I went in through her gate and rang the bell, but Ms. Sixkiller didn’t come to the door. Nothing but echoes inside when I rang again. I looked at my watch, and it was exactly nine o’clock. Oh, man, what if she forgot I was coming to see her and left early for her tribal council meeting? I went over to the garage and looked in through the side window. Her car wasn’t there.
Now what was I gonna do?
But maybe she hadn’t forgotten. Maybe she’d gone to the store or something and she’d be back any minute. I could sit on the porch and wait. Only I didn’t feel like sitting, so I went between the house and the garage and across the back lawn to her dock. It’s a long one, and about halfway out there’s a security gate, and beyond that, underneath, a board float and a shedlike thing open at both ends where she keeps her boat. She must really love that old boat; you’re always seeing her out in it, even in the winter. Once I saw her bouncing along when it was raining. Really raining, not, like, just a drizzle.
I walked out on the dock as far as the gate. When I pushed on the door set into the gate, not for any reason, just because it’s the kind of thing you do sometimes, it popped right open. Some security gate. I went on through, over to the edge of the dock where a ladder led down to the float. From there I could see into the shed. Ms. Sixkiller has one of those electronic hoists, and her boat was up out of the water on it, a tarpaulin roped across the stern half to keep out moisture.
It was sure a nice one, even if it was retro like her house. A boat’s something else I’d like to have someday, one of those sleek fiberglass jobs with gold glitter mixed into the paint. We owned a powerboat once, a fourteen-foot inboard, when the Bitch was still living with us. But we couldn’t afford to keep it after she ran off with that jerk from Kansas City. Daddy used to let me drive it sometimes. Driving a boat’s easier than driving a car. All you have to do is steer. Docking’s the hard part, especially when the water’s choppy like this morning—
What was that?
I was still standing by the ladder, looking now toward where the sheriff’s launch was making loops offshore near the Carey house. I cocked my head and listened. Lots of sounds — the boat engines, loons crying somewhere, a kind of creaking from the dock pilings or the hoist under the Chris-Craft’s weight — but not the one I thought I’d heard. I turned away and started back toward the gate. And then I heard it again. A funny kind of sound. I couldn’t quite identify it or tell where it was coming from.
For about a minute I stood quiet, listening. Then I went back to where the ladder was and climbed down to the float. I heard the sound again then, but I still couldn’t tell what was making it, and like a magnet or something, it drew me right in next to the boat. Pretty soon it came again, and this time it gave me goose bumps all over because I realized where it was coming from and what it was.
When I tugged at the heavy canvas, a flap of it lifted right up; it wasn’t really tied on the float side. And when I looked underneath, there was John Faith, lying in the bottom of the boat, on his back behind the driver’s seat. Clothes wet and all bloody on one side, his face twisted and his eyes shut tight, the sounds I’d heard — a kind of low moaning — coming from way down deep inside.
George Petrie
At first I didn’t know where I was. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar room full of shadows and dark shapes, and panic surged and drove me out of bed, halfway across rough carpeting. I stood, trembling and disoriented, my heart raging against my ribs. It wasn’t until sounds penetrated from outside — traffic noise, distant voices, the slam of a car door — that the fog cleared away and I remembered.
Motel. Best Western just off Highway 80, outside Truckee.
On the run with a small fortune in stolen bank funds.
Sweet Christ, I really did do it, didn’t I?
I groped back to the bed, sank down on the rock-hard mattress. The sheets were sweat-sodden; so were my pajamas. How long had I slept? Digital clock on the TV, red numerals shining blurrily in the gloom. I rubbed grit out of my eyes. Nine-twenty. I’d pulled in here at what... close to midnight? Bed an hour and a half later. Nearly eight hours—
The money!
I lunged to my feet again, fumbled the nightstand light on. Breath hissed out between my teeth: The garbage bags, all six, were on the far side of the bed, where I’d put them last night. This was a ground-floor unit and I’d backed the car in close, unloaded the bags two at a time. Nobody saw me, I made sure of that. Triple-locked the door, tested the lock on the window, and then pulled the drapes tightly closed. Nobody could have gotten in. But I went around the bed anyway, felt each bag, opened each to make certain the packets of bills were still there.
$209,840.
I’d counted it before I’d crawled into bed. Every packet and loose bill, not once, but twice. $209,840. More than I’d expected — a small fortune even in this inflated economy. So many things it can buy me. Women... better-looking women than Storm, younger and kinder and even better in bed. Not that it’s possible for anybody to be much better in bed than Storm—
No, the hell with her. I won’t think about her anymore. She’s part of the past, the Pomo prison. Free of her, too, now. The money is the future, and the future is all that matters.
In the bathroom I splashed cold water on my face. My pulse rate was back to normal, but I was still twitchy. I kept thinking about the money, only instead of soothing me, it produced a worm of anxiety. Six garbage bags full of cash. And every mile I drove, every time I stopped somewhere to eat or fill the gas tank or use a rest room, I ran the risk of something going wrong. Accident, car-jacking, traffic violation, other possibilities I couldn’t even imagine right now...
Cut it out, Petrie. Get a grip on yourself. Two more full days on the road, at least fifteen hundred miles between me and Pomo when the vault lock releases Monday morning, and I can’t do it wired the whole time, worrying about everything, feeling and probably looking like a fugitive. That’s how you make mistakes. Fatal mistakes. Tight control from now on. I’m finished otherwise. Remember that. Don’t forget it for a second.
I felt better after a long, hot shower. Clearheaded. One thing I could do about the money was to get it out of those garbage bags and into a couple of suitcases. Large, lightweight suitcases. Nobody at a motel would think twice about a man carrying luggage from and to his car. Just another anonymous business traveler. Buy the cases in Reno or Sparks, make the transfer out in the desert somewhere or maybe wait until I reached Ely tonight.
When I came out of the bathroom, the digital clock read five past ten. Overdue getting back on the highway. But hunger gnawed at me — I hadn’t eaten anything since noon yesterday, couldn’t have choked down food last night if my life depended on it. There was a Denny’s adjacent to the motel; I recalled seeing it when I drove in. Quick breakfast... no, better make it a large one, stoke up so I wouldn’t have to stop again for food this side of Ely. Okay. I zippered my overnight bag, unlocked the door, and started out.
A scowling gray-haired man was standing in front of my car, peering down at the license plate.
Surprise made me suck in my breath, loud enough for him to hear. His head came up. I jumped back inside, shut and locked the door, leaned hard against it. Sweat dribbled on my face and neck; for a few seconds I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I made myself breathe in shallow little pants, until the blood-pound in my ears diminished and the feeling of suffocation went away. Then I moved unsteadily to the window, eased aside a corner of the drape.