Joey coughed, spit blood, looked up at him, raised a hand as if to ward him off.

  “You surprised, Joey? You shouldn’t be.”

  Joey closed his eyes, opened them. His face was whitening.

  “It’s like you said,” Johnny said. “There’s always a price.” He lifted the Sig.

  “Stop!” Joey said, blood on his lips. “Just fucking stop!”

  Johnny waited.

  “Is this about Nikki?” Joey said. “That whore? Is that was this is about?”

  “No,” Johnny said and fired twice.

  He turned away, went to the window, saw the car still waiting outside. He hoisted the suitcase up, surprised at its heaviness, headed for the door.

  He heard the noise, the scrape of the chair, and turned to his left, saw Lindell there, on one knee, the silver gun in his right hand. Johnny tried to bring the Sig up but the angle was wrong. His arm hit the door frame. He lifted the suitcase, heard the crack of the gun, felt the hammer blow as the suitcase smashed into him.

  His legs tangled and he fell back into the hallway, Lindell still firing, the bullets chipping the doorway, whizzing off into the hall. Johnny snapped a shot, heard it strike a metal cabinet. Lindell aimed, fired and plaster flew from the wall over Johnny’s head. Johnny kicked the suitcase away, lifted the Sig. Lindell fired again, the shot high and to the right, and then the slide on the gun locked back empty. Johnny took careful aim and shot him in the face. Lindell toppled backward, didn’t move again.

  Johnny lay there for a moment, trying to catch his breath, feeling the pain in his side where the suitcase had hit him. He set the Sig down, felt for a broken rib, and his fingers touched wetness, warmth. Lindell’s first shot had passed through the suitcase and money, out the other side and into him.

  He rolled to his knees and the pain hit him then, taking his breath away. He stayed like that for a moment, then rose slowly, leaning against the wall for support.

  He righted the suitcase, saw the matching holes in each side. Then he went to Lindell, rolled him over, found the jeep keys in his jacket pocket. He picked up the Sig, let the hammer down, pushed the gun into his belt.

  He dragged the suitcase through the door, saw he’d left bloody handprints on the wall. Halfway down the stairs he let the suitcase go, watched it tumble to the bottom. He followed it down, wiped his palm dry on his jeans, pushed open the fire door.

  The Town Car still waited, exhaust billowing behind it. The headlights went on, pinning him there, the snow dancing in their beams. He raised his right hand in front of his face to shield his eyes.

  A door opened and he saw a figure in silhouette get out. The lights went off then and he could see the figure wore a black overcoat. He gestured at the open door, the lighted interior. Johnny picked up the suitcase, felt the pain, let the fire door shut behind him. His breath was coming in pants now, frosting in the air. He carried the suitcase to the car, looked in.

  Frankie Santelli sat in the far corner of the wide seat, gloved hands in his lap. He looked at Johnny, expressionless. Johnny hefted the suitcase, got it in the car, then slid in behind it, sat down. The suitcase rested against his legs. The man in the overcoat got in, shut the door behind him, killing the interior light, sat in a jump seat facing Johnny. He was in his early forties, slick black hair shot with gray, jaws working as he chewed gum. His right hand stayed in his overcoat pocket.

  “Well, here we are,” Santelli said.

  There was tinted glass separating them from the driver’s compartment, and Johnny could see two men up there. Overcoat watched him, chewed gum.

  “We should get this over with,” Santelli said. “The weather and all. Everybody wants to go home.”

  Johnny unsnapped the hasps on the suitcase, let it fall open. Some of the bundled bills fell onto the floor.

  “You all right, John?” Santelli said. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  Overcoat took his hand out of his pocket, reached up and turned the interior light on. He opened the case wider, money spilling out.

  “You count it?” he said.

  “No. But I watched it get counted. It’s all there.”

  “You take your share already?” Santelli said.

  Johnny shook his head.

  Overcoat picked up one of the banded stacks, looked through it. He set it on the floor, picked up another, looked at it, then held it up. Johnny could see the dime-size hole through the bills where the bullet had gone through.

  “Leave that one,” Johnny said. “I’ll take it.”

  Overcoat reached under the seat, came out with a black canvas bag. He opened it wide, set it on the floor, began to count money.

  Johnny could feel sweat on his forehead, his hands. He wiped his right palm on his jeans, flexed his fingers. Overcoat saw it, looked at him. After a moment he went back to counting.

  “Our friend?” Santelli said.

  “Gone.”

  “And the mulignan?”

  “Both. The Russian too.”

  Santelli nodded.

  “I have to say, John, we’re impressed. Anthony and I both. We didn’t know if you could pull this off or not. When you reached out to us … well, who would have thought?”

  “I’ll take the bag,” Johnny said. “You keep the suitcase.”

  Overcoat looked at him.

  “I’m traveling light,” Johnny said. “I need something I can carry easily.”

  Overcoat looked at Santelli, who nodded. Overcoat began to set bricks of money inside the bag.

  “I’ll count it when you’re finished,” Johnny said.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about, John,” Santelli said. “When Anthony makes a deal, it’s a deal. When people are straightforward, when they keep their part of the bargain, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his. His word is his bond.”

  “I know,” Johnny said. The pain was back, a low throbbing, and a sharper pain inside, deeper.

  The bag was starting to fill with money.

  “What happened, with Joey,” Santelli said. “It’s best for everyone. It allows us all to get back to business. It’s a better world without him, safer too. You did the right thing.”

  The bag was almost full when Overcoat looked up and said, “One twenty-five.”

  “Not a bad little nest egg,” Santelli said. “Good traveling money. You still planning on traveling, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you’ll need these.” He reached into a coat pocket, came out with a white envelope. He set it on the seat beside them, patted it.

  Johnny took the envelope. Inside was a blue passport. He opened it, saw a picture of himself from years ago, before Glades, and the name Richard Martins. Also in the envelope was a New Jersey driver’s license and a Social Security card, both in the same name.

  “You could pay an arm and a leg for those things,” Santelli said. “Have some scumbag do a crappy job, take your money and then turn you in to the Feds a month later when they start squeezing his balls about some Arabs coming in from Canada. But this … flawless work. And the guy who did it has no idea who you are, never saw you, except for that picture we gave him. Its clean, perfect. Like gold. It’s a gesture, from Tony.”

  “It was part of the deal.”

  “It was. And he’s kept it.”

  Johnny put everything back into the envelope, dropped it in the bag, zipped it up.

  “I guess that’s it,” Santelli said.

  “Thanks,” Johnny said and reached for the door. Overcoat got it first, pushed it open. Johnny stepped out into the snow, felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him, then settle. He breathed in the cold air, dragged the bag out. There was a quarter-size blood spot on the seat where he’d been. Santelli looked at it, then up at him. Overcoat was watching him too.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Santelli said. “You need a doctor?”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He took another step back from the car.

  Santelli and Overcoat looked at each other. Overcoat shrugged.

  Santelli turned back to him.

  “Look out for yourself then,” he said. “Buona fortuna.”

  Overcoat reached over, pulled the door shut. The Lincoln backed away, turned around in the lot. Johnny watched its taillights as it pulled back out onto the highway.

  He stood there in the snow for a moment, then got Lindell’s keys out. The first button he pushed set the jeep’s alarm off, the second silenced it. The third unlocked the driver’s-side door with a click.

  He climbed in, wincing with pain, set the bag on the passenger seat. He turned the engine on and the stereo started up. Background chatter, voices as if at a party, then Marvin Gaye singing, “Mother, mother …”

  He took his gloves from his jacket, put them on, turned the wipers on, adjusted the rearview. He took a last look up at the lighted office window as he pulled out of the lot and onto the highway.

  Back at the motel, he upended the bag from the twenty-four-hour drugstore, spilled its contents into the bathroom sink. He shrugged off his jacket, let it fall to the floor.

  The left side of his sweatshirt was sodden with blood. He raised his arms, peeled it off, feeling the pain. The wound was a few inches above his hip, the area around it puffed and discolored. The hole was smaller than a dime, edged in black, dried blood crusted around it and down his hip. The left thigh of his jeans was stained and stiff with blood.

  He soaked a washrag in warm water, dabbed gently at the wound. As he touched it, blood began to seep out again. He wiped at it, saw the dark blue bulge just under the skin an inch or two away. The slug.

  He turned the Mini Mag on, moved closer to the mirror, shone the beam into the wound. There were flecks of green inside, bits of money that had been driven into him by the bullet. Using the tweezers he’d bought, he picked at them, dragged them out piece by piece, sodden with blood. The pain brought nausea, dizziness. When he got all he could see, he dropped the bloody tweezers in the sink, opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol and half filled a plastic glass. Then he got the Buck knife out, opened it, swirled the blade in the alcohol.

  After a few moments, he went to work. He pressed the point of the blade against the skin above the slug, sliced carefully. As the skin parted, blood began to ooze out. He put the knife down, squeezed the new wound with both hands until the slug eased through the incision and clattered into the sink. It was small, a .32 at best. Anything larger would have punched through the ribs, taken the lung.

  He rinsed the blade again, scraped at the hole where the bullet had gone in, brought fresh bleeding. When he was done, he washed both wounds with alcohol and hot water, dried them with a towel and then slapped gauze pads over them. He got two banded stacks of money from the bag, set them against the gauze pads to hold them there, then wrapped everything with an ace bandage, cinched it tightly around his waist. Every breath hurt, but the dressings stayed in place.

  He washed four aspirin down with a palmful of water from the sink, then got a fresh work shirt and jeans from his duffel, pulled them on. He put the canvas bag with the money on the bed, unzipped it. Into it went the rest of the money from the duffle, the tickets, the Sig, the extra clips and Connor’s .38. He’d leave the rest of his clothes, his books. They were baggage from another life, another time.

  When he was done, he put the bag in the jeep, shoved his bloody clothes into a Dumpster. He climbed into the jeep, turned the wipers on. It was snowing heavier now, the ground covered, the wind picking up.

  Lindell’s cell phone was plugged into a charger on the console. He picked it up, punched buttons until he got a signal. He dialed Mitch’s number, waited. On the tenth ring it was answered.

  “Yeah?” Mitch’s voice.

  “You’re home,” Johnny said.

  “Jo—”

  “Don’t talk, just listen. Are there people with you now?”

  “Just Sharonda and Treya.”

  “Cops still outside?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “We’ll keep this quick. That thing I told you about. That trip. It’s happening tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “There’s a place for you too, if you want to come. But you have to walk away from there tomorrow, with whatever’s on your back. If they follow you, you’ll have to lose them.”

  “What about clothes?”

  “We’ll buy what we need.”

  “I don’t know … . Sharonda might not—”

  “Not Sharonda, not Treya. Just you.”

  Silence on the line.

  “We’ve been apart for a long time, Mitch. When I was in Jamesburg, then later in Glades. Things got fucked up. We’ve got another chance now. But I’m not coming back—ever.”

  “I didn’t want to tell them anything. I didn’t. But they were going to take Treya away.”

  “Forget about all that. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “But I’ve been thinking …”

  “About what?”

  Johnny unzipped the canvas bag, took the Amtrak tickets out. A man he’d known in Glades, a French-Canadian Hells Angel named Latourre, had told him Vancouver was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A place to start over. Wilderness, mountains. Cold. Clean.

  “It’s just that … I’ve never really had anything before, you know? Nothing worth holding on to, at least. I mean, I’m a fuckup from the word go, right? I’ve screwed up everything I’ve ever tried to do.”

  “You come with me, you start over. You can forget all that bullshit.”

  “What I mean is … it doesn’t feel right, leaving them here. It feels like running away.”

  Johnny watched the snow, listened to the wind.

  “You there?” Mitch said.

  “I’m here.” He dropped the tickets back in the bag.

  “I wish I could, John.”

  “We all walk our path, Mitchy.”

  “What?”

  “Our path. We all have one. It’s laid out in front of us from the day we’re born, whether we recognize it or not. And there isn’t a goddamn thing we can do about it.”

  More silence.

  “Take care of yourself, Mitch. And take care of that little girl.”

  “Where are you going? How am I going to reach you?”

  “Bye, Mitch,” he said and ended the call.

  Wind shook the jeep. He started the engine. Snow seemed to blow at the windshield from different angles. He turned the wipers on.

  Tomorrow I’ll be gone, he thought. Out of here for good, forever. The loose ends tied now, his destiny come round. And only one last stop to make.

  38

  At his first kick, the back door exploded inward, showered glass on the kitchen floor. Johnny went in, tracking snow. He raised the Sig, stepped into a hallway. Suitcases here, ready to go. In the living room, a thin blond man, staring at him, frozen.

  “Reggie!” the blond man said.

  Johnny looked at him, confused, heard thumping steps on the stairs behind him. He turned, saw a man built like a weight lifter come quickly down the stairs, wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, arms thick and veined. He came at him without hesitation and Johnny raised the Sig, shot him through the left shoulder.

  It spun him to the side, checked his momentum, but he kept coming. Johnny stepped back, lowered the Sig and fired again. Blood burst from the weight lifter’s right thigh and he went down onto his knees.

  Behind him, he heard the blond man pulling at the front door, working the locks. Johnny moved quickly, caught him by the back of his shirt, spun him around and kicked his legs out from under him. He went down hard and Johnny leaned over him, touched the warm silencer to his forehead. The blond man closed his eyes.

  Johnny sucked air, the pain in his side flaring. The weight lifter was moaning on the floor, holding his injured leg. Johnny twisted the silencer into the soft skin between the blond man’s eyes.

  “Where is she?” he said.

  The blond man’s eyes opened.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I’m him.”

  “She’s not here.”

  Johnny looked around the room, caught the collar of the man’s shirt, dragged him farther away from the door. He put the silencer behind the man’s right ear.

  “Where is she?” he said again. “I’m not going to ask much longer.”

  The blond man had gone rigid, eyes shut, tears leaking. The weight lifter was watching them, hands clasped over his bleeding leg.

  Johnny turned to him.

  “You know, don’t you?” he said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You do know,” Johnny said. He used the Sig to pin the blond man’s head to the floor.

  “Leave him alone.”

  “Tell me where she is,” he said. “And tell me now. Or I’m going to shoot your friend through the head.”

  “This is bullshit,” the weight lifter said, pain and anger in his voice. “This hasn’t got anything to do with us.”

  “Not the point,” Johnny said. “Counting to ten. One, two—”

  “Stop it.”

  “Three—”

  “She’s at a hotel. They took her there.”

  “Who?” Johnny said. “Who took her there?”

  “Those people. That man.”

  “What man?”

  The blond man was shaking now, as if with a seizure.

  “What man?” Johnny said.

  “Harry,” the weight lifter said. “His name’s Harry.”

  Johnny took the Sig away, straightened. The blond man didn’t move or open his eyes.

  “What hotel? Where?”

  “I don’t fucking know, man. They didn’t tell us.”

  “You talk to her since?”

  “Jack has.”

  “Today?”

  “She called. She didn’t say where she was. I’m telling you the truth. We don’t know.”

  Johnny eased the hammer down on the Sig, slipped the safety on. He reversed the gun in his grip, raised it and brought the butt down hard on the blond man’s right knee. He cried out, shuddered, but his eyes stayed closed.