she hasn’t been yet. If you see her, try and drop her from the window. Even if you miss, Buccio’s guys will hear the shot and come running.”
“Okay.” Jane watched the younger man reach into his coat and pull out a pistol. He stood watching for a few minutes, while Jane’s mind ran frantically through everything she knew. Each time she thought of a way out of this, something stopped her. Maybe she could wait in this closet until daylight came. Maybe Delfina would have to pull his men out and leave. But the others were all moving methodically through the fields, destroying the cover, and when they were through, they would arrive at this house. They would be here in ten or fifteen minutes. They would probably realize that if she had not turned up outside, she had to be in the building. Even if they gave up, they might decide to burn the house to cover the murders.
Jane waited. Any small change would improve her chance of getting out. She watched impatiently. The young man sighed in boredom. He seemed tired of staring out the window at the empty, unchanging field. He let his eyes drift a bit. He looked at the two bodies on the bed. Jane detected no horror at the sight, and not even any visible distaste. He looked out the window again. The next time, he looked around the room. His eye happened to land on the top of the man’s dresser, where his wallet was visible.
The young man turned and looked in the direction of the door. No, Delfina wasn’t watching him. He put his gun away, walked around the bed, picked up the wallet, and examined it. Jane saw him pull the bills out of it and stuff them into his pocket. He glanced at the door again. Then he began to look in the dresser drawers. He seemed to find nothing that interested him, so he moved to the woman’s dresser. There was a jewelry box, but when he opened it, she heard him snort in contempt. He walked back to look out the window again.
A minute later, Jane saw his eyes begin to wander. He turned completely around. She tried to guess what it was, and she decided that it must be the woman’s purse. He had found the man’s wallet, but no purse. He turned away from the window, and she expected him to search the far side of the room, but he didn’t. He walked directly to Jane’s closet and opened the door.
Jane sprang toward him, the boning knife in her hand. She stabbed it into his torso above his belly and pushed upward, toward the rib cage, hoping to reach the heart. His right arm swung hard, and knocked her away from him. The knife was still stuck in the front of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to be aware of it. He reached across it into his coat to grasp his pistol. Jane threw herself on him, her arms around him to hug his arms to his body, her face within two inches of his. He reacted instinctively, charging forward to push her into the wall.
The impact pounded the wind from Jane’s chest, but she clung to him. She opened her eyes and saw the shocked, empty look on his face. His lunge had pushed the knife in farther. His knees gave way, and suddenly his weight was on Jane. She could not hold him up, and as he slumped toward her, she slid down the wall to the floor with his torso resting on hers. Jane brushed his right hand away from his coat, reached to the spot where it had been, and grasped the handgrip of the pistol.
She looked up and saw Frank Delfina in the doorway. He stepped forward into the dim room. “Great, Mikey! You got her!”
Jane drew in a breath and waited.
Delfina stepped up to the entangled pair, looked down, and said, “I wouldn’t waste too much energy wrestling, babe. He can bench-press twice what you weigh. Get up.”
Delfina’s grin slowly turned to a look of puzzlement. Mike Cirro didn’t look right. Then he saw Jane’s right hand appear, and there was a gun in it.
Jane freed herself from Cirro’s corpse and stood up. “Find the keys to the Suburban.”
He stood motionless, both his hands held out in a pleading gesture. “Hey, I just wanted to talk to you. There was no reason to kill anybody.”
“Get the keys.” Jane stepped along the wall away from Delfina. She watched while he knelt down and patted Cirro’s pockets. Then she saw him reach into the front pocket of Cirro’s pants. He seemed to have the keys. She could hear jingling as he extracted his hand.
Jane watched his other hand. When she saw it close around the handle of the knife, she straightened her arm so the gun was aimed at his chest. “Leave the knife.”
He stood up slowly, holding out the keys so she could reach for them.
Jane said, “Hold on to them. Head for the stairs.”
He walked toward the doorway. “You think I’ll make a good hostage or something?”
“We’re going to drive off the farm together,” said Jane. She reached to the top shelf of the closet without looking and found a baseball cap. “Then I’ll let you off on the road and be on my way.”
When Delfina got through the doorway, Jane prepared to see him dive to the side, trying to surprise her in the hallway. He seemed to sense that she was ready for it, so he simply walked into the hall and down the stairs. Jane kept him eight feet away from her, so she would have time if he tried to lunge for the gun.
When they reached the front door, Jane said, “All right. Drop the keys on the floor and step away.”
He dropped the keys, but moved off only about a yard.
“Farther.”
Delfina obeyed. Jane picked them up and said, “Okay. Out the door and down the steps. If anybody calls to you, answer him. No matter what happens, keep walking at a normal speed. Go right to the passenger door of the Suburban, open it, get inside, and close it.” When he began to move, Jane put the baseball cap on her head and pushed her hair up under it, then followed.
Delfina walked down the front steps ahead of her. She watched him walk straight across the yard, up the little driveway in front of the barn, and get into the car. Jane came around to the driver’s side watching through the rear windows, never taking her aim off the back of his head.
She swung the door open and saw the gun in his hand. He was smiling. She could see it was already aimed at her chest.
He said, “Mike left a spare under the seat. So here we are.”
Several thoughts competed for Jane’s attention. No matter what this man said, it would be a lie. He would torment her until he learned that Bernie’s money was gone, and then kill her. He had a gun aimed at her chest, and she had one aimed at his. If one of them fired, the other would too. Another thing she knew was that the human nervous system could do several things at one time, but it didn’t always do them with the same speed. One action always had priority. She wanted Delfina to talk. If she moved, it would take an extra fraction of a second for him to change priorities and shoot. He would never fire while he was in the middle of a word. “What do you want?”
“I need you to get my money back, and you need me to get off the farm. Let’s see if we can reach an agr —”
Jane fired four times, the bullets piercing his chest. She pulled the gun out of his lifeless hand and tossed it into the back seat, then slid into the driver’s seat and started the Suburban. It took an immense effort to overcome her revulsion and push him up to a sitting position. She reached across him, tugged the seat belt across his chest, and secured it.
She turned on the lights, backed the Suburban up, and then drove slowly along the road. Suddenly, she saw the three cars coming through the field toward the road, just ahead and on her right. As they came, the stalks fell before them. They had heard the shots. She thought of speeding up, trying to get past before they got too close, but she remembered the men with rifles coming along behind.
She drove even more slowly. She put her right hand on Delfina’s chest under his chin, holding his head still and keeping it from bouncing on the bumpy ride. Ahead of her, the three cars were pushing over the last few rows of corn before them. They were nearly at the edge of the road. The drivers saw the Suburban coming, so they paused there. Their headlights glared on the side of the Suburban, illuminating the face, head, and shoulders of Frank Delfina as his driver coasted by, taking him past the acres of flattened corn to the main highway.
37
At nine o’clock the following night, the rental car from Terre Haute pulled up on the street across from the Evansville police department and stopped. The old man at the wheel looked nervously at the wide front doors as a pair of uniformed policemen walked down the steps, then at the young girl beside him.
“After everything that’s happened, being this close to them still gives me the creeps.”
“You’re not a criminal anymore, Bernie. They’re here to protect people like us. Well, maybe not people like us, exactly, but the kind of people we’d be if we hadn’t done anything.”
