’s see what she’ll do. Some women, you never can tell.”
* * *
Kate’s mind was a mass of white noise, her body running on auto-pilot, propelling her around the building to the Cherokee on legs she could no longer feel. None of it seemed real, but a nightmare from which she’d only partially wakened. She felt sick, light-headed, the wine fermenting in her stomach, leaving a foul taste in her mouth. The morning air was bitterly cold, the light itself more dreamlike than real, fuzzy and dense with shadow. Her heels clocked against the sidewalk in a rising cadence, not quite a run, the sound coming back at her from the building across the street like the reports of a small-caliber rifle.
She tried to unlock the Cherokee and fumbled the keys into the dirty snow. She picked them up and got the door open, banging her head on the jamb as she climbed into the seat. The truck was freezing, the upholstery stiff, the engine grinding before it caught. Kate pulled on her seat belt and clasped it, a habitual act that suddenly seemed strange. Her heart was riding in her throat.
She paused a moment then, trying to think. What should she do? Go to the police? But the guy
was
a policeman, Steve knew him. And what was he doing with her father’s ticket? Why would he do a thing like this to them? It was all so crazy…but she had little doubt that he was serious. Driving away now would mean certain death for Steve. She could see no other option. She’d have to do what he wanted and pray he let them go when it was done.
She put the Cherokee in reverse, touched the accelerator and the engine stalled. She started it again and gunned it, the engine whining in protest. She waited as long as she could stand it, letting the engine warm up, then shifted into reverse again. This time the engine held.
She backed into the street, teeth chattering, something throbbing painfully behind her eyes. She pulled up behind Raybould’s sedan and saw him in his rearview mirror. Smiling at her. She’d never been more terrified.
* * *
The girl pulled up behind them in a green Cherokee, an early ’90s model going to rust. Raybould found her eyes in the rearview and gave her a smile, thinking,
Cute little pie
. He pulled away from the curb, checking once to make sure she was following.
By six AM they were on the 401, a small convoy heading west out of the city, industrial sprawl giving way to scattered farms, flat fields blanketed in snow.
* * *
Raybould slowed and signaled on highway 91 west of Guelph, turning left onto a dirt road marked by a faded billboard that read AUTO WRECKERS and pictured a cartoon tow truck hauling a cartoon car. Behind him, Kate did the same. They’d been on the road just under an hour now, Raybould setting a casual pace.
He glanced at Steve, saying, “Almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Where we’re going,” Raybould said. In the early part of the trip the kid had tried some of the hostage negotiation techniques he’d learned at the academy on him and Raybould had laughed in his face. They’d driven in silence since then. He said, “Some advice, okay, kid?”
Steve said nothing.
Raybould backhanded him in the face. “You listening?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “I’m listening.”
“Don’t try to be a hero. You don’t have it in you. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The auto wreckers stood about a mile off the highway, a cluster of tin sheds and cinderblock buildings cresting a blunt hill. Behind the buildings stretched row upon row of snow-capped wrecks: cars, trucks, a few rusted-out antiques, a couple of school buses and some cannibalized heavy machinery.
Raybould parked at the base of the hill, told Steve to stay put, and walked the last hundred yards to the top. Archie was waiting at the gate like he’d been told, looking at his rubber boots, gaunt cheeks ruddy from the cold. Raybould rewarded his obedience with a fatherly pat on the head, though the man was at least a dozen years his senior. Archie accepted the gesture with a bashful grin. He stood about five-one, skinny as a rail in filthy blue coveralls with his name stitched on the pocket, a pale-skinned Jamaican with more East Indian in him than black. Raybould liked to get him talking—it was the accent—but Archie was a man of few words.