She was aiming now, and a bullet whizzed past his ear, punched into the bureau. He kicked the chair at her, rolled onto his knees, felt a flash of fire along his neck, wet heat in the collar of his shirt. She was still aiming, still firing, and he lurched toward the door, heard bullets hit the wall behind him.
The door flew open, a uniformed security guard standing there, and Johnny slammed into him, drove him back into the hallway. They fell together, the pain stealing his breath. Then Johnny was on his feet, moving toward the stairwell, the guard still on the floor.
Johnny hit the fire door, drove it back against the wall, went down the stairs fast, his footsteps echoing. He looked at his left hand, saw the hole where the small bullet had neatly pierced his palm.
He took the steps two at a time, was gasping when he reached the emergency exit, red sign glowing above it. He hit the panic bar with his shoulder, stepped out into blowing snow.
He could hear sirens in the distance. He headed for the jeep, got the door open and pulled himself up into the driver's seat. His left hand was numb, but he could move the fingers, so he knew the tendons were intact. He looked at himself in the rearview, saw the line of red on his neck where her fifth shot had grazed him. There was blood on his face, the taste of it like salt and copper on his lips.
He dragged the Sig out, put it on the passenger seat, got the engine started. He could see flashing lights maybe a half mile back. He slammed the jeep into gear, gave it gas and headed for the exit, steering one handed, the wheels spinning slightly when he hit the highway.
He put the pedal to the floor, felt the big engine respond, turned the wipers on against the snow. Thick flakes flew wild in the headlights. In the rearview, he saw the flashing lights slow, turn into the hotel lot.
His hand was throbbing now. He moved his fingers, saw fresh blood ooze from the wound. He pulled his jacket open. The side of his work shirt was dark where he'd torn open the wound, blood seeping through the dressing.
He smiled then, thinking of her, what she had done to him. The Sig slid off the seat, thumped onto the floor. He left it there.
Bleeding, he drove into the night.
He had to fight to keep the Mustang on the road. Every time he slowed, braked, he could feel the rear end swinging, the tires losing traction. No sand trucks yet and every half mile a car was stranded by the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. The Mustang's wipers thumped back and forth at full strength, but the snow was coming down thicker, heavier, the road a field of white in front of him. No telling where the yellow lines were or where the road ended and the shoulder began.
When he rounded the final curve, he could see the hotel ahead. There were flashing lights outside the entranceâred, yellow and blue. Police cars, an ambulance. Dread bloomed inside him.
Â
They had her in a treatment room by herself, two cops standing outside the half-open door. He went past them into the dim room.
She was lying on the treatment table, face turned to the wall, a pillow propped under her. A wide swath of gauze covered her left cheek.
“Hey,” he said.
She turned to face him.
“Harry?”
She sat up and he held her, saw the tears. Her sweater was stiff with blood.
“Easy,” he said. “Easy.” She put her right cheek against his chest and he held her there, felt her tremble against him. He kissed her hair.
He turned, saw the cops watching from the doorway. They looked at him, then turned away.
“They gave me something for the pain,” she said. “But I don't feel it yet.”
“You will.”
“Did they get him?”
“Not yet.”
“I shot him.”
“I heard. They'll find him soon.”
“I hurt him, I know I did.”
“Easy. Easy.”
“All this time, I thought I was smarter than him. That when it happened I could still handle him. Look him in the eye.”
“Shhh.”
“Fifteen stitches, Harry. That's how many it took. I'll never be pretty again.”
“Don't say that.”
“It's true.”
He kissed her forehead, squeezed her.
“Lie back.”
“He didn't kill me. Why didn't he kill me? Why Sherry and not me?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Relax, breathe deep.” He eased her back onto the table, felt some of the tension go out of her. She gripped his hand.
There was a shadow in the doorway and he looked up, saw Branson, the county detective, there. Branson bent his head toward the corridor. Harry nodded, watched him go.
Whatever they had given her was kicking in now. She lay back, touched his face.
“You'll always be beautiful,” he said. “Nothing can ever change that.”
She shook her head slowly and the tears started again. He touched the line of her jaw, kissed the gauze gently, then brushed his lips over hers. She looked at him through half-closed eyes, her grip tighter.
They sat like that for a while, until he felt her breathing steady and deepen as the painkiller took effect, watched her slide gradually into sleep.
Branson was out in the waiting room with Ray and Errol. Through the automatic emergency doors, Harry could see a snowplow with flashing yellow lights clearing the area outside.
They turned to face him as he came out. Branson had a cup of coffee from a vending machine.
“She's sleeping,” Harry said.
“She'll stay the night,” Branson said. “I've already talked to the nursing supervisor. They'll put her in a room if they can. I'll leave the officers here as well.”
Through the doors, Harry watched snow swirl in the parking lot lights.
“Any word?” he said.
“Nothing yet,” Branson said. “But in this weather, he's not going to get very far. He might have run off the road somewhere already. We'll find him.”
“I called the Neptune cops,” Ray said. “Asked them to go by that house in Ocean Grove, in case Harrow had been there. He had. They'd already had a call out.”
Harry looked at him. “What happened?”
“One of themâthe muscleheadâwas shot, leg and shoulder, but they think he'll be all right. The other one was roughed up, had a broken knee. The one who was shot managed to make it to a neighbor's house before he passed out. He crawled all the way. The neighbor called the police.”
“Harrow's been a busy boy,” Branson said. Then to Harry: “I called Vic Salerno, told him what was going on. No way he can make it down here through this, though. You hear about Alea?”
Harry shook his head.
“Springfield police got a call earlier tonight, shots fired at this porn store Alea owns on Twenty-Two.”
“Yeah?”
“They found him in there, along with a couple guys work
for him. One named Lindell, another named Ismayla, a Russian. You know them?”
“No.”
“All three shot to death. Shell casings all over the place.”
“Sounds like a labor-management dispute,” Ray said.
“There's blood all over the walls,” Branson said. “Some of it might be our boy's. This Lindell had a weapon too, looks like he got off a full magazine. Could be Harrow was wounded before he walked out of there. Either way, the woman says she tagged him too, at the hotel, with a little twenty-five she had.”
“I've seen it,” Harry said.
“Could be he's dead already. Bled out somewhere.”
“I don't think so,” Harry said.
“When the snow slows downâif it slows downâwe'll get a state police helicopter up, start searching the area around the hotel. Until then, though, there's not much we can do except wait for him to show up somewhere.”
“Won't be long,” Ray said. “Way he's been going, his string must be about run out.”
“Don't count on it,” Harry said.
Â
He had the heater on full, but it seemed like the jeep would never warm up. He was trembling now and every few minutes his hand would spasm in his lap. There was dried blood on the seat, on the steering wheel. He was headed up Route 34, watching for Parkway signs, the road unbroken white in front of him. Once on the Parkway, he'd go north, find a motel to hole up in for the night, ditch the jeep.
The snow danced in his headlights, made kamikaze runs at the windshield. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, sleep stealing up on him. It was shock, he knew. Loss of blood. He had to fight it. He powered the window down a crack, the cold air whipping in, turned on the stereo. Marvin Gaye singing about mercy.
Headlights came at him, high beams. A horn blew and he realized he'd drifted into the oncoming lane. He steered
back, braked, felt the rear wheels lose traction. The car passed him as he fought the skid. He worked the brake and gas and the jeep did a one-eighty on the ice and ended up on the shoulder, facing the opposite direction.
He sat there for a moment, trying to control his breathing. He closed his eyes, waited for the Valley. It wouldn't come.
Wind rocked the jeep. When he opened his eyes, the snow seemed to be blowing almost horizontally. Another car went by him without slowing, disappeared into the storm.
One-handed, he got his cigarettes out, pushed in the dashboard lighter. When it popped out, he lit the cigarette, dragged in smoke. Then he pulled onto the road, gave it gas, headed back the way he'd come.
Â
They left the Mustang at the hospital. Errol drove him back to Colts Neck in the station wagon, never getting above twenty-five miles an hour. Errol's fists were tight on the wheel, the wind stronger than before. At times it felt like it was going to push the wagon off the road.
“No way you're going to make it home to Asbury in this,” Harry said. “You should stay at the farm tonight.”
“We're going to be lucky if we make it there.”
“There's a turn-off up ahead. Stay to the right.”
After a few minutes, Errol said, “I shouldn't have left.”
“No way you could have known. They say he went in through a service entrance anyway. You probably wouldn't even have seen him.”
“Maybe I would have.”
“And maybe not. Or maybe he would have seen you, popped you before he went up there or after he came out. No sense thinking about it. It'll just make you crazy. The driveway's up here, on the left.”
“I see it,” Errol said when the lights of the house came into view. “Hope you got something to drink in there, because I need it.”
“Find something, I'm sure.”
They turned into the driveway, the wagon's back wheels spinning before they caught hold.
“No way that Ford was going to make it up here in this,” Errol said.
“You're probably right.”
They went up the slope of the drive carefully, pulled into the side yard. Snow swirled wildly in the security light above the barn. Errol shut off the engine and lights, the wind howling around the wagon.
Harry got out of the car, his legs heavy. Anger had given way to exhaustion, left him stranded someplace between them. He felt empty, spent.
They walked in the teeth of the wind to the back door. Harry got his keys out, and Errol caught the storm door to keep the wind from yanking it off its hinges. Harry unlocked the main door and they went into the kitchen. He pulled the storm door closed, latched it, locked the main door behind him.
“Started building a fire earlier,” he said. “Never got a chance to light it. I'll do it now.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Harry stamped his boots to get the snow off, hung his jacket on the peg by the door. Errol did the same.
“Go on in the living room,” Harry said. “Beer all right?”
“Cold beer on a cold night. Can't beat it.”
“I'll be right in and get that thing lit.”
He opened the refrigerator, took out two Coronas.
From the living room, he heard Errol say, “Harry?”
The roar of the gun filled the house. Errol flew back into the kitchen, crashed into the table, took a chair down with him as he hit the floor. Harry dropped the beers, saw Harrow standing in the doorway to the living room, the Winchester pump up at his shoulder. Gunsmoke drifted in the air.
“Two points,” he said. “What do I win?”
Harry looked into the muzzle of the shotgun. Harrow worked the pump and a smoking shell flew from the breach, landed on the floor as another shell chambered. The gun didn't waver.
He wondered what he would see in the final moment. A blur from the barrel, flame and smoke? Or nothing at all. Just the crushing impact as the twelve-gauge pellets hit him. He looked at the gun, the face beyond it, didn't move.
Harrow lowered the shotgun, held it at port arms, the butt against his right hip. His left hand was bandaged, swollen.
“You rush to her rescue?” he said. “She call you?”
Harry didn't answer. Harrow pointed the shotgun at him one-handed, then at the living room.
“Come on in,” he said. “It's your house.”
Harry went into the dim living room. There were red-stained bandages on the floor, a box of gauze he knew had come from his own medicine cabinet, an empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. On the coffee table, the Percocet bottle lay open on its side.
“Helped myself,” Harrow said. “Hope you don't mind.”
He pointed the shotgun at the couch.
“Sit down. Turn that light on.”
Harry sat, reached over, switched the lamp on. Harrow blinked. His face was pale, vaguely yellow in the light, and there was a line of dried blood across his neck. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and Harry could see the Sacred Heart tattoo, the edges of a bandage.
Harrow sat down in a club chair, the shotgun across his
lap. On the floor beside him was a black canvas bag and the box of shotgun shells.
“Almost didn't make it here,” he said. “Jeep too, four-wheel drive. I parked near some woods, walked a fucking quarter mile here through the snow. Didn't think I was going to find it.”
He picked up the box of shells, fumbled with it one-handed, got it open. He took a shell out and the box fell from his knee, its contents spilling out on the floor. A shell rolled under the coffee table, came to rest against one of the legs.
“Fuck,” Harrow said. He thumbed the shell he held into the receiver.
“You don't look so good,” Harry said. “You look like you need a hospital.”
“You don't know the half of it.”
With the shotgun on his lap, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out a pack of Camels. He shook one out, got it in his mouth, lit it with a silver Zippo from the same pocket.
“Problem is,” he said, “I'm getting low on options.”
He reached into his other pocket, came out with a pair of handcuffs.
“You might as well put these on.” He tossed them at Harry. They hit his thigh, clattered to the floor. “We'll be here a little bit.”
Harry looked at them. The muzzle of the shotgun shifted, pointed at him.
“Go on,” Harrow said.
Harry picked up the cuffs, slipped one over his left wrist, ratcheted it closed.
“All the way,” Harrow said. His index finger was on the trigger of the shotgun. Harry slid the teeth home, heard them lock. He closed the second cuff over his right wrist.
“That one too,” Harrow said. Harry pushed on the cuff until it locked.
The shotgun muzzle lowered.
“Have to admit,” Harrow said, “I did underestimate you once. My mistake. I figured after what happened, you'd take off, not even say good-bye. But you didn't, did you?”
“You're running out of road. Time to give it up.”
“Is it?”
Harry nodded.
“You could be right,” Harrow said. He lifted the shotgun. “Fucking thing's heavy.” He set the butt on the floor, tried to lean the barrel against the chair. It slid off and hit the floor, the muzzle pointing at Harry's feet.
“Oops,” Harrow said. “That would have been a fuckup, wouldn't it?”
He'd taken the automatic from his jacket pocket. Harry saw it was a Sig, nine-millimeter, eleven shots at least, suppressor screwed into the barrel.
“I'd planned to dust you as soon as you walked in the door,” Harrow said. “Just like the other guy. Not sure why I didn't. Maybe it's because we have something in common. What do you think?”
“There's a hospital not far from here. Even with the snow, I could get you there in a few minutes.”
Harrow nodded, blew smoke out.
“And that would be a very Christian thing for you to do. But I think we're just going to wait here, till this weather clears. Then I'll take that wagon you drove up in and be on my way.”
The house shook in the wind. From somewhere upstairs, they heard the whistle of a draft.
“Fucking cold in here,” Harrow said. He looked at the fireplace. “Why don't you get that thing going?”
Harry looked at him, got up. There was a box of wooden matches on the mantel. He got it open, awkwardly took one out, lit it. He pulled the screen away, leaned down, dropped the match in. The paper there caught, yellow flames rising around the kindling. The fire crackled, grew.
“Now sit back down there,” Harrow said.
Harry did as he was told. Yellow light spilled out onto the hearth as the logs caught.
“That's better,” Harrow said. He cocked his head, looked out the window onto the porch.
“Still coming down,” he said.
Harry slid his right foot out, put it over the shotgun shell that had come to rest under the table. Harrow looked back at him.
“Maybe a foot of snow before it's over,” he said. “I have the feeling I'm not going to make that train.”
“What train?”
Harrow pulled the canvas bag closer to him, opened it. He took out an envelope with tickets in it, tossed it into Harry's lap.
“The big getaway,” he said. “What a fucking joke.”
Harry looked at the tickets, saw the final destination.
“Vancouver,” he said.
“Yeah, one was for me, one for my brother. One for my son.”
Harry looked at him.
“But things don't always work out the way you want them to,” Harrow said. “Maybe I was just fooling myself all along.”
He dropped the cigarette on the floor, put it out with a boot. A log fell and cracked in the fireplace. Shadows flared.
“Your brother,” Harry said.
Harrow nodded.
“Didn't want to go. Can't blame him either, I guess. He's got a woman now, a little girl. I should have let them be. Instead, I fucked everything up for him. I always thought I was protecting him, you know? Our whole lives. But he was better off without me, always was.”
“Police will be after him, try to find out where you are.”
“And he won't know. It's all bullshit. Mitch had nothing to do with any of this, since I got out of Glades. Somebody should know that. Somebody should tell the cops that. I would, but they wouldn't believe me.”
“I'll tell them.”
“That's being a little optimistic now, isn't it?”
“Maybe.”
He could feel the warmth of the fire now, the heat on his legs. He dragged the shotgun shell closer to the couch.
Harrow looked at him.
“You think after all this shit I'm just going to let you go?” he said. “Walk away, leave you behind?”
“I don't know.”
Harrow aimed the Sig at him.
“If I was smart, I'd do you right now. Get it over with. But then I'd be stuck here the rest of the night with the both of you. Don't get the wrong impression, though. Whatever happens, you won't have any fucking say in it. If I'm telling you things, it's because I need to say them. But don't flatter yourself. You were in the wrong place, the wrong time. And that's just fate.”
Harry didn't respond.
“I do have one question for you, though,” Harrow said.
“What's that?”
“Was she worth it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know how it is. Man starts thinking with his dick, he doesn't want to hear any opposing viewpoints. But look where it got you.”
Another log cracked, fell.
“We've got a lot in common, you know?” Harrow said. “I had this whole thing figured out, every detail. Except for Nikki. I couldn't leave her alone. I let her get to me again. And I fucked everything up.”
He reached back into the bag, came out with a banded stack of money, tossed it on the coffee table. It slid to the edge, fell over.
“A hundred and twenty-five grand in this bag, give or take,” he said. “And the more I carry it around, the heavier it gets. So what does that mean, huh?”
Harry reached down, picked up the stack. He moved his foot, closed his right hand around the shotgun shell. He dropped the money on the table, brought his hands back into his lap.
Harrow was getting another cigarette out.
“She played us,” he said. “All of us. You know that? Me, Joey. You too.” He put a cigarette between his lips, flipped
the lighter open, got it lit. He coughed as he sucked in the smoke, put the lighter away.
“But you don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about, do you? What any of this is about. I'm rambling, I guess. Must be that shit I found in your medicine chest.” He nodded at the Percocet bottle. “They're finally starting to work, though.”
“It's not too late. We can end this before anyone else gets hurt.”
“You're wrong,” Harrow said. “It is too late.”
His eyelids dipped for a moment, opened wide. The room was warm now, close. He shook his head as if to clear it.
“Long day,” he said. “Almost over, though.”
“She loved you,” Harry said.
“What?”
“Nikki. She loved you, you know.”
“Once maybe.”
“She did. She told me.”
“She had a strange way of showing it last time we met.”
“Doesn't change what was, though, does it?”
“Enough bullshit. Why don't you put another log in that fire, then sit your ass back down? You're making me regret not popping you.”
Harry got up, went to the hearth. There was a metal bucket with split logs to the right of the fireplace, next to the rack that held poker and shovel. He pulled the screen away, used both hands to take out a log, could feel Harrow's eyes on his back. He leaned forward, felt the heat on his face, let the shell roll out of his hand into the embers, set the log atop it. He moved the screen back into place.
“Sit down,” Harrow said. Harry moved back to the couch. Flames started to creep up around the fresh log. The room got brighter.
Harrow finished the cigarette, put it out with his boot, looked into the fire. Harry saw his eyelids flutter, close, open wide. His grip tightened on the Sig.
“Just can't seem to get warm,” Harrow said. “I don't
know what it is.” He turned to Harry and then the fireplace exploded.
Harry raised his arms to cover his face, turned away as the screen blew out. Steel shot rang off stone, whistled away, ash and smoke filling the air. Harrow twisted, tumbled out of the chair.
Harry pushed himself off the couch, ran into the smoke, got his hands on the poker, dragged it from the rack, spun. He saw Harrow roll and come up fast onto his knees, the Sig extended. There was a blur from the barrel and Harry heard the bullet go past him as he swung. As if in slow motion, he saw the poker connect with Harrow's wrist, saw the Sig fly away, hit the wall, fall behind the couch.
They both looked at the wall for an instant and then Harrow went for the shotgun.
Harry swung the poker again, missed, overbalanced. Harrow rolled onto his back, kicked up with both boots. They took Harry in the stomach, knocked him backward. He came down hard on the coffee table and it broke under his weight. He kicked out, tried to swing the poker again. Harrow avoided the blow, came at him, the shotgun forgotten, and then Harry drove a boot heel up into his side.
It folded him. He gasped, bent, and Harry rolled clear of the broken table, dropped the poker, got his hands on the shotgun. He crab-crawled away, got the gun up in front of him, raised it with his right leg, his finger on the trigger. Harrow reached into the black bag, pulled out a revolver, aimed.
They fired at the same time. The shotgun roared off Harry's leg, leaped from his hand, the muzzle rising toward the ceiling. The recoil wrenched it from his grip and the stock hit him in the face as it flew by. He heard it land behind him, raised his head, tasting the blood in his mouth, his ears ringing. He looked into a dissipating cloud of cordite smoke.