He and Cage had brought most of it up from Central America packed in boxes of old books that were heavy. And the boxes stacked in with furniture, in one of them big, metal overseas containers. They’d had a regular mover in; that was when Sue left Greeley and he’d given up the apartment.
When they got back to the States and the stuff was delivered to where Cage was staying in the city, they’d made sure it was all there, then tossed the books in half a dozen Dumpsters. Sold the furniture. Cage said maybe some of them books was valuable, but how valuable could a bunch of old musty books be?
They’d waited a long time, years, for gold to hit eight hundred again, because that should nudge their prices up, too, but it never got that high. Inflation was up, though, and that was good. Then finally they’d lost patience and started making plans. Cage was inside at the time, he wrote that when he got out, they’d do it. If Greeley’d fly up, get his half wherever he had it, Cage’d take him to the best fence. Greeley never was much good at that part of it. He’d been good at making the heist, real good, and Cage owed him that, big-time.
Gold was what all them Latin American countries had been about, back in history, gold that brought them Spanish ships, had nothing to do with saving souls. Inca idols of solid gold near as big as a house, a whole garden made of life-size gold figures and animals, hard for a fellow to believe. Made what he and Cage brought back look like peanuts-but it was still worth plenty if they’d got full price. Fence, and his dealers, everyone took their damn cut.
Still, though, he’d have enough to set him up real nice, all he’d ever want. No more diving; he was tired of working for Panama. Buy him a nice little finca up in northern Panama, couple young Indian girls to do the cooking and warm his bed, a pretty nice retirement.
Sitting on the bed, he waited for over an hour, fidgeting, until he heard Lilly go up the stairs. When he looked out, the living room was dark. Standing in the hall he saw a faint light upstairs, from a room to his left. Returning to his room, he listened for some time more as she moved around above him getting ready for bed, listened to the water running in the upstairs bath. Didn’t like to think of that old turkey naked in the bath. Listened until the water gurgled out of the tub, and finally there was silence, sweet, unbroken silence. When he peered again up the stairway, all was dark above. He hoped she was a sound sleeper. Hoped to hell she didn’t come sneaking down and catch him. Because if Cage knew he’d searched the house, Cage’d kill him.
But by the time Cage found his stash gone, he, Greeley, would be where Cage wouldn’t ever find him. He sure wouldn’t find him through the Frisco fence. Greeley wouldn’t use him again, he had another contact, had lucked on to that one and had managed it all right; kept that guy under wraps, staked out and waiting. A short layover in Miami, sell the stuff and get his cash, and he was out of the States, where Cage’d never come looking.
24
W ilma watched Violet vanish behind the wall and listened to the soft hush of her footsteps on the bare, hidden stairs, footsteps with, it seemed to her, a stubborn finality. What a hard, cold young woman Violet was, despite her frail looks and uncertain ways. Wilma felt she had made no real connection with Violet, though certainly she’d tried.
Couldn’t Violet, with her deep fear of Eddie, relate to Wilma’s own fear and to the danger she faced? Wilma had seen no sympathy in her, no recognition of their mutual peril and vulnerability. Certain that she’d lost what might be her one chance for freedom, Wilma felt herself falling into a hopelessness that was not typical of her, that was not the way she looked at life. Cage could return at any moment, and the fear that he would kill her churned in Wilma’s stomach so hard that it brought bile to her throat. This was a kind of terror she had never known, nothing like the quick surge of fear that prodded one to action. That defensive fear sharpened a person, honed one’s perceptions and one’s responses. Instant, reactive fear was what she should have felt when Cage slipped up behind her undetected and shoved her in the car; her normal fear instinct should have triggered fast action, triggered a counterattack of violence, of the moves and blows in which she had been trained. Instead, she’d caved, had been too slow. And the helpless fear that washed over her now did no good at all.
Leaning backward into the drawer again, she resumed her frantic search for a knife. At one point, she had considered the stove that stood just beside her. It was gas, and she’d thought of lighting a burner, of trying to burn the ropes off. But that was a last resort, a move of terrible desperation. Third-degree burns hurt like hell, and could further incapacitate her.
There had to be another knife, no one could cook with only one. In order to search a drawer, she had to grasp its handle in her tied hands, and twist and hump the chair forward enough to pull the drawer to her; and the space was so small she couldn’t turn fully. Digging behind her, she sorted through unseen kitchen implements, a grater, a peeler, pushing them aside. Ladle and measuring spoons jumbled together. As she searched, she listened for sounds from above, and for the sound of the car returning. But suddenly-was that a blade beneath her fingers?
Yes! A paring knife. Small wooden handle, and not very sharp. Excitedly, she drew it out.
Holding it by the handle, the tip of the blade pointed toward her, she rested her bound wrists on the edge of the open drawer and, with that support, attempted awkwardly to slip the blade between her wrist and her bonds. It took her many tries. The knife kept slipping, she couldn’t get a grip that would allow her to twist it in the right direction. Twice she dropped it, but both times was lucky that it fell into the drawer-she daren’t drop it on the floor or she’d never be able to retrieve it. Working stubbornly, and cutting herself several times, she was able at last to slip the blade between wrist and rope in a way that gave her traction. The relief of that small accomplishment was amazing. She was sawing away at the rope, intent on gaining more pressure, when Violet spoke, making her jump.
She hadn’t heard the young woman come down, no smallest sound on the stairs this time. She twisted around to glance across the room at her.
Violet stood beside the woodstove watching her with a cold resolve that had not been evident earlier. Its meaning was indecipherable; clearly the girl had made up her mind. But to do what?
Had Violet decided to release her, had she found the courage to run? Or did she mean to escape alone, leaving Wilma, thinking that the returning men would be too preoccupied with their captive to come after her?
Wilma didn’t dare speak, the girl looked as unstable as quicksand. Looked as if, at one word, she could come apart. Then, who knew what she might do? Watching Violet, she sawed hard at the frayed strands and jerked, trying to break free-but swiftly Violet moved across the room, reached over Wilma, and snatched the knife away. Jerked it from her grip, bending Wilma’s wrist and thumb back with more strength than she’d thought the girl possessed. The pain was sickening. Had Violet learned that excruciating trick from Cage, or from Eddie? As Violet stood gripping the knife, Wilma remained still, her head bent, fingering the frayed rope. Waiting.
When Violet leaned over her again to examine the rope, Wilma grasped it and jerked-she felt it break. Her hands were free. She lunged, tackling Violet, the chair still tied to her. They went down in a heap, Wilma on top tangled in the chair. Lying across Violet, holding her down, she wrestled the knife from the girl. And with her knees hard in Violet’s belly, she managed to cut free her ankles, then to free herself from the chair.
Twisting around, forcing the chair down on top of Violet, she untangled herself as Violet flailed and fought. With the cut rope she jerked Violet’s hands behind her and tied her wrists, then pushed the chair away. Sitting on top of Violet, she pinned Violet’s kicking legs and used the other piece of rope to tie them.