Something for Nothing (36 page)

Martin did a scrambling crab-crawl backward, then leaned on his side and retched. He threw up quite a bit—his breakfast cereal, maybe the big dinner at Val's Italian place (veal parmesan), maybe even the crap he'd eaten at the track. Three or four big heaves and it was all out of him, spewed onto the hay-strewn ground in front of him.

He lay there for few seconds, panting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then wiping his hand on the ground. He was trying to get his mind working.

Val is dead. But it wasn't an accident. I was looking for Val, but I didn't know that he'd be dead. Someone cut off his finger, and then killed him. And I found him. I didn't know this was going to happen today.

He sat up and looked at Val. Someone killed Val because Val is involved in drugs, he thought. That's what they do to you—they cut your fingers off before they kill you. And then they kill you. They probably look right at you as you're writhing on the ground, and then shoot you.

Jesus Fucking Christ, he thought.

He stood up, thought he might have heard himself groan as he did. Or was that Val? He looked down at Val as he lay there, and knew it hadn't been Val. He didn't have anything more to say. Martin thought about that for a second. If you hadn't said everything you wanted to say before you were dead—hadn't gotten it all out, or in the way that you wanted—it was too late. And now it was too late for Val. Because he hadn't known when he woke up in the morning that someone was going to come to his house and kill him, and so he probably hadn't said everything he would have liked to say. Martin wondered what he and Angela had talked about in the morning, maybe over coffee. Because that was probably the last real conversation he had had before the drug guys came and killed him . . . cut his finger off and then killed him.

Angela. The red Mercedes was in the driveway. Val's car was in the driveway, and Val was down here, dead. Where was Angela?

He looked down at Val one last time, and then headed back past the stalls and out the door. It was bright, and he had to shield his eyes. The dog was still barking. Now I know why he's barking like that, Martin thought.

As he hurried back up the path toward the house, several things occurred to him. The first was that whoever had done this was long gone, and that he wasn't in any real danger. But that thought led him to wonder if he actually
was
in danger. Because he realized that Hano had probably done this. Just yesterday Val had seemed skittish about Hano—had warned him, in fact, that Hano might be up to something. And the problem was that Hano knew Martin—knew he was involved, knew he knew enough to finger Hano, if it came to that. But Hano also knew that Martin was only the pilot, the delivery boy. And what was Martin going to do, call the police and say, hey, the guy I smuggled dope with for Val might have killed Val? The problem was that Hano might not see things that way. From Hano's perspective, Martin was probably a big fat liability, one he needed to take care of—eliminate—as soon as possible.

Martin paused for a second when he made it to the house. He was out of breath, not just from the short jog but because he was so overwhelmed—scared.

He didn't bother shouting hello this time. He just reached his left hand into the six-inch gap in the doorway, and pushed slowly on the sliding glass door. When it was about a foot open he stuck his head in a little ways, but, as in the barn, it was hard to see. He slid the door open another foot or so, then stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

It was quiet inside—or at least quieter than it had been outside, because with the door shut Rex's barking was muffled into near-silence. But it didn't look quiet, at least not in the kitchen, where Martin was standing. It looked loud—chaotically loud. Or rather, it was loud but with the sound turned off. Drawers and cabinets had been yanked open, the contents dumped on the floor. Papers, silverware, pots and
pans, dishes, even food from the refrigerator. The place had been ransacked. Or whatever they called it in cop shows on TV, or in movies. “Tossed.” That sounded right. Whatever the term, it was exactly like you'd see in a movie when the bad guys had been to a house and torn it apart, looking for the secret papers or the drugs or whatever it was (although sometimes it was the good guys who did this—the FBI or the CIA or whatever).

He took a few steps forward, but stopped in front of a big, deep drawer that had been yanked out of the desk to the right of the door. It was lying upside down, and as he stood there Martin could see that every door and drawer in the kitchen had been opened, and the contents dumped onto the floor. It looked like a tiny tornado had hit the kitchen section of Macy's or Capwell's. Plates, pots, pans, silverware, a blender, a toaster—there was hardly a place to step without stumbling or tripping.

Martin stepped through the doorway that led to the living room. He didn't need to go much further, though, because even standing at the edge of the big living room he could see that this room had also been ransacked (“tossed”). He could also see that whoever had killed Val had also killed Angela. She was lying on her stomach, with both hands out in front of her. It looked as if she'd thrown her arms out as she fell, and as her hands hit they had skidded forward. Her face was turned away from him, to the right, but he knew it was her. For one thing, he recognized her thick, dark hair. It was her best feature, Martin had thought more than once—had even said so to Linda. She was wearing the light blue bathrobe she often wore around the house in the morning, and the matching slippers—but one of them had come off. The bathrobe was hiked up so that Martin could see the backs of her knees; he could see the blue lines of some spider veins running down toward her calves.

Martin was no expert, but he could tell she'd probably been shot as she was running away from whoever came storming into the house. This was because of the position of her body, but also because there were two big dark circles in the center of her back, each of which had
a small, dime-size hole in the center. Even from where he was, Martin knew that the circles were made by the blood that had seeped out of bullet holes. About five feet in front of her was a sliding glass door that led out onto the big balcony fronting the house, and from which you could see the Livermore valley as it stretched east. She'd probably stood there thousands of times, looking out and having her morning coffee, or an evening drink. Today, though, she hadn't made it to the door, or onto the balcony.

Martin stood there in the living room, trying to think. The living room had been torn apart just like the kitchen, and he felt certain that if he went down the hall he'd see that the same thing was true throughout the house.

He looked down at Angela. He felt frozen. What was he supposed to do right now? He needed to call the police. That's what they're for, right? Someone's dead, you call the police. He was in over his head—they would take care of it. Maybe, he thought, I'll just call, and then leave. At least someone will know about this.

Outside, he could hear the dog, still barking.

“Fuck,” he said in a whisper, as if he were worried he might be overheard.

He shook himself out of his daze and walked back into the kitchen, stepping over all the crap on the floor. He wasn't being careful now. He looked around for a phone and saw one sitting on a side table, to the right of the sliding glass door. He took a deep breath, reached down and picked up the receiver. He told himself to just dial, and then someone would be on the other end—someone who knew what to do, and who could help him. But his hand was shaking, and so it was hard to get his fingers into the little hole. After a couple of tries he managed it, then waited, listening to the faint sound of the dog's barking and looking out through the sliding glass door, at the pool. It was covered with acacia flowers, floating in the quiet of the breezeless morning.

“Operator,” a voice said. It was a woman's voice, and he found this vaguely comforting.

“Yes,” he said. “Get me the police.” He knew that it was exactly the line he'd heard dozens of times on TV, but he didn't care.

“Is this an emergency, sir?” the woman asked.

He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It is. Please hurry.” He looked around at the kitchen, and then back out into the living room. From where he was standing he could see only Angela's feet, but it was enough. It was definitely an emergency.

He listened to the buzzing silence on the other end, and then he heard someone pick up the phone.

“Police Department,” someone—a man—said.

Jesus, he thought. What am I doing? He hung up the phone with a bang.

He took a deep breath. I need to get the fuck out of here, he said to himself.

M
ARTIN STARTED HIS CAR
, but he didn't pull out immediately. He was still trying to clear his head. Someone—probably Derek Hano—had come to the house and killed Val and Angela. Maybe Val and Derek had an argument, and Hano had gotten pissed off, had gone berserk. Maybe he'd killed Val, and then realized he had to kill Angela, too, to cover his tracks.

But what about the ropes, the wire on Val's hand, and the finger? Why had Hano cut off Val's finger? And what about the house? Why was it torn apart like that?

Martin listened to the sound of the dog barking. He was still at it, though Martin thought he might be getting tired. His bark was starting to sound a little scratchy. His mind drifted to the day he'd watched Val walk into the kennel, and then come out with the trash bag full of money. And then it all clicked into place. Of course. Whoever had killed Val had been after his money—the cash he was sure to have on hand for the upcoming drug buy. Val had even said it was going to be a bigger deal than usual, right? Hano would have known all about that, wouldn't he? People had killed for less, that's for sure.

And so Hano had tried to get Val to tell him where the money was. That would explain why he'd tied him up and cut off his finger. But why had it gotten that far? Wouldn't Val have just told him where to find it? Who would suffer like that for a few hundred thousand dollars?

It was an open question, because, Martin knew, Hano hadn't found the money. And he knew this, of course, because Rex was still in his kennel, barking away, and the money was in the kennel. Martin was almost certain of that fact. And he was equally certain that no one—not Hano, not anyone—could get in there without bloodshed. Either the dog would have to die or the person trying to get into the kennel would have to die.

Something had happened. For one thing, only one finger had been cut off of Val's hand. This meant that before Hano cut off more of Val's fingers, really put him through the wringer, he had decided to shoot him. But he'd killed him without finding the money. Again, Martin was positive about this. He'd obviously looked for a while—the house was torn to shreds—but probably only after Val was dead.

Maybe, Martin thought, Hano hadn't realized Angela was there, and she'd interrupted them. Martin could see it; Val is screaming, she runs down the path, shouting to him, wondering what's wrong, and he yells to her to run. And so Hano shoots Val, chases Angela up the path and into the house, and shoots her. Or maybe he chases Angela and kills her, and then comes back for Val. But by then, Val has gotten himself free from whatever situation he was in. (Because there was that, too: Val had obviously been tied up when his finger had been cut off, but he was untied when Martin found him.) So yes, maybe Val gets free somehow, before Hano can really butcher him. Unfortunately for him, though, Hano comes back and shoots him. But maybe that wasn't right. Maybe it had been some other series of events. Whatever had happened, Val and Angela were dead, Hano was gone, and the money was in Rex's shed.

He sat there, thinking. He knew he should drive away. He'd been there for at least twenty minutes, probably longer. With each passing
minute, the odds of someone showing up increased—maybe one of Val's stable boys, for example.

But Martin also knew that he was now officially out of a lucrative side job. No more Val, no more paid courier flights to Mexico. And that meant the odds of his going broke had risen fairly dramatically (though his debt to Val had just been erased—that was something, anyway).

On the other hand, if he got out of the car, walked down the path, and killed the dog, he could have the money. In five minutes, he could drive away a rich man.

Martin turned off the engine. He could hear Rex barking. It occurred to him that Rex probably knew that Val was dead. He'd probably heard Val screaming when Hano cut off his finger, and he could probably smell his blood—or even his dead body (his corpse). It was probably driving him crazy, making him more ferocious than ever. It was a bad time, in other words, to break into his kennel. But he had to do it. It would be like the fairy tale (he didn't know which one—they were all pretty much the same) in which the knight has to slay the dragon to get to the hoard of treasure. But it's an angry dragon, one that has been grievously wronged, and one that is therefore exceptionally pissed off.

He sat there trying to figure out a way to kill the dog. Stab him through the fence with a pitchfork from the barn (he wasn't sure, but he thought he might be able to do this through the chain-link fencing). Whack him over the head with a sledge hammer (though he wouldn't be able to do this without opening the gate, he knew). He wondered if Val had a gun anywhere on the property. Probably. But where?

Then he remembered that he had his own gun, the .22 he'd stolen from Miriam's bedroom (or from Hal's bedroom, if you wanted to put it that way—it was Hal's gun; he was pretty sure of that).

He got out of the car and opened the trunk. He pulled back the square of carpet that covered the spare tire, and then reached in and pulled out the pistol. It felt heavy in his hand, heavier than he remembered,
especially for such a small gun. But maybe that was because he was so nervous—so scared. Whatever the case—whether or not it was actually a heavy gun—Martin had the distinct impression that it was happy to be out of its hiding place. Maybe, like Miriam's jewelry box, it preferred the light of day, and even resented being hidden away, kept out of sight. Maybe it hadn't been happy under Miriam's bed, either. Maybe it had been thrilled when a mysterious stranger (Martin) came in and rescued it from its cramped life with the other guns under the Weavers' bed, and had then been confused and disappointed when Martin stashed it away in the darkness of his trunk. I deserve better than this, it might have thought.