The Evil That Men Do (18 page)

“Of course.” Iapicca grinned. “I just didn’t want you running up the hill and getting your head shot off.”

Asshole.

“So, what do we do?” Donne asked.

Looking at the house, they saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just like every other gigantic house on the block. All the lights were out at four in the morning, most everyone probably asleep. Cicadas hummed in the distance.

“You go left, I go right. Check the windows, check the doors, but be careful and be slow. Don’t go inside yet and we’ll meet at the back.”

Donne nodded and stepped across the grass. It smelled like it had just been cut. Looking through the first darkened window, he could see nothing except his own reflection. With the lights out, the room was black, and he couldn’t even make out outlines of furniture. He moved on to the next one, pressing himself close against the wall. The edges of the bricks tugged at the fabric of his clothes.

The next window was less dark, the illumination of the moon curling around the neighbor’s house. He could see the kitchen, the silhouette of the table, and the counter. But no people. Nothing out of place.

He pushed on, feeling the weight of Iapicca’s spare gun on his hip. He wanted to hold it at the ready, but was afraid he’d fire it accidentally and attract more attention than he needed. His nerves were making his hands shake. He wasn’t going to pull the gun unless he needed to.

Turning the corner of the house, Donne saw Iapicca standing alone on the deck they’d shared coffee on only hours earlier. He didn’t move, and his face looked pale. Donne hoped it was just the moonlight.

Stepping closer, climbing the wooden stairs, which needed to be stained, he saw that it wasn’t the moonlight. Mike Iapicca stared at the shattered glass all over the inside carpet.

When Donne reached him, Iapicca said, “He’s inside.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“Your call.”

“Let’s go in.”

Iapicca nodded and stepped through the broken window. Donne pulled out the gun.

Delshawn Butler followed the screaming all the way through the darkened house. He wanted to move quickly, before a neighbor heard them and called the cops, but he kept tripping over furniture. Sure as hell there were going to be bruises on his fucking shins. He even almost dropped the gun once.

The screaming was coming from upstairs. He took the staircase quickly, counting the steps as he went. Twelve. He wasn’t sure why, but that seemed to be an important number to remember. Maybe his hit man instincts were getting better. Maybe all the practice was finally kicking in, like playing basketball against better opponents.

Eventually, you get good too.

The screaming was coming from a bedroom across the hall. Delshawn barreled down the hall and slammed into the door, and it came flying off its hinges.

As soon as Delshawn was inside, the screaming stopped. The girl lay on the bed. She went silent, and he could see the tears in her eyes. He trained his gun on her and felt around the wall for the light switch. He made the room dark.

“Call your brother, yo. Jackson Donne.” He tried to say the name in a whisper, all stone-cold killer.

She moved ever so slightly in the dark, and it seemed like she was confused.

“I already did,” she said.

“So he’s on his way?”

“No. I saw your car and told him to get the hell out of here. I don’t want my brother hurt.”

Fuck.

“Get him here.”

“No.”

He stepped up to the bed and pushed the gun’s barrel into her stomach. She inched back, but tried not to. Bitch was trying to be brave.

“Call the motherfucker or I will shoot you.”

“You can’t.”

He pressed the gun harder against her. “And why the fuck not?”

“Because your boss needs me alive to pay for my husband.”

And the words Hackett said swam back to Delshawn Butler. He was going to break his promise in order to get Donne here.

The stairway was dark as they climbed. Iapicca went first, trying to keep the stairs from creaking. They were lucky. This was a million-dollar house.

Stairs don’t creak.

Delshawn Butler held the woman down as long as he could. She did not resist.

What should he do? Call Hackett.

He felt around for his cell phone, then remembered he’d left it in the Escalade.

“Stay here,” he said.

He stepped off the bed and over to the front window, wanting to know how far the Cadillac was parked from the house. Could he make it before the girl ran?

Peeling apart the blinds, Delshawn saw his Cadillac. Hell yeah, he could make it. This bitch couldn’t escape if he went downstairs. He’d see her. Just before he backed away, he saw the car parked out front. It looked like an unmarked.

Shit.

The cops were here.

There were twelve steps. Iapicca must’ve missed the last one. He lost his balance and fell forward into the hallway. He grunted as he fell forward. In the silent hallway it sounded like thunder.

Then the gunfire started.

The hallway exploded with flashes of light. Bullets whizzed in their direction from his sister’s room. Donne went down, pressing his body against the stairway, trying to avoid a ricochet. He looked up and saw Iapicca jerk across the stairway from the impact of bullets. He was firing back, but Donne couldn’t tell if he was hitting anything.

Like Butler.

Or Susan.

Donne grabbed Iapicca by the ankle and hauled him back down the stairs, sliding him gently out of the line of fire. The gunfire stopped, probably so Delshawn Butler could reload.

“Susan?” Donne called, against his better judgment. Delshawn would know he was alive, but Donne needed to know if Susan was okay.

“I’m okay,” she called back.

“Shut the fuck up.” The voice must have belonged to Butler.

Donne found Iapicca’s throat and pressed his fingers against it to find a pulse. It was faint. Iapicca’s breathing was shallow, and if he could speak, he wasn’t trying to.

Pulling the gun from his waistband, Donne pressed himself against the closest wall. Across from him, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw framed pictures on the wall. One was of Franklin and Susan’s wedding. Another was a collage of pictures of children. The wall was a veritable hall of memories.

Footsteps tapped against the floor above him. Someone was coming this way. He held the gun tighter, ready to shoot. He had to be alert, however. Delshawn could have sent Susan ahead of him.

The footsteps got louder, heavier. Trying to judge the weight, Donne guessed it was Delshawn. He aimed the gun and waited.

The steps paused.

The outline of a huge, thick body spun around the corner. Donne’s guess on the weight of the footsteps was correct. It was a man.

He pumped three bullets into his chest.

Delshawn Butler felt the impact: one, two, three. They were quick, and hard, and hurt like hell.

As he fell backward, he knew he’d made a mistake.

Maybe he hadn’t learned anything after all.

Donne called Susan’s name. She answered by turning on all the lights and rushing into the hallway.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“Call nine-one-one and check on Iapicca.”

He pushed himself to his feet and they switched places. Kneeling next to Delshawn, Donne felt for another pulse. His was even more faint.

Donne looked Delshawn over as Susan yelled instructions into the phone. His eyes were glassy, but he was talking. Air wheezed in and out of his mouth, and blood pumped from his chest. It was all over Donne’s hands.

“Shoulda called Hackett,” Delshawn said. And then the breathing stopped. The pulse was no longer there.

Susan must have heard what was said too as she put the phone down. They made eye contact, and she nodded.

“Jesus Christ,” Donne said.

THIRTEEN HOURS

Pain woke Franklin Carter. Something was on top of his broken arm. The pain shot up his arm through his shoulder, across his neck. He screamed, squeezed his eyes shut, and really let it out. The rest of his body convulsed, his cheek splashing back into the puddle he’d passed out in.

Then he realized it wasn’t
something
on his arm, but some
one
.

He tried to roll over to see who it was, but he didn’t have to. He knew. “Found the door, Carter?” Hackett said, even more menace in his voice than earlier in the evening.

All Franklin could do was grit his teeth and hope no sound escaped. He couldn’t afford to scream again. Any sign of weakness was an advantage to Hackett. And Franklin thought his adversary had all the advantages he needed.

The pain lessened, Carter feeling some pressure taken off his arm. Hackett must have removed his foot.

“Don’t worry, Carter. Only thirteen more hours. Then I’ll be a rich man and you’ll be in a hospital. Or I’ll be in jail, and you’ll be dead.”

The thought of death was welcoming to Franklin. He had no idea how long he’d been down here. Hackett’s use of hours didn’t help him focus on time. All he wanted was the pain to go away.

The room went hazy and a flash of light came through the window. It was warm and comforting, like a thick blanket. He wanted to go toward the light. Was this what death was like?

Hackett stepped on his arm again, and the shock woke Franklin from his hallucination.

“You listening to me?” Hackett asked. “You seemed to zone out there for a minute. Maybe it’s the shock. Maybe I should give you something to eat. Order a pizza. On second thought, nah.”

He pressed harder.

“You should have paid me when you had the chance. This is your fault.”

“You’re delusional.” Somehow he found the words. They came from deep within him.

The pain was so strong this time, Franklin couldn’t control the scream.

“Don’t you dare speak that way to me. I’ve done the research. I know what should be mine. What should be my family’s. You fucked it up. You and your father and your grandfather took it away. And your wife’s too. This has been a long time coming.”

Hackett lifted his foot and Franklin Carter was able to breathe again. “Only thirteen more hours,” Hackett said, and disappeared.

The police flooded the house, along with EMS and a few firefighters. Donne never understood that. You could be as specific as possible on the phone and still the ambulance, the police, and the fire department came.

Susan was crying on the couch. He sat on an easy chair, fighting against the exhaustion that came after an adrenaline rush ended. Delshawn Butler had been carried out nearly fifteen minutes ago, a sheet over his face. And Mike Iapicca was being worked on by two more doctors.

The cops were giving them a few minutes to compose themselves. Mostly they were waiting to see if the paramedics needed help getting Iapicca down the stairs. They knew he was a cop and they were concerned.

Donne was too.

As he got up, his eyes wouldn’t leave Susan. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry this hard. He walked across the room, sat next to her on the couch, and put his arm around her. She put her head on his shoulder. This week had been hell on her.

Donne was going to be there for her this time. Like she tried to be when he lost Jeanne. He hoped Susan wouldn’t push him away like he did to her.

“The police are going to want to talk to us,” Donne said.

Her chin dug into his shoulder, a short nod.

“We’re going to have to tell them about Franklin,” he said.

“We can’t.”

Donne pulled her tighter.

“We have to,” he said. “You aren’t going to get the money. We have less than fifteen hours. Iapicca isn’t going to be able to help us anymore. We need help.”

“He said—”

“I know what he said.”

“Is it really Hackett?”

People began yelling and rushing around, calling for something, but Donne wasn’t sure what. Their words weren’t making sense. Something was happening, but at the moment it was all white noise. They watched the activity through the door leading to the hallway. Two more EMS came through the front door and rushed up the stairs.

“Is it really Bryan Hackett?” Susan asked again.

“It sounds like him,” he said. “I want to find out for sure.”

As he sat with Susan, focusing on what he was going to do next, Mike Iapicca died in her stairway from three gunshot wounds to the chest and face. A cop came in and told them a few minutes later. Susan wept harder.

Donne could faintly taste beer on his tongue, the craving taking over. A drink would make this all go away. The warm arms of alcohol would have let him forget all of this.

His instinct was right. Anytime he got involved, people got killed.

The cop was telling them they needed to separate and be interviewed. Donne didn’t want to do that.

He should be asleep.

He should be drinking beers at the Olde Towne Tavern, listening to Artie tell stories about Vietnam.

He should be working a job as a security guard at a storage center.

Hell, he should be getting ready to go back to college. Getting ready to start a new life.

“Franklin’s next,” Susan said as she started to get up. “Don’t let him die.”

Again Donne wanted to run. The muscles in his arms contracted and he wanted to curl up into a ball. A drink would be perfect right now. But Susan was right.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he went and stood on her deck.

The sun wasn’t up yet, but the dark blue of the sky was beginning to lighten into a pale shade of purple. Donne had felt the cold chill in his spine before. The tensing of the muscles, the desire to run.

It struck Donne how much he’d isolated himself from everyone since Jeanne died. Artie, the bartender at the Olde Towne Tavern, was the closest he had to a friend. Artie had always been there. Even when Donne was trying to clean up. When he was about to go into rehab. Just before Donne left, Artie had come to his apartment.