proceeded noiselessly through the house with his gun out, and come upon her in an armchair reading a book. The cigarette sat unfinished in an ashtray and she picked up a sherry glass.
Nowhere near enough.
Not Get out of my house… Who do you think you are?… No, Ill never do it or Ill tell the police. He had promised her money and she had wanted it at once.
Wordlessly he counted out another five thousand dollars. The first five, crisp twenties and fifties, was neatly stacked in front of her.
I knew you werent a priest. I could tell.
Shed had a few drinks. They hadnt softened her, just increased her sourness. The money and her acceptance of it reminded her that she hated herself, but she also had a kind of sneering contempt for Wyatt and knew the cards were stacked in her favour. People like you, you make me sick.
Wyatt counted out the money a note at a time.
Think youre Bonnie and Clyde. Youre just scum. Give me one of those poor husband-killers any day.
Wyatt looked at her. Theres envy there somewhere, he thought. Shes stuck, thinks shes missed out. He took in the room: soft falls of curtain over the window, fluffy white hearthrug, a pink tinge in the wallpaper and plenty of cold, clean white paint on the skirting boards, doors and mantelpiece. Small porcelain milkmaids and shepherds were grouped on an antique sideboard. The lounge suite was new, stuffed cream leather couch and armchairs. She was listening to a syrupy FM station and reading a fat paperback called Siren Song.
Ten thousand, he said.
She sipped her sherry, staring at the second bundle of banknotes on her coffee table. Her fingernails were like talons, albino pink, and he saw her slip one between stiff, lacquered waves and scratch her scalp. The sound was audible across the room.
She looked up at him. Tell me again.
Wyatt told her.
She folded her arms. Nope. Not enough. Too much risk.
Wyatt bundled the money into one pile and put it in his pocket. He didnt look at her, didnt speak. He was in the doorway when she called out: Wait a minute.
He paused with his back to her.
Fifteen thousand, she said.
Wyatt came back into the room. He sat down, put the ten thousand dollars in front of her and said, Ten.
Make it twelve.
Wyatt had been prepared to go to fifteen. What mattered most was that she wanted the money badly enough whether it was five or fifteen. He waited a while, then counted out another two thousand dollars.
Theres your twelve.
Van Fleet drank greedily and refilled her glass. Wyatt could smell day-old perfume, cigarette smoke and sweet sherry, and hated it. He wanted to get out of there but this was just the beginning.
Van Fleet folded her arms again. Okay. Ill need three days to set it up. Well need a room, notices, the education officers permission. More than anything, the paperwork has to look right, as if I couldnt be blamed for thinking the offer looked genuine so I passed it on to the education officer.
I understand.
Call me tomorrow.
She reached across to pick up the money but he got to it first. It went into his pocket and a wail of loss and privation broke from Van Fleet. No!
Wyatt stood and looked down at her. He took the money out. Ill give you a thousand. The rest you get on the day itself.
He could see her working out the profit and loss. In case you decide to keep the thousand and report to the cops, remember two things: twelve thousand is better than one thousand, and he showed her his gun again I kill people.
Van Fleets mouth went down in a sulk and she snatched the thousand from him. Let yourself out.
Wyatt changed hotels twice in the following three days. He telephoned Van Fleet several times. When she finally said that she was ready, he shaved his head and paid a pharmacist to put a ring in each ear. He bought hundred-dollar jeans, a seventy-dollar shirt, and black lace-up boots stitched with yellow thread. He bought a baseball cap in a surf shop, a scuffed briefcase in a junk shop and a bundle of second-hand books with titles like Style Manual and Plotting Your Way to Success.
Van Fleet picked him up the next day at twelve-thirty. She did not comment on his appearance but held out her hand for the money. Instead, he counted out five thousand dollars and stuffed them into a post office jiffy-bag that had a stamp and her name and address on it. He knew that greed crawled in her and he was stringing it out. Theres a letterbox on the corner.
She stopped the car while he got out and dropped the jiffy-bag in the slot. He got back in the car.
You still owe me six thousand. I want it now.
Think, Wyatt said. Theyll check you out, theyll have to. Do you want them finding six thousand dollars in your bra or in the glovebox of your car? He had a second jiffy-bag, prepaid but unaddressed. He put the money inside it and stuffed it in his briefcase. Weve reached the point where it has to be trust on both sides, all the way. If you try to warn anyone at the prison, Ill tell the cops to check your mail tomorrow. If all goes well, Ill post this as soon as were out.
Think youre so smart.
That was all she said. They got to the prison at twelve-fifty-five, timed to coincide with a shift change at the gate. He pocketed Van Fleets keys and tucked his gun under the front seat of her car. She signed him in and he clipped a visitors pass to his shirt. They went through the metal detector, a door was buzzed open, and they were in.
Library, Van Fleet said.
Wyatt bounced on his toes as he walked. He wore the cap at a jaunty angle. At a couple of places in the corridor, posters had been pasted to the wall, advertising a workshop in the library, 1 pm sharp. He hoped that Anna had done her part.
The prison library was a broad, glass-walled room at the end of the corridor. The books were in grey metal stacks, their spines colour-coded according to subject area. Most were yellowfictionand most of these were fantasy novels. There were three large tables and a couple of computers. Posters and book jackets were taped to the glass between the shelves.
The room was occupied: Anna Reid and a brisk, efficient woman wearing an ID card bearing the words Education Officer. The woman said regretfully, I hope for your sake a few of the other inmates show up. It was such short notice, you see.
Wyatt gave her a careless grin. Im used to it.
Right, well, Ill leave you to it, shall I? This is my lunch break.
She bustled out, glancing amusedly at Wyatt, nodding at Van Fleet.
A moment later, three inmates slipped into the room. Annas friends. They were jittery, grinning, curious about Wyatt. Doesnt look your type, one of them said.
They moved quickly. A powerful woman nodded at him and stationed herself at the door. Her job was to dissuade anyone who thought the notices advertising the workshop were genuine. Wyatt could feel her scrutiny, her black eyes trying to penetrate him. His sex didnt interest her. His life lived in risk and walking in shadows did.
The other women took Van Fleet behind a protruding bookstack. He heard the snap and scrape of clothing against flesh. It took the women five minutes to get Anna into Van Fleets suit, blouse and stockings, shape a wig around her head, cake her face in make-up, fit the glasses to her face.
She came out looking like Van Fleet, carrying Van Fleets clipboard and satchel. Van Fleet was behind the bookstack, trussed and gagged.
Then the three women were gone. They touched Anna as they went and the lithe woman whod guarded the door said, Send us a postcard. They ignored Wyatt.
Wyatt followed Anna to the main gate. The time was ten minutes past one and the afternoon shift paid no attention as Anna scrawled in the book and Wyatt handed back his visitors pass. The gate clanged shut when they were halfway to Van Fleets car. Anna stumbled a little as though shed been shot and Wyatt heard a moan, low and
