Dirty Money

Redial. “Nelson?”

“What’s happening?”

“That’s me behind you now. See me?”

“Oh, yeah, the black waterbug.”

“Thank you. Can you find that church from here?” Because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to.

“Sure.”

“Then I’ll stay back here,” she said, “keep an eye out, see are there any more friends of yours coming along.”

* * *

She did recognize the road the church was on, when McWhitney turned into it, and hung back even farther than before. There had still been no roadblocks, though she had seen the occasional police car, moving as though with a purpose, not just idly on patrol.

What had changed in the world? She’d considered talking it over with McWhitney and decided it was better not. If everything was okay at the church, fine. If it turned out there was some sort of trouble there, let McWhitney walk into it, at which point Sandra would just drive on by, nothing to do with that van, and head for Long Island.

There it was, church on the right, white house on the left. McWhitney turned in at the house, because that’s where Parker would be, and Sandra lagged back so far that McWhitney was already out of the van, looking impatient, before she pulled in beside him. She opened her door, McWhitney said, “You wanna take a lotta time here?” and a gunshot sounded from the house.

10

It had been the worst week in Nick Dalesia’s life, but it never quite went entirely all to hell. Every time things looked hopeless there’d be one more little ray of possibility, just enough to get him moving again. He was beginning to think that hopelessness was the better option. More restful, anyway.

Public transportation had seemed like the best way to get clear of the search area right after the robbery. Who knew that all he had to do to get himself scooped up like a marlin in a net was buy a sandwich to eat on the bus to St. Louis, paying for it with a twenty from the bank?

He was certain he was done for then, with all those lawmen’s hands on his elbows, and he spent the first night in the solitary holding cell at some state police building in western Massachusetts trying to figure out what he could trade for a better deal.

The money certainly. McWhitney: he could point a finger right directly at that bar of his. And Parker, he could give them leads on him, too. And the story of the killing of Harbin for wearing the federal wire, and the names of the other people present at that meeting. There was a lot he could give them, when he added it all up. He was still going to do serious time, and he knew it, but he’d be a little more cushioned than if he’d walked in empty- handed.

But then, early next morning, they didn’t question him at all, so he didn’t get to tell them which top lawyer they should call, who happened to be a guy Nick didn’t know but had read about in the newspapers, and who would be perfect for Nick’s defense, and who would be bound to take the job because this was a high-profile case and that was a lawyer who liked high-profile cases.

But then none of that happened, and then, early in the morning, he was rousted out and put into a small office with a cup of coffee and a donut. It was the US marshals who had their hands on him, and they didn’t care to question him about anything, they were just there to conduct him to someplace else.

One marshal in the room, an automatic sidearm in a holstered belt strapped over his coat, his partner gone off to see about transportation. The coffee was too hot to drink, so Nick threw it in the marshal’s face, grabbed the automatic, whammed the guy across the forehead with it, and headed for the door.

Locked. The marshal must have a key. Nick turned back and the guy was conscious, coming up to a sprawled seated position, groping in a dazed way inside his coat, coming out with something.

The son of a bitch had another gun! Nick lunged across the space between them, shoved the automatic barrel into the guy’s chest to muffle the sound, and shot him once.

All the guy had needed to do was lie there till Nick was out of the room, then yell like an opera singer, but no. Nick found the keys, and got moving.

Getting through and out of that state police building had been very tough. It was a maze, and the alarm was already out. He eventually went out a window to a fire escape and down to where he could jump onto the roof of a garage, and then get to the ground and gone.

He kept the automatic. He’d paid for it, he’d paid a lot, and he was gonna keep it.

He carjacked an early-morning commuter drinking his cardboard container of coffee at a red light, but he couldn’t keep that vehicle long; just enough time to get to some other town. And while he drove, he tried to think where to go next.

Forget transportation, public or otherwise. Any traveling he did would get him picked up right away. What he had to do was go to ground and stay there, maybe a week, maybe even longer.

But where? Who did he know in this part of the world? Where would he find a safe place to hunker down?

He was just about to abandon his carjacked wheels when he remembered Dr. Madchen. Not a criminal, not somebody the police would have any reason to look at. But Nick did have a handle on his back, because the doctor had some kind of connection with the local guy in the setup of the robbery, and the doctor would provide him an alibi.

When, just before the robbery, it had looked as though the doctor was calling attention to himself, being coy, being stupid, Nick and Parker had gone to his home to have a word with him. That was all it took, and in any case the robbery went wrong so quickly there was no alibi in the world that would help the local guy and so, after all, the doctor did nothing. Which meant he was clean; but if Nick asked him to help, he would help.

* * *

The week at the doctor’s house was grueling. Nick had a terrific sense of urgency, a need to take action, but there was never anything to do. All week the television news told him the heat was still on, and he knew he was the reason why. If it was just the bank’s money, they’d ease off after a while, but he’d killed one of their own, and they weren’t about to let up.

He kept trying to make plans, come to decisions, but there was simply not a single move he could make. If he left Dr. Madchen’s house, how long would it take them to catch up with him? No time at all. But how could he stay here, like this, as though his feet were nailed to the floor?

He had never thought before that he might some day go crazy, but now he did. The jangling electric need to do something, do something, when there was nothing to be done; there was nothing worse.

He thought sometimes he’d kill the doctor, take his car and whatever valuables he had in the house, and head north. But then he’d remember the roadblocks, and he knew it couldn’t happen. He didn’t have safe ID. They had his picture. What was he going to do?

By Friday evening, when the doctor told him the maid would be coming back tomorrow and Nick couldn’t stay at the house any longer, Nick was ready to go, it hardly mattered where. He’d been more beaten down by the week of inaction than if he’d spent a month in a war zone. When the doctor gave him the ultimatum— too timid for an ultimatum, but that’s still what it was— he actually welcomed it, as a change, any change from being in this paralysis, and he knew immediately what he was going to do.

“Tomorrow,” he told the doctor, “when you go get this Estrella, you’re gonna drive me somewhere,” and the next day he had the doctor drive him past the church, but without stopping or pointing it out or making it seem as though