The Evil That Men Do (25 page)

He pulled the car to the curb and took a deep breath.

Jeanne.

The thought of her name caused him to shudder. His fingers were tight around the steering wheel. In spite of himself, in spite of trying to park, Donne closed his eyes. He let out a long, slow breath. He wished he didn’t freeze every time he thought of her.

Before he picked up the gun, he tried his sister. Again there was no answer. When the machine picked up, he said, “Susan, don’t go to the bank yet. I’ve found him. I’m going to get him back.”

He hung up, and hefted the gun.

Closing his eyes, he thought,
Here we go
.

Bryan Hackett had just finished refreshing the computer screen when he heard the car door. The best thing about this building was the acoustics. You could hear every car that drove by, every closed door, every husband-and-wife argument within a block and a half.

After seeing that the money hadn’t transferred yet, he closed the laptop and got up to peek out the window. Donne was jogging across the street bent at the waist, like he was trying to stay out of sight. All it did was make him look funny, like he had back pain.

So this was how they were going to play it.
Fuck the money
. A little sooner than planned, but this was what he’d wanted. Revenge.

He might not get the money, but at least he’d be able to take one of them out. And Susan could always be tracked down this afternoon. It’s not like she’d stray far from the mansion in Montclair anyway.

Bryan Hackett grabbed his cell phone and retreated out the back window. He had to hunch his back and lift his legs over the windowsill. When his foot hit mud, he knew he was home free. Donne wasn’t inside yet, and Hackett hadn’t been shot at either.

Ten more minutes and the plan would be complete. The building from his childhood would be in flames and his family would be avenged. Not getting the money would be a problem, but he could start over with Jill.

Once he was out the window, Hackett made his way toward the riverbed. His feet squished in the mud, the smell of litter and dead fish hitting his nose. Twenty feet down the river, he stopped running and listened.

He heard the door to the building open and close.

He took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The air was sour, but it relaxed his muscles.

Here we go.

FOUR HOURS

They sat in the car outside the bank on Bloomfield Avenue. Susan could see her husband’s restaurant north of her on the corner of Church. There were people sitting at small tables on the sidewalk. It looked like business was good.

Maybe that would help them rebound from what she was being forced to do.

Jason Marshall had the gun jammed in her ribs from the passenger seat. “You’re going to go in, get the money, and come right out. All you have to do is hand them the letter. They’re going to give you a rough time, but you’re not going to give in. Your husband is out of town and you need the money for a family matter.”

“They’re going to want to talk to him.”

“Then you call me. I’ll pretend I’m Franklin.”

“I’m sure they have his number on file.”

“Talk your way out of it. I don’t care if you have to threaten to blow the place up, you’re going to come out of there with the money.” Marshall pressed the gun harder against her. “If you don’t, you’re fucking dead. Just like Franklin.”

Anger flushed her face. The gall of this guy to mention her husband. It was going to be his fault if Franklin died. There was no hope. Fucking Jackson had to skip town.

“Now go.”

She stepped out of the car and felt the heat on her shoulders. It was one of those summer afternoons where the humidity was unbearable. The air hung thickly and people walked slowly toward their destination. The thirty-foot walk from the car to the bank was enough to make her break a sweat.

She stepped through the glass door and felt the air-conditioning wash over her. The line was short, only one person being helped.

The teller smiled as Susan stepped up to the nearest open window and slid the letter under the tray. The teller took it and opened it. Her blond locks fell over her eyes as she looked down. The woman was pretty — small, thin, with high cheekbones.

“My husband is out of town on business. But he asked me to cash out the money.”

The teller read the letter and looked at the signature.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Please,” Susan said. “You have to. We’re — we’re trying to buy a car and we want to pay cash. He was called out of town. I just need the money.”

In the back of her head, she knew she sounded panicked. But could she be blamed for that? There was a man outside waiting for her with a gun.

“I’m going to have to get my manager to sign off on this,” the teller said, and dashed off.

This wasn’t going to work. In a minute, the manager would come back and say there was no possible way this could get done, it was just too much money.

The teller came back with a curt smile on her face. A tall man wearing a pin-striped suit followed her. The manager’s name was Paul, and Susan had spoken with him before. He was always polite and did well with their money. Franklin had taken him out to lunch once or twice.

Paul shook Susan’s hand.

“I read your husband’s letter. How is he?”

“Fine,” she lied.
He’s probably dead by now
.

“Are you okay?” He arched his eyebrows. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m all right. It’s just hot outside.”

“Okay.” He looked at the letter again. “This shouldn’t be a problem. If you’ll just wait a few minutes while we cash it out. It will take us a while to count up the cash. How would you like the money?”

“Hundreds would be fine.”

Susan grinned and felt relief settle through her blood. It felt better than the air-conditioning.

“We’ll get right on it. Good luck with the car. Nancy, would you start the process?”

The teller strode toward the back of the bank. For the first time in what felt like days, luck turned Susan Carter’s way.

Paul stepped around the counter and stalked over to Susan. He took long, purposeful strides. His suit was neatly pressed and he gave off an aura of power and professionalism. He furrowed his brow as he approached.

Taking Susan by the arm, he walked her toward an empty corner of the bank.

Whispering, Paul said, “I’ve seen the news, Mrs. Carter. We are all very sorry about your husband’s loss. I understand if you want to keep this hush-hush, but I know this has to be about the explosion in New York. I’m breaking all sorts of rules giving you this money, but I consider your husband a valuable client.”

Susan had nearly forgotten about the explosion. Everything else was so much more immediate. It seemed so far away from them, dreamlike. Her only concern was getting Franklin back alive.

“I just want you to know that anything your husband needs,” Paul said, “we will be there for him.”

“Thank you,” Susan said.

Ten minutes later, Susan lugged a duffel bag toward her car and a smiling Jason Marshall.

Donne held the gun tight against his thigh, pointing the barrel downward as he crossed the street. Moving quickly, he kept in a crouch behind a car, peeking over the hood. The building was a little worse for wear than he remembered, but it still stood. The gray stone building was less than a story high, and some of the stones had tumbled from the top right corner and were scattered across the grass. The river rushed past about one hundred yards behind it.

Between Donne and the building was probably about one hundred feet of open space. If Hackett was watching, he’d be a sitting duck. But what other choice was there? He moved quickly across the ground, trying to vary his movements, taking sharp angles and changing directions as he moved. Nothing happened, and within seconds, he pressed against the cracked wooden door.

Hearing nothing through the door, he tried the knob and it turned easily. He went into the dark room gun-first. The building held the heat like a brick oven. He felt an extra sheen of sweat on his skin. Donne blinked his eyes to adjust them to the darkness. He pressed himself against the wall, staying low, and looked around.

A lone empty table with one plastic chair decorated the room. Garbage, food wrappers, and small pieces of concrete from the walls of the building were strewn around the rest of the room. No one was there.

Across from him was the doorway he remembered so well. The one Bryan Hackett went through without hesitation years ago. The door itself was thick and solid-looking, as if it had been recently replaced. It led to the basement. Next to it, an exposed wire lay on the floor. Staying clear in case it was live, he opened the door to the basement. He paused a moment when it opened easily. He’d expected it to be locked.

He pointed the gun toward the doorway, trying to listen for any sounds of movement. Nothing in front of him. And if Bryan Hackett was going to sneak up on Donne from behind, he was stealthy as hell.

His eyes would have to adjust again, because the basement was even darker. The unlocked door worried him, however, and he didn’t want to stand there waiting to be able to see better.

The first step creaked beneath his foot. The stairs were old and wooden and steep. He felt a sense of vertigo, especially since he couldn’t see three feet in front of him. Each step was a slow and cautious affair, and he stopped at each one to listen for any sign of life. When he got to the third step from the bottom, the thick smell of wet wood and shit filled his nose. A thin stream of light poked through a hole in the ceiling on the other side of the room. He saw the outline of a body in a chair, as his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness.

He aimed the gun at the body and for the second time in a day broke a cardinal rule.

“Hello?”

No response. No movement. Donne stepped closer. The body didn’t move, but now he could see more than just an outline. Bruised, battered, and basically looking like hell was Franklin Carter.

Donne rushed up to him and checked his pulse. It was surprisingly strong. His arm was bent awkwardly and looked like it was broken. His breathing was shallow and forced. And he looked like he’d been hit with a wooden pole several times. Donne shook him gently by the shoulder.

“Franklin? Franklin, wake up.”

He coughed and stirred.

“Franklin, it’s me, Jackson. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Franklin grunted and lifted his head.

“You’re going to be okay,” Donne said.

“Not safe,” he mumbled. “Hackett did something.”

Donne stepped back and raised his gun. What did Hackett do? The smell of shit was thick in his nose. His eyes were watering. And it was then he realized that it wasn’t shit he smelled. Not exactly.

It was fertilizer.

Just like Marshall said was in the bomb at the restaurant in New York City.

Donne put the gun back in his waistband and went to work on Franklin’s knots.

As he worked, Donne prayed hard the room wouldn’t blow up.

Hackett waited five minutes. Jackson Donne was good and would take his time sweeping the building. He would make sure it was safe. Then he would have to untie Franklin and get him out of the chair. Plenty of time.

At the three hundredth second, Hackett gripped his cell phone tight. The number was already dialed in. All he had to do was hit send.

He did.

It was all a matter of seconds now.

And then Jackson Donne, Franklin Carter, and half of Hackett’s past would be up in flames.

He began to trudge along the riverbed away from the house.

THEY DROVE BACK TOWARD SUSAN’S HOUSE. SHE
didn’t know why. She gassed through the lights and made a right turn onto Upper Mountain. The money rested on the backseat in the duffel bag.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said.

The curbs of Upper Mountain were lined with thick oak trees. Their branches and leaves hung above the road, making it seem like they were driving through a tunnel.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Too many people have died already.” Marshall had lowered the gun to his lap.

But it didn’t make sense. He’d been willing to kill Draxton. What would keep him from shooting Susan as soon as they got back? Marshall would have the money, and all he would need to do is get rid of her body. One pull of the trigger and it would all be over.

Her life would end. And it was all out of her control. She couldn’t have that. She needed some semblance of a say in what happened to her. It was her life. She wasn’t going to let some greedy asshole end it.

She checked the traffic in her rearview mirror. It was clear. In the oncoming lane as well.

Susan stepped hard on the gas. The car jerked forward, accelerating from twenty-five miles per hour to forty-five. She pushed down harder. Fifty, sixty, sixty-five.

“What the hell are you doing?” Marshall yelled.

Out of the corner of her eye, Susan saw Marshall fumble for his gun. The engine roared. Just as Marshall wrapped his hand around the gun, Susan slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel left across the oncoming lane. The wheels screeched and Marshall crossed his arms in front of his face.

The rest of the event moved in slow motion for Susan Carter. She heard his gun thunk against the floor of the car, and felt the duffel bag hit the back of her seat. The giant oak tree she’d aimed for got larger and larger in the windshield. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marshall’s arms rise in front of his face to brace himself.

Impact.

The hood of the car crumpled in front of her, the bark of the tree rushing up toward them. The air bag blew up as her body went forward, her vision flooded with white plastic. She heard Marshall’s scream stop suddenly, the sound of glass and bending metal filling her ears. Her seat belt locked and pulled against her skin.

Then everything went black.