“Then, I’ll ask you again. What’s the money for?”
“All I know is he said there’d be more, another delivery, just like that one. Soon as he got back. That’s it and that’s all.”
“What about Andrew Flint?”
“I just know the name, and what Ronnie said. That I should run if the man ever showed up. I should take the money and go to a place we know. I should wait for Ronnie there.”
“Do you know where Ronnie went?”
“Back east somewhere. More than that, he wouldn’t say.”
Michael considered the bands of cash, the scrap of paper in his hand. He held it up for her to see. “Do these names mean anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
Michael began stacking the money back inside the box. He smelled ink and paper and Crystal’s fear. He put the top on the box, and saw that she had her hands out.
“Mister?”
He put one hand on the box, looked at the names.
They were names from the past, Hennessey’s crew from Iron House. Michael saw them like twenty-three years ago was yesterday. Big kids, and mean.
Predators.
Dogs.
Michael looked down at the names written in a dead man’s hand, and in looking he felt it all come tearing back, a current so dark and strong it hurt.
“Mister?” She must have seen the change in him, because her voice came smaller. “Mister…”
He looked again at Ronnie Saints’s list of names. The three boys were listed first, one above the other, and then a line beneath. Under the line were two other names.
“Who is Salina Slaughter?” He watched carefully, but saw no artifice as Crystal shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
He held up the paper so she could see it. “Ronnie didn’t say?”
“No, sir. I saw the list, same as you, but he was in no mind to talk about it. Ronnie’s particular like that. I’m not allowed to question.”
“But you see things.” Michael pushed. “You pay attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else did you notice?” Michael drew the box of money a little closer.
“Nothing.”
“Phone calls?” Her eyes stayed on the box. “People?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to any of the men on this list? George Nichols? Billy Walker? Chase Johnson?”
“Chase Johnson. They’re friends, still.”
“Where does Chase Johnson live?”
“Charlotte, I think.”
“What does he do in Charlotte?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve only met him once.”
“Has Ronnie called you since he left?”
She shook her head. “He says cell phones give you brain cancer.”
“Who is Salina Slaughter?” Michael lifted the box, put it in his lap. “Tell me that and you can keep the money.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, a kind of wild panic at the thought of losing the money. “I just want a baby and a paid-for house.”
“Salina…”
“I ain’t done nothing wrong…”
“… Slaughter.”
“She called here once, that’s all I know. Right before he left. That’s it and that’s all.”
Michael stood, box of money in his left hand. He believed her. “Do you know where I can find Andrew Flint?” She rolled into herself, nose red and wet, head shaking. Michael looked down for a moment, then placed the box of money on the coffee table. “Buy a house,” he said. “Have a baby if you want. But I wouldn’t count on Ronnie Saints.”
“What do you mean?”
He thought of Ronnie Saints, dead in the lake. His gaze lingered on the circle of puckered white scars. “You can do better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There is an awareness born of fear: Elena knew this, now. She saw every mark on the walls, felt the softness of worn denim, the stiff collar of a shirt that hung to her knees. She smelled her skin, and the staleness of the house. Her heart was more than a distant thump.
At the door, she heard voices and a television. Drawing back, she considered the room for the fifteenth time. She wanted a way out. A weapon. She checked the closet, but it was still empty. No hangers or clothing. Even the rod had been removed. In the room itself, there was only the bed and the chair. She checked the bed frame. It was heavy iron.
She spent ten minutes trying to turn a single bolt with her fingertips, then went back to her corner and sat. She felt heat on her skin when the sun dipped low. The waiting was killing her. The uncertainty.
Angry now, she got to her feet and crept back to the door. The television sounds were clearer: a news channel, something about New York and bloodshed and violence. Someone said, “Fuck this.” And then glass broke. Arguments. Shouts. Several men raised their voices, then a gunshot so loud that silence, when it came, was total and complete. Emotions were hot in the small, airless house. She felt it like electricity in the air. After a minute, a key scraped in the lock. The door opened and there was Jimmy. “Feeling better?”
He wore different clothes that smelled of gunpowder; carried her purse and a handgun. Behind him, men stood in disarray. Some looked angry, others frightened. In their midst, the television sat dead and still, a perfect hole in the center of its screen. Jimmy stood as if none of that mattered.
“This is bullshit, Jimmy.”
The words came from a man down the hall. Big, thick-boned. Angry. Jimmy’s arm came up, and although his eyes were still on Elena, the gun sights settled squarely on the man who had spoken.
“Will you hold this?” Jimmy handed her the pocketbook, then walked back down the hall, men parting. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
The barrel settled an inch from the man’s face. His heavy arms lifted a few inches from his waist. “I didn’t say anything, Jimmy.”
“Are you quite certain?”
The big man nodded. Jimmy lowered the gun, and turned his back in a show of obvious contempt. In a casual manner, he put one foot against the television and rocked it onto its side, the screen
