I was glad I’d talked Sarah out of calling the cops. In my book, death—even a slow death—beats the hell out of life in prison, and there wasn’t any way to send in the cavalry without putting ourselves on the most-wanted list. At the very least, Sean’s old running buddies would want to know why Vincent saw fit to kidnap an unskilled worker and an aging nurse. The notion that we’d framed Sean would start to look more and more credible, the holes in our story—like the fact that we hadn’t exactly given ourselves airtight alibis—more and more glaring.
I was glad we hadn’t called the cops, but that didn’t mean my knees weren’t knocking as I turned a corner into the clearing that surrounded the house. It was just as I remembered: a log castle in the land of the alligator. Even back then, I should have known that I was headed for trouble.
I took out my phone and checked the time. Seven p.m.—an hour before we were supposed to turn up outside Lindsey’s house. There were lights on in the house, a single sedan parked out front. I figured Defoe had sent an underling to play escort. No way he’d have gone himself on the off chance we had called the cops, and Broch was too valuable to risk over a car ride.
The sedan was the same car I’d run from in that alley. That meant Defoe was inside and had Broch with him. It was always possible they’d brought backup, but Costello’s men generally work in pairs—just like the police.
Here goes nothing, I thought as I started across the clearing.
I watched for an eye at the window, a crack in the shades, but there wasn’t any movement that I could see. Why bother keeping watch? This location was supposed to be secret. No point in dragging it out. I walked right up onto the porch and rang the bell, like a trick-or-treater or a Jehovah’s Witness, then stepped back so that whoever answered would have a full view from the side window.
It was Defoe—first peeking from behind the curtain, then stepping through the open doorway with a handgun pointed at my dome.
“How…?”
“The grandfather clock,” I said. “That was sloppy on your part.”
“I suppose it was. But now here you are! As I said before, always so brave.”
“A fistful of Xanax helps.”
I held up the gym bag.
“I come bearing gifts,” I said.
“How thoughtful. Of course, I’ll need to give you a quick search before I allow you inside.”
I put the bag down, assumed the position. He squinted into the clearing, then holstered his gun in his pants and gave me a very thorough search.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Later, I plan to have loads of fun.”
“I’m sure you will: there’s a million dollars in that bag. And more where that came from.”
The second part was a lie, but I thought it might stop Defoe from shooting me in the head and taking the money. He picked the bag up by the straps, held it out in front of him.
“Feels about right,” he said, handing it back to me. “We’ll make sure once we’re inside. Meanwhile, where is your cook? Don’t tell me she declined our invitation.”
“She ran,” I said. “You scared her senseless. She’s probably checking into a hotel in Oaxaca right about now.”
“How unfortunate.”
“I was hoping a bag full of cash might make it a little more fortunate.”
“Let’s see where the evening takes us.”
I followed him inside, down a long entrance hallway, and into the dining room. Broch was there, leaning against the wall between twin portraits of Vincent and his long-dead father. Lindsey and Serena were there, sitting on opposite sides of the table. They each had one hand zip-tied to their chair and the other free. There were empty TV dinner containers sitting on place mats in front of them. I’d just missed feeding time.
The grandfather clock was there, too, ticking away as loud as ever. I gave it a mental wink: Thanks for the tip, pal.
“You guys all right?” I asked.
Serena nodded.
“Tell me Sarah’s all right,” Lindsey blurted out.
“She’s fine,” I said.
At least they looked healthy—for now. Defoe was probably waiting for a full house before he broke out the iron maiden.
“On the table,” he said, meaning the bag.
I hoisted it up, set it down. You don’t think of money as being heavy, but a million dollars has mass. I needed both hands.
“Now open it,” he said.
Speaking of having mass, Broch abandoned his tough-guy lean and came lumbering over. He smelled like garlic and cheap tobacco. I glanced at Serena, then Lindsey. They looked numb, curious, and terrified all at once.
“Prepare to be a whole lot richer, gentlemen,” I said. “Of course, how you split it is up to you. If you’re not the sharing types, there’s always pistols at dawn.”
“Quit stalling,” Broch said.
For a troglodyte, he was damn perceptive: I was stalling. According to Grandpa Time, it was almost seven twenty. My lone reinforcement should be arriving any minute. If we weren’t in sync, the evening would end very badly.
“Patience,” I said, stretching out over the table and tugging the zipper back. “You’ll have the rest of your lives to spend this.”
I spread the flaps apart, gave them a gander at their new fortune. Broch nearly spit out his gold caps. Defoe played it cool, but I caught a slight tremor
