“Whose side are you on?” Emily flared, slapping her glass on the photo-collaged table.
“Yours,” Annie said. “And his.” She held her glass to the light, admiring the icy yellow shimmer. “These are nice and banana-y, aren’t they?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“OK,” Annie said, putting it down, emptying the pitcher, and signaling for another. “The subject is you, and Marty, and you love each other, and you’re being total dicks about it.”
Emily sputtered.
“Don’t get mad at me, girly,” Annie said. “I’m just telling you what I see.”
“And that would be?”
“Two people who are made for each other, but too stubborn to forgive old trespasses.”
“He’s got a son, Annie,” Emily said. “How can I forgive that?”
“‘Cause it’s part of what makes Marty Marty. You fell for him two years ago, right?”
Emily nodded.
“Loved him tender, loved him true? Never had a reason to doubt it? Knew in your bones he felt the same?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, guess what? He had a kid then, too.”
The Executioner shifted for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. His back hurt, his joints popped like bubble wrap, and it was hard staying awake. Killing time in the front seat of an SUV wasn’t his idea of fun.
At least it was working well.
He’d buried the driver in a grove of white pines, using the rusted shovel he liberated from a tea-rose display. Tamped the backfill so the hole looked like everything else. It simply wouldn’t do for anyone to discover him before Friday.
He drove the Land Rover back to the parking lot and scrambled atop the fuel truck, which he’d stashed behind the perennials barn. No need to arouse the curiosity of any passing cop. He unscrewed the inspection hatch and illuminated the tank’s interior with the driver’s flashlight, shirttail over his nose and mouth.
Five hundred gallons, give or take.
Plenty enough.
He gripped the ladder with both hands till his feet hit terra firma. A broken ankle would ruin everything.
He slid into the Land Rover, turned on the news, and guzzled coffee from the truck driver’s thermos. Made a face at the sugar.
“Tell me something,” Annie said, draining her glass. “How would you feel if Marty had died at Seager Park instead of Ray Luerchen?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Emily said.
“Answer anyway. How would you feel?”
Emily’s tongue felt thick. Booze or honesty, she couldn’t tell.
“Like I’d died, too,” she admitted, staring at the pitcher.
“Of course you would. And that’s exactly how you’ll feel if you dump Marty. You waited a lifetime for this man - don’t lose him by being stubborn.” Annie leaned across and punched her arm. “Just talk to him, OK?”
“Idiot,” Marty spat, banging the sponge off the wall as something he’d forgotten popped into his head.
He wiped up the grouty mess and grabbed his keys. Headed out Emily’s back door and trotted to the Judd Kendall VFW a block east. He’d parked the GTO there, instead of in her driveway or garage. Wanted her to come inside the house, not see his car and leave.
But the tommy gun was still in the trunk. It was irreplaceable, and he’d never have left it if he hadn’t been so damn distracted.
He got to the trunk in a minute flat.
“Hey, baby, how you doin’,” he purred at the violin case. Weapons were frozen music, not just flanges and pins and screws. This song was especially priceless, being Roaring Twenties, fully restored, and owned by Annie, who appreciated guns as much as he did.
He tucked the case under his arm and trotted back to the house. Poked around for a safe place to store it. “Not you,” he said to the kitchen and powder room. He didn’t want a grain of stone dust marring that gleaming blue finish. The foyer and family rooms were equally out - under construction or filled with tools.
Second floor.
He hustled up the sanded oak steps and put the gun and ammo drum in the closet on the landing, under Emily’s winter clothes. They’d already finished this part of the house, so the closet was nice and clean.
He closed and opened the door, admiring the squeakless hinges Emily blowtorched from a single sheet of anodized aluminum. He was good at metalwork, thanks to the endless hours restoring his race cars. She was better. His woman had the gift, the touch.
My woman . . .
He closed the door and headed back to the next section of grout.
“Party’s over, hon,” Annie said, belting Emily into the passenger seat of her double-cab pickup. “I’ll drop you at home and pick you up in the morning.”