“She didn’t make any, either. You told me how you got her to sign shit she wasn’t sure what it was? Got to be records of that, right? You move money around, something she has to sign for, I can’t believe they just throw the paperwork away when the money gets moved back. I’m no stockbroker, but they must be pretty fussy about their bookkeeping. I mean, it’s money, right? No other reason for a stockbroker to be in business.”
Fuck. Fuck. Marty told anyone about that and it was over for Tom. He’d be lucky if his old man could get him a job delivering uniforms. If he didn’t go to jail. He opened his mouth to talk. Marty beat him to it.
“Wait. Don’t say it. How do you know I won’t tell anyway? Right? That’s what you’re thinking. Well, think again. You already have me dead to rights for solicitation of murder. That’s a capital offense. If we quit dicking around and go through with it, both of us have enough on the other guy that neither one can afford to talk.” Marty cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. Showed the palms of his hands like he’d just said something so self-explanatory a retard would understand.
Tom was drunk, not retarded. He understood perfectly that he was well and truly fucked. Didn’t matter anymore whether he killed her or not. Don’t kill her and Marty would ruin him, maybe even send him to jail. Much as Tom disliked getting dirty, he liked the idea of taking one up the ass even less. Kill this woman he’d never met, never ever seen, who’d never done him any harm, and he knew Marty would hold up his end of the deal. Just watching him, the way he acted when he talked about it, Tom knew Marty wanted to do Marian. Hell, he was looking forward to it. Then Tom would be out from under forever.
Maybe he should pretend she was Marian.
CHAPTER 2
Tom took twenty minutes to decide where to park the car. Right in front of the Cropcho house was too obvious. Up the street either direction meant leaving it where someone might notice it in front of his house. Nothing but trees around the corner where Argonne made the bend to go down the hill, but then he’d have to walk. No telling who’d see him, and the car could get clipped by someone taking the blind turn too fast. He settled for across the street, more or less between two houses so each could think the car was visiting the other. Made him feel good, thinking of that. Like he knew what he was doing.
Last week of September, steam from his breath reflected the streetlights. Made him feel practically luminescent, like people watching television in their homes would run to the window to see what the hell was glowing out there? His footfalls loud as someone striking an oil drum with a ball peen hammer. How could anyone not see or hear him?
Relax. Take a breath. He had the key and knew the security code. Might not even need the code; Marty said Carol hardly ever turned on the alarm. She’d be in bed watching 20/20 or a doctor show or some queers designing clothes or cooking. Even if the alarm did go off, she’d assume Marty came home early and wouldn’t get up. Bedroom to the right at the top of the stairs. Walk up, surprise her—she might even be asleep, that would be nice—put a pillow over her face and press. Take a few things to make it look good, break a window on the way out. Easy.
He paused on the front porch to steady his breathing, try to get a handle on his heart rate. Looked for signs of trouble, not that he’d recognize any. Most houses had a tree or two in the front yard; at least some shrubs. Leaves already falling, more every time the breeze picked up. Made rustling sounds so he couldn’t hear if anyone was coming. Moving shadows in odd patterns, someone could be in any of them. A kid sneaking in late. Sneaking out. Someone walking a dog. Too exposed out here. Time to get inside.
He probably should have skipped that third drink, the double, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of what he had to do with just two in him. The last one got him feeling sorry for himself, how that bitch Marian was ruining his life and what he had to do tonight would be the first step toward setting things right. Not equating it to killing Carol Cropcho, he kept it an abstract concept, like all those discussions at Tease. As much booze as he had in him, it was more or less an abstract concept, though he felt dead sober now. He adjusted the balaclava, tucked the long sleeve tee into his gloves. The breeze died and took all sound with it except the porch creaking as he walked to the door. Put the key in the lock, rested his hand there and closed his eyes. Leave now and no one would ever know. No going back once the door was open. He thought of what he’d tell Marty, what it would be like to face him, try to explain why Carol was alive. Then he turned the key and pushed.
The beeping of the alarm sounded like an air raid siren. He reached for the panel on the wall to his left. Fat fingered the code twice, got it right the third time. Stared at the wall until his heart worked its way out of his throat. Stepped across the vestibule to the stairs. Looked up and saw Carol Cropcho standing at the top looking down at him.
A powder blue nightshirt hung below her knees. Auburn hair to her shoulders in the twenty-first century version of a shag, rumpled from the bed. Her breasts filled the nightshirt as she breathed, nipples visible though the material in the cool house. Neither moved for three seconds that lasted a week. Gawked at each other like two cartoon characters who’d walked off a cliff, waiting to fall. For a nanosecond Tom’s mind considered stepping back out the door and pretending it never happened.
Carol turned and ran into the bedroom. Three words ran through Tom’s mind: Nine. One. One.
He took the stairs two at a time, saw her in the bedroom to the right crawling across the bed to get at the phone. Dove onto the bed, wrapped his arms around her as his momentum pushed them off the other side. The phone glanced off his head. She screamed and rolled away when they landed unevenly on the floor. Reached for the phone and he swatted it under the bed. Carol screamed again.
Carol got to her feet and backed to the wall nearest the bathroom. Hands hooked near her face, eyes locked on Tom. Screaming, not hysterical. Screaming with a purpose. For someone to hear. To get help. Tom thought of how quiet the neighborhood was. How close the other houses were.
Someone would hear.
He stepped up, put his hands on her throat to stop her. Carol scratched for his face and missed, snagged his collar. Twisted her head away. He got one hand on her neck, felt the cartilage under his thumb as he pulled her back toward the bedroom. Her nails raked across his eyes and he let go to swat them away.
She stepped aside and ran for the bathroom. He grabbed for her, snared an ankle to trip her onto the tile floor. Carol rolled onto her back as he crawled on top of her. Used her heels to kick his shoulders, then his stomach. Not a small woman, in good shape. The kicks hurt. He fell off her and backed away on his knees to catch his breath.
She made too much noise and he moved his head aside in time for her to miss with the scissors. She tried to bounce off the bed and face him, but he lowered a shoulder into her and drove her back. Took the scissors and threw them away without thinking they’d work as a weapon for him, too. Carol slapped his face hard when he shifted position to take her arms. He caught her wrist before the second slap and realized how strong she was. A knee missed his groin, connected higher, knocked some wind out of him. He raised up to catch his breath and she scratched his face hard enough to draw blood. He tried to pin her arms and she drew up her knees to beat him to the leverage, kicked out hard. He lost the grip and she went after his face again. Tears blinded him when a nail caught a corner of his left eye and it occurred to him he could lose this fight he never expected to have. Nervousness passed through fear into terror.