The Deposit Slip (35 page)

Jessie whispered frantically to Cory, begging her to remain quiet. In the stillness, she pressed the prone girl’s shoulder, driving her across the bed to the floor in the narrow space between the bed and interior wall. She tugged Erin, who followed them. She felt the bed give beneath their weight as they slid across the mattress and then down on the far side, coming to rest in a crouch next to the wall.

Jessie trembled, clutching the iron in her hand; she felt the soft shaking of Cory beside her. The terror wrung her like a rag, but Jessie repeated to herself that she was going to fight.

The footsteps had faded after the sound of the lower steps, but now she thought she could hear shoes sliding on the carpet along the banister.

A door creaked open along the upstairs hallway; then another, closer. Now the only remaning door on the hall was to this room.

Before she heard it, she felt it: the presence of someone entering the room through the door to her left. A ragged breath scraped in the darkness, followed by the hack of a cough. The figure seemed to be moving around the far side of the bed.

The figure’s shadow was outlined by a light that suddenly glimmered through the bedroom windows to the front of the house. It was a man, Jessie knew through the prism of her fear. The figure glanced through the window toward the source of the light, then turned back to stare toward the interior of the bedroom.

In his hands he held something black and long. It was a shotgun.

A minute passed, frozen in time. Another. Then Jessie’s ears were shattered by Erin’s scream.

Jared stopped the car well short of the house, at a spot where the car lamps threw light across the first story of the house. He shifted into Park, threw open the door, and launched himself into the snow. He heard the passenger door open, knew the veteran would have problems with the icy ground, but couldn’t wait, racing ahead on sliding steps toward the kitchen entrance.

The kitchen was black, lit only by the headlights through the nearest window. Jared stopped himself, trying to slow his tumbling thoughts.

“Someone’s in the basement,”
she’d said. The basement door on his left was ajar. Jared knelt and ran his fingers on the linoleum floor, feeling melting puddles of snow.

His breath still ragged after the sliding run from the car, Jared stood back up, drawing deep gulps of air to bring it under control. After a moment, he stepped toward the living room, easing his footfalls on the hard linoleum.

In the living room, the car lights cast ghostly shadows through curtained windows. Jared scanned the length of the room. No one was visible, and there were no sounds.

The staircase ascended to his left. He’d only been there a few times—to use the bathroom at the head of the steps. Three other doors lined the carpeted landing to the left.

Jared crossed the living room to the staircase, touched the lowest stairs with his fingers, felt again the chill of cold water on each. He eased his foot onto the first step, pressed gently down, raised his other foot toward the next.

He was halfway up the staircase when the dark was split by a scream.

Jared pounded the remaining stairs three at a time, grabbing the banister and yanking himself onto the landing. The scream came from the darkness to the left. Thundering down the hall, Jared saw the door to the farthest room ajar, faint light tracing its outline.

He burst into a ghostly light of the room, wet shoes screeching on the hardwood floor.

He saw it all in an instant. The light was passing through the front windows. To Jared’s right, pressed against the wall, he could make out Jessie and Erin crouched almost to the floor behind a high double bed. Jessie’s arm was held high, slung across the whimpering figure of another girl between them—Cory. In Jessie’s hand, she clutched a metal iron over the sobbing girl’s head as though to ward off a blow.

A fourth figure stood slouching before the windows. He wore a camouflage-patterned hunting jacket, a stocking mask covering his face. At his waist, he held a double-barreled shotgun that now rose in Jared’s direction.

He expected the blast and covered his stomach with his hands to block it. But the gun did not explode.

The man before the windows pumped rapid breaths—whether from exertion or excitement, Jared could not know. Though the man’s back was to the faint window light, even in the near darkness Jared could see eyes opened wide with surprise.

The covered head swung back toward the figures of the women behind the bed. The shotgun followed, stopped, and Jared saw that it was pointing at Erin’s head.

There was a flash of sudden light. Jared threw himself across the bed, into the line of the shotgun’s aim. The weapon cracked as he felt the bed’s surface beneath him, and Jared thought, So this is my death.

He lay for a moment as the mattress settled under his weight; raised his fingers to search for the blood-gorged holes where he knew his life must be escaping.

Elbows and knees scrambled roughly across his body. Jared opened his eyes. Jessie was now standing on the other side of the bed, her hair wild in the glare of a brighter light than before. The iron was gone. She was clutching the shotgun, pointed toward the floor.

Cory, still cringing behind the bed, let her whimpers rise to deep, wracking sobs. Erin was gone.

Jared rolled toward the window, wondering why the room was inexplicably bright. In the shadows at floor level he saw the slumped figure of the man. A moan escaped his lips.

Jared crossed to the window, covering his eyes against the glare of light passing through it. Below, the CR-V car lamps were now on high beam. Even through the light and the pattern of whirling snow, he could make out Carlos below, squinting down the length of the .22 rifle, which rested across the top of the frame of the open driver’s door.

The figure on the floor was rolling, his moans growing louder. Jared turned back to him and felt along the man’s head, then his back, until he felt sticky moisture seeping through the jacket near his left shoulder. Then the room lights came on, blinding him.

Erin stepped back into the room just as the gray was fading from Jared’s vision and he could see again without pain. “Get something to press on the wound,” he said, louder than he intended, and watched as Erin left the room once more to comply.

Jared reached down and removed the ski mask.

Joe Creedy’s eyes were glassy with shock. The stale stench of alcohol rose from his lips as he tried to speak, but no sound came out except the rising moans.

The adrenaline of fear was fading in Jared, replaced by something akin to rage—but colder and more irresistible. He looked up at Jessie. She was still holding the shotgun, which was aimed at Creedy’s head. He saw her lips move and heard her say, “I’ll call the police. We need to wait for them.” Then Erin reappeared and pressed a bundle of washcloths against Creedy’s shoulder.

Jared sidestepped the body and headed toward the stairs, ignoring Jessie urgently asking him where he was going. Downstairs, he passed Carlos, limping across the kitchen floor, the .22 still in his hands. He didn’t respond to the veteran’s question: “What’s happening?” before stepping back out into the snow.

He crossed to his vehicle, slid into the driver’s seat, and roughly turned the vehicle around to head back down the driveway.

He knew where Marcus’s cabin was located. Marcus never let his help work far from his reach and control. That’s where he would be now.

By the time he reached the cabin, the wind had calmed and the snow had slowed momentarily. Jared recognized Marcus’s BMW parked in the driveway, several inches of white covering its windshield and hood. The house beyond was dark and silent.

Jared got out of the car cautiously. His anger was still burning strong, but it was no longer fresh, and he felt caution creeping in at the stillness of the scene. He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine thirty.

The front door was unlocked. He considered knocking, then realized how absurd that would be. He turned the knob and opened it.

Jared was unsure what he would do next. Confront Marcus? Hurt him? Arrest him? There was no plan. His rage had not relented, but all he felt with certainty was that he was going to end this tonight.

Inside, the house sat dark. Jared had only been there once, for a firm function, and could not recall the layout. Directly ahead, visible from a faint night-light in the adjacent kitchen, was a large dining room table. It appeared as though the dining room opened directly into a spacious living room space to his left. Jared turned to the wall, feeling for a light switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The voice came from the farthest reach of the living room, in a corner beyond a large window.

Jared felt his anger begin a slide toward fear. He strained to see through the darkness in the direction of the voice.

“Take two more steps into the room, then stop.”

The voice was not angry, but clear and commanding. Jared moved to comply.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jared could just make out two silhouettes beside a tall bookcase nestled in the corner of the room. One man was seated at a small corner desk, his face faintly visible from a low lamp aimed at the desk surface. Jared could see that it was Marcus.

The other figure was standing behind Marcus, deeper in the darkness. One hand was visible, retreating from the desk lamp, which Jared guessed he had just turned low. The other held a handgun. It was directed at Marcus’s head.

The distance from the door suddenly felt like a canyon.

They stood silently for a long interval. Jared knew he should be more frightened, but the last fragments of anger still lingered in his chest, and the mystery of the scene cushioned him with a vague sense of disorientation.

“Who are you?” he heard himself ask.

The figure didn’t respond at first, until Jared almost wondered whether he was imagining the man.

“Well, Mr. Neaton,” the voice began at last, so calm it seemed almost serene, “I’m a fountain of justice in this parched corner of the world up here.”

At these words, the last of Jared’s rage gave way to a wave of nausea. He felt his knees grow watery.

A mantel clock clacked, punctuating the silence. Now he could also hear Marcus’s labored breathing, the man’s nostrils widening with breath that came like a bellows.

“Now, this I hadn’t planned on,” the voice spoke again.

Jared didn’t know how to respond, fearing that anything he said would make the gun fire—or turn toward himself.

“This man wanted Erin Larson to die,” the gunman continued. “Did you know that? And if there was an opportunity, he asked that you be thrown in as well.”

“Did you put Joe Creedy up to the attack tonight?” Jared asked.

“No. That was someone else’s mission. But I watched it unfold. Tell me: was it successful?”

Jared wavered. “Yes,” he answered.

“Well, that does make events here tonight nicely . . . symmetrical.”

Jared’s eyes had adjusted more fully in the dark space. He saw that Marcus’s eyes were rheumy and wide, as though he were staring at a different place.

The gun slowly shifted, arcing from Marcus’s head until the barrel pointed at Jared’s chest.

“That’s not a good idea.”

It was Marcus’s voice this time, and though riddled with fear, it carried a trace of his courtroom command.

“What did you say?” the gunman asked.

“That’s not a good idea. Stick with your plan.”

“Are you giving me
advice
, Counselor?” the gunman mocked.

Marcus shook his head. When he spoke, his voice had gained a further measure of strength. “I’m just saying that your first plan made more sense. One death is a suicide; two deaths is an investigation. And,” Marcus continued, “you still need the disk of our conversation.”

The gun shifted away from Jared for an instant.

“I’ll find the disk,” the voice said.

“But will you find it before the police reach the same conclusion as Neaton and come here looking for me? You let Neaton go, and I’ll tell you where it is.”

“Are we negotiating, Counselor?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head slowly. “Everything I’ve got is on the table.”