Dirty Money

the church had anything to do with his plans. But then, a little farther on, where the road curved and dipped down to a bridge over a narrow stream, Nick said, “Stop here, I’ll get out and you drive on.”

The doctor stopped, beside the road just before the bridge, and Nick got out, then stooped to look back into the car and say, “We never met each other, Doctor. If you make no trouble for me, I’ll make no trouble for you.”

“I won’t make any trouble.”

Nick believed him; the doctor’s face looked as whipped as his own. “Thanks,” he said, and shut the car door, and the doctor’s Alero wobbled away over the bridge and out of sight.

Nick saw no other cars as he walked back to the church. Would it all be the same? He was counting on it. His idea, if it could even be called an idea, was to grab as much of the money as he could, steal a car from somewhere around here, then drive it strictly on back roads, keeping away from the roadblocks.

Canada was still the best hope he had, if he had any hope at all. He’d head north, up through the winding little roads in the mountains. He’d sleep in the car and only use the bad money in places where he would immediately be moving on, paying only for food and gas.

Somewhere up near the border he’d have to leave that car and walk, however far it was until he reached some town on the Canadian side. There, he could do a burglary or two to get some safe Canadian money, steal another car, and make his way to Toronto or Ottawa. There he could come to at least a temporary stop, and try to figure out the rest of his life from there. It wasn’t much of a plan, but what else did he have?

* * *

The church looked the same. When they’d first holed up in here, McWhitney had kicked open the locked side door so they could carry the boxes of money in, then they’d kicked it shut again so that it looked all right unless you really examined it. Had anything been done to change that? Not that Nick could see. He leaned on the door and it fell open in front of him.

The money was still there, up in the choir loft, untouched. Nick filled his pockets, then went downstairs and outside, this time not bothering to pull the door shut.

He was going to keep walking down the road, looking for a vehicle parked outside somebody’s house or a passing driver to carjack, when he glanced at the house across the road and decided it wouldn’t hurt to see what might be inside there that could be of use. He expected the place to be empty, but was quiet as a matter of habit, and when he walked into one of the upstairs bedrooms somebody was asleep in there, on the floor, covered with a rough- looking quilt.

A bum? Nick edged closer, and was astonished to see it was Parker.

What was Parker doing here? He had come for the money, no other reason.

So where was his car? Nick had been on both sides of the road and he hadn’t seen any car. Was it hidden somewhere? Where?

He hunkered against the wall, across the room from Parker, trying to decide what to do, whether he should go look for the car, or wake Parker up to ask him where it was, or just kill him and keep moving, when Parker came awake. Nick saw that Parker from the first instant was not surprised, not worried, not even to wake up and find somebody in the room with a gun in his hand.

We used to be partners, Nick thought, with a kind of dull disbelief. Could we be partners again? Could we get out of this mess together?

We’re not partners, he thought, as Parker looked at him with that lack of surprise and said, “So there you are.” I don’t have partners any more, Nick thought. I only have enemies now.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

Parker bullshitted him. He danced around without moving, without trying to get up from the floor, just saying things, dancing around. He doesn’t have a car. But why doesn’t he have a car? Somebody dropped him off, some woman dropped him off, some woman Nick doesn’t know dropped him off.

Bullshit! Where did this woman come from, all of a sudden? Why is Parker asleep here? Now angry, angry at Parker, at the marshal, at the world, Nick pounded the pistol butt on the floor and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to look at the money.”

“You wanted to take the money.”

No, Parker told him, no, too early for that. And more bullshit, more bullshit, while Nick tried to figure out what Parker was up to.

“You were out, you were free and clear, and you came back.” With sudden tense suspicion, with a quick shiver up the middle of his back, he said, “Is Nelson here?”

But Parker said no, he didn’t travel with McWhitney, and Nick could believe that. But what was he doing here? With sudden conviction, Nick said, “You’re waiting.”

“That’s right,” Parker said, and as though it didn’t matter he flipped that rough quilt off his legs.

Nick didn’t like that movement. He didn’t like any movement right now. Aiming the automatic at Parker’s face, on the brink of using it, only holding back because he needed to know what was going on here, who was Parker waiting for, where was there a car in this for Nick, he aimed the automatic at Parker’s face and yelled, “Don’t move!”

“I’m not moving, Nick. I got stiff, that’s all, sleeping here.”

“You could get stiffer,” Nick said, and as he said it he knew he couldn’t wait any more. He didn’t care about Parker any more, didn’t need the answers to any questions, didn’t have any questions left.

But Parker was still talking, moving his hands now, saying they could help each other, saying, “And I got water,” holding up a clear bottle in his left hand.

Water? What did Nick care about water? But he looked at the bottle.

“It’s just water. Check it out for yourself,” Parker offered, and slowly lobbed the bottle toward him underhand, in a high arc, toward the ceiling, toward his lap.

Nick’s eyes followed the movement of the bottle for just a second, for one second too long, and something like a great dark wing slashed across the room at him, Parker lost and hidden behind it, the quilt twisting toward him through the air. He fired, with nothing to aim at, and a hard hand chopped down on the gun wrist. The automatic skittered away across the wood floor and Parker’s other hand clawed for his throat. Nick screamed, kicked his heels to the floor to jolt himself away, flopped over to his right, found his elbows and knees beneath himself, and lunged out and away, up off the floor and through the closed window.

THREE

1

Parker reached for that fleeing body, but the hours spent asleep on the floor had left him too stiff, his movements less coordinated than he was used to. He missed Nick entirely, and watched him crash through the window, the force of his impact taking out the wooden crosspieces and mullions, shattering the glass, leaving a jagged hole with fresh wind blowing in.