Текст книги "Surviving Ice "
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
I reach for the newspaper, unfolding it to scan the front page: a double homicide at a dive tattoo shop in Mission District called Black Rabbit. The inset shows two faces—one, a Caucasian ex-Marine named Dylan Royce, whom you could easily identify on the street as such with his bulky size and brush cut; the other, a Willie Nelson wannabe named Ned nearing his sixties, who doesn’t look like he’d be capable of serious risk to anyone. Then again, I’ve watched hundred-pound women produce bombs from beneath their burkas as they charge a U.S. Humvee, ready to blow everyone up. I don’t underestimate anyone anymore.
But this Royce guy . . . “It says he had a Medal of Honor?”
“Yup. An outstanding soldier, which is why we hired him. He went downhill, though. It started with Vicodin. He turned into a real troublemaker after that.” Bentley shakes his head.
What a waste. “And this Ned guy. Why not just pay him off?” While I don’t ever question Bentley, I’m curious about this. Blackmail is shitty, but it’s not an automatic death sentence. At least, not in my book.
“For the same reason we don’t negotiate with terrorists, son.” Bentley’s tone is sharper. He’s always supported a strong stance on that. “Guys like that, who jump on the chance to make money off of horrible things they’re not supposed to know about anyways—they can’t be trusted, even after you pay them off. He’d probably pocket the money and then turn around and bury me by sending a copy of the video in. Or he’d come back for more. The guy had all kinds of unsavory connections. We can’t risk that shit. I’m not having my entire life brought down by some fucking tattoo artist looking to cash in.” He sighs. “So now you know why you’re here. I need you to find that recording.”
“I would definitely have handled this differently.” Namely, I would have had the video in hand before I pulled the trigger. But I also wouldn’t have pulled the trigger without Bentley’s say-so. “Who are these guys you sent in?”
“They’re two guys who worked closely with Royce in Afghanistan. I didn’t want to get anyone else outside this issue involved, and I figured they have a vested interest. One of them, though, is a bit of a loose cannon. Effective as hell at his job overseas, but . . .” He shakes his head, his lips pursed with regret. “I should have waited for you.”
I’m surprised he made that kind of mistake. Bentley’s the kind of guy who has three defense plans spinning before a problem has a chance to rear its ugly head. It’s his job to always have control of whatever situation he finds himself in. It’s how he’s made his fortune. It’s why the CIA taps his shoulder when it needs a problem solved “under the radar.”
He heaves a sigh. “If this video gets into the hands of the media, they’ll blow apart what we’re doing over there. It will cause irreparable damage to Alliance as a whole. And we’ve made so much good progress. So I think you can see why I need you here. It’s delicate. And it needs to be handled swiftly.”
I nod. Everyone talks, eventually. Everyone except me.
So Bentley needs me to get answers out of a corpse, it would seem. “What exactly am I looking for? A jump drive? A microchip?”
Bentley pops open a cigar box on his desk and pulls out two Bolivars, rolling them between his palms. “VHS tape. This shop owner used an archaic system for his surveillance.”
A fucking dinosaur in the world of recording mediums. “How many copies are there?”
“Just the one now, I believe. We found the video file of the recording on the shop owner Ned Marshall’s phone. Nothing came up on Royce’s phone. I’m guessing he had no clue this was happening.”
One day, I’d love to sit back and watch Bentley’s computer whizzes at work, digging up all this data, seeing what they can find and how fast. But that’s all interesting-to-know information, and I prefer to keep curiosity at bay and work on a need-to-know level. “What’s the official story?” Obviously the cops are going to be crawling all over a double homicide.
“Marshall has been linked to local motorcycle clubs for years, doing all their ink. SFPD assumes it’s either a random robbery or tied to one of this guy’s associations, so they’re sniffing over there. Royce will likely be written off as unfortunate collateral damage.”
“That’s good.” Having to watch my shadow for police always complicates things. “Has anyone searched their houses yet?”
“Royce moved back in with his mother after splitting with his girlfriend recently. He’s still in boxes. We slipped in and lifted his computer, to see if he was shooting his mouth off to anyone else. My guess is he felt the need to unload his resentment with Alliance on someone and figured the old man wouldn’t give two shits about what he had to say. Which means we need to focus on the tattoo artist if we want to find that tape. His house, the shop, anywhere it may be hidden. And you’re the only one I trust to get the job done right.”
My gaze flickers to the silver mark peeking out above his shirt collar, a glimpse of a time when his life was in my hands. Literally. When that bullet pierced Bentley’s artery, I was sure he would be gone in minutes, but I jammed my thumb into it to stem the blood flow anyway, keeping him alive long enough to drag him to safety and medical attention.
That bullet led to his retirement from the navy.
Ned’s house will be my first stop. It’s the most obvious one. “And we know it’s not in the shop?”
“Nothing came up in the police report. You’ll need to check it out, but keep it low-key. That place is too hot now, after what happened.”
I nod. “You said search and recovery, with potential target elimination. You’ve got two dead here. Who’s the third?” “Potential” means it may end up being straight search and recovery. I find the video, I hand it over, I get out. That’s not bad. It was my specialty, once upon a time. Low risk of being shot or stabbed, which is always nice. This means there’s a chance that I could be back to drinking my coffee and watching the cruise ships port in Santorini within days.
“A young woman by the name of Ivy Lee.”
I struggle to keep my expression even, suppressing ugly memories that threaten to rise as he strolls over to hand a cigar to me. I don’t want him to see that the past still affects me. Bentley needs to know that I am fine and that I can do what needs to be done. “Who is she to them?”
“She’s Ned Marshall’s niece and the only family member still in contact with him. They were close—lived together, worked together. Like two peas in a pod. Could have been his daughter.” He snips the end of his cigar off with a cutter. “She was hiding in the shop when the team went in to question and dispatch. She was able to give information to the police. A name and a description of one guy’s accent; a profile sketch of the other one, which the media circulated. Thankfully, there haven’t been any bites. It’s a fairly generic sketch.”
“Did she say anything about a video?”
He shakes his head. “Not a word.”
Which means she could be withholding information that she fears will get her killed.
I feel unease sliding down my back. I’ve been taking assignments from Bentley for almost five years, and all of them have been for middle-aged male targets and guaranteed threats. This will be the first female target, and we don’t even know if she truly is dangerous. I don’t like uncertainty when it comes to my job.
Setting the newspaper to the side, I flip open the tan folder. A petite, exotic girl with a full sleeve of tattoos and blue streaks in her black hair looks out at me, her piercing glare making me wonder if she might have seen the candid photo of her being snapped. She’s obviously part Asian, but her features are softer and fuller, suggesting a mix with something else.
I slide the end of the cigar into my mouth, reveling in the fresh grassy taste of the paper against my tongue, as I study her face. “What do we know about her?”
He tosses the cutters to me. “She never stays in one place for too long, she makes a lot of cash deposits and has several thousand in savings—a lot for someone her age and in her profession. She associates with dubious people. Bikers, street thugs. Even some dissident Irish Republicans when she was living in Dublin. She’s no innocent schoolgirl.”
Give Bentley twenty-four hours and he’ll have a dossier on anyone.
“We have to assume that she was in on it until we know otherwise, that her uncle involved her at some point, and gave her the videotape to hide.”
“And she needs to be eliminated?”
“I need to know all potential risks are eliminated.”
“That sounds like a collateral damage kill, Bentley, and you know I won’t do that.” My job is all about precision, and if I’m doing it right, there is no collateral damage. “Maybe she has it and doesn’t know it.”
Bentley pauses to stick his cigar into his mouth and light it. “You’re thinking Beijing, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Two years ago, I was hunting down an American-born terrorist who stole a highly communicable virus from the CDC with intentions of selling it to extremists in North Korea. It took some blood and sweat, but he finally admitted to smuggling the tiny vial through American airport customs on his five-year-old daughter and then hiding it inside one of her dolls for the flight to Beijing, where he would await buyer contact.
News of the missing virus never made it beyond the walls of the CDC, buried to avoid pandemonium and public scrutiny; and whichever high-ranking CIA member tapped Bentley’s shoulder for help ensured that there would never be a paper trail to the U.S. government when the thief’s battered body washed up along the shore.
“Well, if that’s the case, she’s going to find out soon. She called a real estate agent about putting the place on the market within the next couple of weeks. She’ll have to clean it out to sell it, and if she finds a hidden videotape in there, she’ll sure as hell play it.”
Will it mean anything to her? Will she care?
Bentley draws several long pulls off the cigar to get it going, all the while watching me with a knowing gaze.
The copy of her driver’s license says she just turned twenty-five a few weeks ago. “Well, it’s definitely not hiding in one of her dolls,” I mutter quietly.
Bentley barks with laughter. “She looks like the type of girl who used to light dolls on fire instead.”
There’s definitely an edge to her, her heavy boots zagged with fluorescent pink laces, balancing out the plaid schoolgirl skirt that barely covers her ass. A skull stretches across her shirt, drawn in pink jewels, the California sun reflecting off them.
I wonder if it’s just a look, if her tongue and mind are as sharp.
“I need this handled right, Sebastian, and you’re the only one I trust,” he says between puffs, the rich, aromatic smoke fighting for my attention.
It’s the second time he’s said that.
“I’ll eliminate a known threat without question. You know that.” I settle my gaze on Bentley, who watches me intently. “But I won’t end an innocent life.”
He pauses and smiles, and there’s a hint of sympathy there. “I’m not asking you to. If she doesn’t know about the tape, then keep it that way. Find it and bring it to me, and she and the world can go on believing that those other two were random, unfortunate deaths.”
“That means I can’t question her openly,” I warn him. A few hours of questioning always gets me the answers I need. “This will take longer.”
He sighs. “Yes, I realize that. But if she has any knowledge of this . . .” He tips his head back and releases a ring of smoke. It holds its shape for a few seconds before dispersing into the air above our heads. “We need to ensure that she doesn’t have a chance to talk about it to anyone. Ever. Make it clean and quick and low-key. Coincidental.”
Low-key. Coincidental.
A car careening off a road. A body found underwater, tangled in the weeds. A used needle laced with heroin. Something that is tragic but doesn’t raise suspicions, especially given that her beloved uncle was murdered so recently.
The way Bentley’s talking about it, it’s like he’s already decided that she is a liability and needs to be gone. But I also know that he’s not sure, and that puts doubt in my mind. I never pull the trigger when there is doubt.
I study her severe scowl again. Even with it, there is a unique beauty in her face. She’s not on the run, which makes me think Bentley is wrong and she doesn’t know anything about what her uncle was up to. That, or her uncle’s murder didn’t scare her enough. But what if her uncle dragged her into something against her will? What if she knows something she can’t simply unknow? Does she still deserve that kind of “low-key, coincidental” end?
It’s not my call. It’s Bentley’s. I have a job to do, and I leave the questions of morality to my commanding officer, knowing he’ll make the difficult calls. I’m quite happy letting him do that.
I scan her information more closely. “She’s from Oregon?”
“That’s her parents’ address. She lived there from fifteen to eighteen, and has landed back there a few times for brief stints, but mainly she’s been on the move, with no fixed address, crashing with friends and family. She came to San Francisco seven months ago. Before that she was in Thailand for a month. Before that, with family in Madrid for a few months. Before that, Ireland. She has American and EU citizenship. She’s been searching out flights to New York, and Singapore, and even Australia on her phone this week. Looks like she’s going to be on the move again, so you need to get in there fast.”
If only the general public knew how easy it was to collect information on them. There are pages and pages of personal details in this folder: bank records showing a steady income and decent savings, which tells me she works hard and spends smartly; cell phone bills with mostly text messages, which tells me she doesn’t like idle chitchat; a credit card statement with a zero balance and nothing but concert tickets, clothes, and ink supplies tells me her interests are simple. Flight receipts that tell me she’s almost as mobile as I am, never in one place for too long. There isn’t much Bentley can’t get in the way of research, but I like to do my own recon anyway.
“I’ll pay double the normal rate, because this is more involved than normal. The first half has already been wired.” Bentley smiles. “If anyone can get information out of a young woman, I’m guessing it’s you.”
I ignore him. After what happened with the Grecian hooker, I’m not eager to jump into bed with anyone again, anytime soon. Especially someone whose life I may be ending soon. Not even my psyche can handle that. “I need a car.”
“Steve will get you one.”
“No GPS, no traceable plates, nondescript.”
“You know that I run one of the biggest private security companies in the world, right?”
I can’t help the smirk. “And yet you need me.” Committing Ivy Lee’s important details to memory and my phone camera screen—I definitely won’t need a picture to identify her on the street—I make my way over to the fireplace. Opening the grille, I take a moment to light my Bolivar, and then I hold the flame to the corner of the folder, until it ignites.
I watch evidence turn to ash as I savor the cigar’s mild blend of spicy fruitcake and chocolate, wondering if she’s an innocent associate or a guilty accomplice.
“Why did you bring me to your home for this?”
“I figured you missed me.” Bentley laughs when I shoot him a questioning look. “Honestly . . . What you do is invaluable to this country and its millions of people, and I know that you give it a hundred and fifty percent. You could have just as easily slipped away into oblivion after discharge.”
I smirk. “Haven’t I, though?” There are no medals or commendations for a successful assignment. No words of encouragement or pats on the shoulder. What I’m doing, no one will ever know about it. No one will ever talk about it. In many ways, I am a ghost.
“My point is that this life can’t be easy. I wanted to see how you were doing, Sebastian.”
He wants to see if my head is still screwed on straight. If my self-imposed isolation has taken its toll yet. The funny thing is, I don’t mind it. Because the alternative—a life without meaningful purpose, living day to day with disgrace still hanging over me—is not one I ever want to live. I can’t tell Bentley that my life is a dream because that would be a lie, but I can say that I’m still grateful that he’s given it to me. “Thank you for continuing to trust me.”
“It’s not hard. You’ve proven yourself over and over again.” He pauses. “Do you plan on seeing your parents while you’re here?”
My parents. I still think about them on occasion, and I get the odd update from Bentley, because I asked him to keep an eye on them for me. They still live in the same small bungalow that I grew up in. I’m sure my father still flies the same American flag over the porch, a symbol of the country and his own illustrious career in the navy, although his had such a different outcome from his son’s. “No. Not likely.”
Bentley frowns. I guess that’s not the answer he wanted. “Every time I reach out to you, you’re in a different place.” He puffs on his cigar. “Have you thought of settling in one location, finding yourself a woman to give you some stability?”
“So I can lie to her every day?”
“She doesn’t need to know every detail. There is plenty that Tuuli is happy not to know about.”
I flick the last of the papers into the hearth. “I find women when I need them.”
“I’m not talking about whores. I’m talking about making a real life for yourself, with a wife. Maybe even some kids.”
“You itching for grandkids?” It was a running joke while we served together, that Bentley spoke and treated me more like a son than my own father did. In a way, he’s filled that role after my father all but abandoned it.
“I’m serious, Sebastian.” And his voice says as much.
A wife and kids. I stopped picturing myself with a wife seven years ago, when my fiancée, Sharon, stood me up at the altar. Turns out it was a smart move on her part, because we never would have lasted. I’m not husband material, not anymore, anyway. And kids?
I’ve never felt the urge to procreate, and after all the violence that I’ve seen and committed, I’m even less inclined to bring an innocent child into this world and its problems.
“If the right woman turns up, maybe I will.” I don’t even try to sound convincing.
Bentley sighs and I sense that he’s given up on that conversation. “Just move fast on this assignment. That tape is out there somewhere, and it needs to be found now. Today. Yesterday, in fact. If it comes to it, keep it quiet and clean. But make it fast.” His deep frown tells me this video is worrying him. Royce must have accused these other guys of using some highly unpleasant interrogation methods. Things that are divulged by a Medal of Honor recipient will hold sway in the court of public opinion, even if they’re not true. The media will release it and the American people will grab pitchforks and light flames.
And burn everything Bentley has worked so hard to accomplish.
I nod, hearing the directive loud and clear, checking the safety on the gun before tucking it into my boot. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
FIVE
IVY
I glare at the last rusted bolt, my face damp with sweat, the socket wrench dangling from my aching hand. Black Rabbit has been open for thirty years and this leather chair has seen every last sinful day of it, stationed in the center of the worn wood floor like some sort of monument. I bugged Ned endlessly to replace it with a more modern design, but he refused.
Now I know why.
Because it is stuck to the fucking floor and is never going to move.
Ian left this morning, on a plane for Dublin via New York City, leaving me with some cash for a painter and the freedom to do whatever I want with this place. He’s already lost almost a week’s worth of business with the Fine Needle being closed and, while he’s not driven by money, he needs to pay his bills. Plus he has also missed a week of the political science doctoral program he just started.
I understand why he left and I made sure to offer him a wave when the cab pulled out of the driveway, even though inside my head I was screaming at him to stay.
Not to leave me here to deal with this alone.
We called a real estate agent yesterday afternoon, for both the shop and the house. The woman’s name is Becca. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing. We also contacted a lawyer, to get the ball rolling on the estate settlement. I think Ian’s secretly hoping that I’ll change my mind and decide to stay in San Francisco to run Black Rabbit. That emptying the shop of Ned and giving it a fresh look will suddenly inspire me to make it my own. I don’t see that happening. I’ve already got a place to stay in New York lined up with friends, if I want. Or maybe I’ll head to Seattle.
But what is going to happen before I leave is this chair is going into a goddamn Dumpster so no one ever sits in it again. Whoever buys this shop will just have to get a new one.
I look down at myself, at my tight, torn—on purpose—jeans and my Ruckus Apparel T-shirt, smeared with dust and God knows what else, and chastise myself for not dressing more appropriately. Not that my clothing choice is going to give me the rusted-bolt-twisting superpowers that I need right now anyway.
I drop to my knees, the wood grain rough against my exposed skin, and I grit my teeth as I throw my full weight—which isn’t nearly enough—against the wrench’s handle. It doesn’t move, not a fraction of an inch.
It hasn’t my last five tries either. This time, though, I actually lose my balance and tumble over flat on my back. “Fuck!” I yell, whipping the wrench across the floor to clatter noisily in a corner. I pull myself up and lean back against the chair and close my eyes, tears of frustration threatening to spill.
Of course someone chooses that moment to knock on the glass pane in the door.
The sudden sound makes me jump. Most sudden sounds have been making me jump lately.
“Closed!” I holler. I’m in no mood to deal with anyone and kick myself for not shutting the steel grate. I can’t bring myself to pull the shades, though. It makes Black Rabbit too dark, too isolated.
Too much like that night.
“Ned was halfway done with my sleeve,” a guy’s muffled voice answers from outside.
“Well, then I guess you’re only going to have half a sleeve.”
“Come on, Ivy . . .” he pleads in a whiny voice.
With an irritated sigh, I open one eye and take in the burly man pressed against the glass, watching me. “I don’t know you.” Ned worked a lot of strange hours, though, especially in the mornings. It’s quite possible this guy sat in this chair for five hours before I ever stepped in here.
Or maybe he isn’t a client of Ned’s and he’s here to hurt me because I gave the police information about “Mario.” It’s a worry that lodged in the back of my mind a few days after the initial shock wore off. What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see? What if someone thinks I know something that I don’t? I certainly don’t have any valuable intel. The police thanked me for my help with the information I provided—a first name and shiny black combat boots, and a mediocre description of the cash register man’s profile that hasn’t resulted in any leads through the media so far. There’s a good chance that Ned’s murder will go unsolved. Detective Fields was considerate enough to spell that out to Ian and me when we asked.
The bushy blond beard covering the man’s face doesn’t hide his broad smile. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember the scrawny kid who’d come in here with toy race cars, wanting to play?”
That does sound familiar. I frown. “Bobby?” Son of Moe, one of Ned’s biker customers? This guy looks nothing like that scrawny kid. He could easily pass for thirty, even though I remember him being younger than me.
“In the flesh.”
Holy shit. I completely forgot about him. “You heard what happened, right?” I can’t see how he didn’t. It was all over the local news, and his dad was at the funeral, along with a dozen other bikers. Maybe he was there, too. I didn’t pay much attention to faces.
A solemn look touches his eyes when he nods. “Come on. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I climb to my feet and make my way over to unlock the door. Bobby has to duck to step through the doorway, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He’s more than double my size, and I don’t doubt there’s also muscle under all that leather and thick layer of fat. If I hadn’t spent so much time with guys like this, I’d be nervous standing in here alone with him now.
But I see the Harley parked outside and the official death’s hand insignia on his leather vest that marks him as a member of Devil’s Iron, and I’m just plain mad. “The cops said that what happened to Ned may have had something to do with you and your guys. Is that true?” I stare him right in the eye, willing myself to see the truth—or lie—for what it is. Ned was no saint, I know that. I know of a couple instances where some booze and cartons of cigarettes “fell off the back of a truck” and into the hands of guys like Bobby. Ned helped sell some of the inventory through here, to his regulars. People he trusted.
And that’s just what I know about. I have no idea what I don’t know about.
“Me?” Bobby’s hands press against his chest. He looks taken aback.
I nod toward his vest. “You.”
He’s shaking his head even before the words come out. “No, ma’am. We had nothing to do with what happened in here.” His soft blue eyes roam the shop. “Though trust me, the pigs have been poking around the clubhouse, trying to provoke the guys plenty.”
“What have you heard on the street?” It’s a ballsy question, assuming that a biker gang that despises law enforcement would offer information that might help in an official investigation, but it’s worth a shot.
Bobby shakes his head. “All quiet on our front, so far. What do you know?”
I’m not supposed to say anything . . . “Two guys, one named Mario. One with dark hair, muscular, midthirties. That’s all I know.”
He dips his head. “All right. I’ll ask around, and I promise you, if I catch wind of something I’ll pass it along.”
He’s buttering me up, I can just feel it. “And in return you want . . .”
With a sheepish grin, he holds out a thick arm—the same circumference as my thigh—to show me the detailed outline of a zombie bride with playful eyes and long lashes covering his biceps. Crisp, clean lines. Sordid humor. Definitely Ned’s work. “Ned always said you were a close second to him. I’d love it if you could finish this for me.” He peers at me with puppy-dog eyes you wouldn’t expect from a guy with his affiliations.
Ned would hate knowing that a subpar artist—basically anyone else—added ink to his work, and even though he’s six feet under, I owe it to him to finish it. Still . . . “I’ll think about it,” I finally mutter, blowing a strand of long hair that fell across my face off. “But not today. I’m busy.”
“I can see that.” He nods at the chair. “You gettin’ rid of it?”
“Yup.”
“Why? Ned loved that chair.”
And he died in that chair. I restrain myself from being that blunt. “It just needs to go.”
Bobby’s heavy boots clomp across the floor to rescue the wrench from the corner where I threw it. Dropping his massive frame to one knee, he attempts to unfasten the bolt but quits soon after. “It’s seized. You’re going to need a torch for that.”
“Fabulous. Because I have one just lying around.”
“I could bring one by and help you out. Say . . . tomorrow, around three?” His eyes flicker to his arm and then to me, and I see the trade-off for his help. He’s good, I’ll give him that much. I want to say no, but I also don’t know anyone else who owns a torch.
I really do need his help.
“Fine.” I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to finish that tattoo here. I don’t even know that I have it in me to do that. I should tell him to meet me anywhere but here: in a garage or bar or back alley or his biker gang clubhouse.
“I’ll be here at three.” His grin falls quickly. “Ned was a good friend to all of us. We had some great laughs down at the clubhouse on game night.”
Game night is a fancy way of saying poker Wednesdays, where Ned would more times than not lose his shirt to a biker. He hadn’t been down there in a few weeks, though. Said it was costing him too much lately.
Things are starting to make sense to me. “Was he into it for money with someone over there?”
“Eh.” Bobby shrugs noncommittally, and I’m not entirely sure what that answer means.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Nothin’ major from what I know.” He rests a hand on the back of the leather chair. “You know, I always hoped Ned would be here to do my son’s one day, too. When I have a son, of course. I don’t have one yet.” His gaze drifts down my front, stalling over my chest. “I need to find a good woman first.”
Look elsewhere for that good woman, buddy. The loyalty to my uncle is charming, though, in a weird way. “Well, maybe your nonexistent son will still get his done in Black Rabbit. We’ll see who buys this place.”
“It won’t be the same, though.” He shrugs. “Unless you’ll still be here?”
“Nope. Not a chance.” I heave a sigh and, hoping Bobby takes the hint, begin carefully picking away at a photo montage on the wall—dozens of pictures of Ned at different stages of his life, from clean-shaven to handlebar mustache, stuck to the drywall with tape so old it’s peeling paint away with it.
“See ya tomorrow, Ivy.” The bell above the door jangles as Bobby leaves.
And the silence that returns now is somehow more unnerving than before.
I quietly sort and toss and pack, shifting around the chair, my irritation with that single bolt growing with each moment until I find myself standing there, glaring at it once again. Tomorrow just isn’t soon enough.
I get down on my knees again and, holding my breath, throw my full weight into the bolt, just as the door creaks open. “We’re closed!” I yell, whipping my head around, my anger at myself for not locking it launched.
