Crease angled his chin at Cruez, worried about the monolith moving in. 'What about him?'
'What about him? He works for us now.' She pocketed his gun. 'Did you expect it to be any different?' She held his jacket open and inspected the wound, the blood leaking steadily down his pants. She unwrapped a wool scarf and tied it around his waist, pulled it tight. 'Come on, we need to get you to a hospital. It's not that bad. You'll be all right.'
He stared at her and thought, This is my woman. This is the woman for me.
It was a good thing she didn't lie or he might be worried. She helped him to the Bentley. Cruez got in behind the wheel. He hadn't said a word this whole time and didn't need to. He was doing the only thing he could, being the right hand. Morena opened the back door and Crease looked in but couldn't climb inside.
He turned back and stared at Tucco's corpse on the ground, wondering where he was supposed to go from here. 'Don't,' Morena said. 'Don't run. Stay with me.'
'I'm not running.'
'You are, you're backing up. You're going to run. Don't go.'
'I'm not,' he told her. But he felt himself moving away from her and couldn't seem to stop.
'You don't really want to die, do you?' she asked. 'I don't know,' he said.
'Just come with me. I'll take care of you.'
'You wouldn't know how,' he said.
'Come home. Everything will be okay now.'
He was terrified she might be right. They'd walk away together now and he'd… what? Go back to being a cop, shine his badge up again, put his father's back on the mantel. Or take over the business, run it the way it should be run. There was a list of about five guys that, if he popped them all, most of the tri-state area would be his. He could do either. Marry Morena. Raise the kid as a punk who would know the street from minute one. Or maybe a boy in blue, like Stevie was, attending PBA events and waving in the parade. He wondered if he could even quote Miranda anymore. He was torn up the middle.
'Think about the baby,' Morena said. It was the most emotional she could sound, but she didn't sound emotional at all. 'Your child.'
He backed up some more and hit the hood of the 'Stang. He turned over and left a thin blood trail across the headlight. He got into the car. He pulled a rag from beneath the seat, carefully drew back the scarf, and jammed the rag into the wound. Tucco's blade had been so sharp that the incision was extremely clean and things still weren't hurting. There was hardly any bleeding now that he'd plugged the hole.
He turned the car around. Morena's eyes followed him in the rearview.
He gunned it for the highway and changed his mind, doubled back, wanted to see Hangtree one last time. He tore up Main Street and circled the city. Crease hit the outskirts of town ripping seventy down neighborhood streets. He was spinning his wheels like always.
As he was about to pass the Groell place he plunged down on the brake. The 'Stang skidded and sluiced to the side, the smoke billowing from the squealing tires. Old lady Virginny must be dead, the window that he'd come to think of as hers was empty.
But in the other one, the one that was Ellie's, he saw movement behind the shade. It was the same as when he'd left last time.
Maybe he was already dead and damned to repeat these same ludicrous motions forever. Her silhouette seemed to wag its wrist at him, waving goodbye. The house might be empty, shared by ghosts. He had always been one with the shadows. He had to be crazy.
He slapped it back into gear and headed for New York. Home.
Chapter Seventeen
Teddy taunted him. Crease didn't mind much. The voice kept him awake.
So he was nuts. There was no other way to explain why he didn't rush to a hospital instead of driving to New York. You had to live with some truths and die with others. The entire ride he considered his options, if he should happen to make it. He could tell the whole story to his superiors and get reassigned to some other dealer or runner. Spend another couple of years on the rim, climbing up the chain and getting in tight with somebody just like Tucco, eventually have another showdown. He could do that.
Teddy was telling him to just give in and go with the cash flow. Morena would help him make it work. They could just take over the business, improve holdings. Tucco had been lazy, hadn't expanded when he should have, allowed too many people to skim. It wouldn't be like that anymore.
When they sent in another narc, Crease should be able to sniff the guy out easily. And even if he couldn't, they wouldn't care about taking him down so long as he gave a few others up along the way.
He took I-91 south through Massachusetts and crossed over into Connecticut. Pockets of intense rain swept across the road like it was clearing half the world away. He wanted to go with it. The sun broke through. I-95 was loaded with family trailers and SUVs and elderly couples out for a New England Drive.
The dead were packed into the 'Stang with him. They whispered loudly and he tried his best to listen, to their advice or confessions, but their chatter drowned each other out. Mary was telling Teddy to shut up. There still wasn't any pain. The wound had stopped bleeding and Morena's scarf made a decent bandage.
Morena had his gun and he'd left his own butterfly blade stuck in Tucco's sweater, but he still had the Bowie, in case he needed it. He didn't know why it comforted him. The dead razzed him about it. Teddy said he was sexually hung up. Mary Burke tried to strangle the bear but she didn't have any luck. Teddy kept on talking.
Crease hit New York and swung it out across the Throgs Neck onto Long Island just as the sun began to set.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to his own house. He didn't fully understand why he was back now. Maybe to fix the screen door. Maybe to ask forgiveness from Stevie.
It was possible. He thought of lying side by side with Joan in their bed and a part of him wanted to let loose with a groan of relief and another part knew it could never work. Her bringing him breakfast in bed. Her calling out to him in the bathroom saying he needed to remember to floss. Her asking all the time, What are you thinking?
The tires squealed as he took the exit too fast, muscling through traffic on the service road until he finally turned into the neighborhood. He let the 'Stang prowl, low-slung and growling as it paced up and down the blocks. Teddy told him to get ready for a surprise.
There was a Taurus just pulling away from the curb in front of the house. Crease caught a flash of a mustached face and shiny moussed hair before the guy slid past and was gone around the corner.
Crease pulled into the driveway and got out. His legs were shaky and a wave of nausea rolled over him, but it was over in a moment. He buttoned his jacket. He got to the door and wasn't sure what to do. He should probably knock, but this was his house. The house of the cop he was, that he used to be. His father told him to walk in. Crease walked in.
Joan was in the living room, bent over the coffee table clearing away an empty bottle of beer, a half-finished screwdriver, and a bowl of chips and salsa. He checked his watch. Seven o'clock. An after work drink with the guy.
Well, he thought. Well.
He smelled fresh-baked pie. From a back room-Stevie's room-came the throb of music. He started down the hall and stopped. He still didn't know what the hell he might say to his son.
Joan stepped over and said, 'You don't look well. Your face, you've been fighting. Are you all right?'
'Yeah.'
'Do you need something?'
'I don't know.'
'Why are you here?'
He never expected her to ask why. All this time, he'd figured she'd just take him back, feed him meals, swab his wounds, talk his ear off until he hated her. She said, 'Crease? Talk to me. What's happened? What's wrong?' She noticed the pants, where his blood had darkened them. 'What's all over you?'
He stared into her eyes and he didn't hate her at all. It was a revelation of sorts.
