72
They’d given him the night, but when morning came, they’d pulled out. Every last one of the six of them, armed and capable, hale and comforting, were gone, and now Lowell Gantcher was alone. He still saw the newspapers and magazines scattered around and the cups and plates used by his executive protection team. He didn’t blame them. They were professionals. When he’d hired them, he’d managed to talk his way around the wiring of the customary $10,000 retainer they required; after all, he seemed like such a big wheel. The minor scuffle in the casino gave him legitimate reason to act distracted and delay the payment even further. And when the two guys got busted up at his house, the company was apologetic and pissed off and agreed to stay on and beef up the team. But when another few days had elapsed, a manager type from the security company had called and given him the drop-dead to transfer funds, so Gantcher had written a check for the full amount. And last night the same manager had called again.
“That check was a Super Ball, sir,” he’d said. “I’m pulling my guys.”
“You can’t do that,” Gantcher pleaded.
“It’s done. First thing in morning. Pay your obligations, sir,” the manager had said, hanging up.
The last words rang in Lowell Gantcher’s ears. He had no more funds, but he was surely going to pay. He thought back to a time not two years ago when he used to spend and allocate money in hundred-thousand-dollar blocks. If his wife bought a couch for fifteen thousand dollars it wouldn’t even get on his radar. He had dreamed of, and saw close at hand, a time when he wouldn’t pay personal attention to anything less than big rocks-seven-figure transactions. But things had reversed course. The accounts had shrunk, and the liquidity vanished. There was nothing left now. Thousands would be a dream to have in hand at the moment. His wife was living on their last few hundred dollars cash up in lake country, though she didn’t know it. As for him, he was down to a few twenties in his wallet and a couple of traveler’s checks in the basement safe.
In the wake of the security team’s departure was a dread as pervasive as water rising inside a sinking submarine. Everything that constituted life had dwindled and was being squeezed out with that dread taking its place. Gantcher opened a rectangular metal case on the coffee table in front of him, revealing the sporting weapon broken down into two parts. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t been able to find a buyer for his Orvis over/under. He picked up the barrel piece and snapped it into the stock. He fished around in a shell bag and loaded both barrels, sorry that the gun was only a 28 gauge and the ammunition number six birdshot, good enough for fragmenting clay pigeons but woefully light to deal with the monster coming for him. Still, he thought, gripping it, raising it to his shoulder, it might do the trick.
He thought about what to do next. It was time to get in the car and run. The tank was full. The only question was: where? Nancy was up north with the kids. He’d give anything-not that there was anything left-to see them, but he couldn’t risk leading Dwyer in their direction. So he could go south, but the country would run out too quickly, and he hated the thought of being cut down in some Louisiana swamp. The west seemed to hold more possibility. If he could make California, he might be able to get lost in the endless overpopulated sprawl. Maybe he could catch on with a construction crew and get paid in cash. He’d be packed and out of the house in five minutes. It was time to go.
He felt a draft, a slight breeze that spread through the family room when the kitchen door was open. He didn’t hear anything over the rain, though …
73
Behr took the keys from Decker and drove hard north, the direction of both Gantcher’s office and home. They’d called 911 on their way out of the loft, but hadn’t even considered waiting for the response to come. There was no point.
“Scroll my contact list and dial Lowell Gantcher Work,” Behr instructed Decker, handing over his cell phone.
Decker did so, waiting with the phone to his ear.
“Lowell Gantcher,” he said. Then he covered the mouthpiece with a hand and told Behr, “She’s saying he’s not available.”
“It’s urgent, if he’s there, you have to put him on …” Decker continued. “You can’t? All right … Message? You tell him he better watch his ass.” Decker hung up. “She said she couldn’t
Most people would probably just take Meridian to get up to Crows Nest. It was a straight shot and the main thoroughfare, but because of that it could be slightly slow going. The car had muscle to burn and Behr flew along N. Michigan, which though it angled slightly away from the center of town was free of traffic. He cut right on West 56th, and only hoped he was making up some time.
“You might want to take her easy,” Decker said over rain that sounded like marbles bouncing off the roof, “she’s American so she runs good straight, but she’s not much on the corners.”
Behr’s response was to gun it. He kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and did his best to rope down his thoughts, which were jumping around inside his head. Trying the home address first was a gamble, but if they chose not to believe the secretary and went to the office first and he was at home, they’d be too late once again and it’d be over. Of course the reverse was true, too. Decker, for his part, was twisted around backward, reaching into the backseat and coming around forward with a multipocketed tactical vest, which he put on. Behr fought to empty his mind and drive. This was his last chance to get the bastards who’d nearly killed him and his family and who had destroyed Decker’s.
Behr took his phone back and dialed Breslau, who answered on the first ring.
“It’s Behr. Don’t know if you caught the nine-one-one, but Shug Saunders is down.”
Behr wheeled onto Sunset Lane, blazing past the homes of the rich and locally famous. Gantcher’s place was up ahead on the left.
“Fuck, I know it,” Breslau spat. “Where are you headed now?”
“To Lowell-”
Behr stopped talking because his cell phone connection had gone suddenly and completely dead.
“Shit,” Behr said. Glancing at the phone he saw the words “no service,” in the signal readout space. “You have reception?”
Decker checked his phone. “Empty triangle,” he said.
“The weather?”
“I don’t think so …”
“Signal jammer?”
“It’d mean they’re here,” Decker answered.
“Well, we can fall back, call it in, and wait,” Behr offered, pulling over.
“Uh-uh,” Decker said, reaching for the door handle. “Even if you want to, I get out here.”
Behr held the wheel, considering it for a moment, then turned to Decker. “There are two of them.”
“That we know of,” Decker amended.
“That we know of,” Behr agreed. “I’ll go in the front, you go in the back.”
“Front’s a bad approach,” Decker said, appraising the house with an expert eye.
“Choices?” Behr asked.
“None.”
“Hit the doors at the same time and meet inside.”
Decker nodded. “Wish I had my body rifle to cover you,” he said, opening his door gently and slipping out of the car. Behr did the same. “Gimme four minutes to work my way around.” The rain muffled their words.
“Four minutes. I have twenty-five after,” Behr said, crouched below the roofline of Decker’s car.
“Good,” Decker said.
He watched as Decker adopted a stealthy, stooped gait completely unlike his usual one. It resembled that of
