Two Girls Down(79)

She heard no sound in the living room except a small rustle, and she imagined Bailey Brandt gagged and tied and nearly passed out on a pile of newspapers where they made her sleep.

Wrong! Perry would have said, knocking his fist against his head like it was a door. The hell, Vega, your number-two fuckup (number one was not bringing enough firepower): Never assume you’re gonna find who you’re looking for. Assume you’re gonna find the other thing. Which will generally be someone who wants to kill you. Sometimes they’re the same.

He was telling her, over and over, just like Little Bad and Big Bad, to get out of her head, stop projecting and imagining and hypothesizing, because even if you’re thinking of the worst thing, it was still a kind of optimism, being cocky enough to think you could see the future and get a handle on it. You have no handle—you got your gun and you got the fire; sometimes it’s enough, and sometimes it isn’t.



She got closer to the end of the hallway, and she saw more of the living room—a couch with a sheet over it, a pile of clothes. And just as she realized the hallway was more of a partition, a thin wall between the back room and the front of the house, she heard a creak and a catch of breath, and she turned the corner with her Springfield out. But McKie was right there, waiting for her, swinging a plank of wood at her, and he cracked it over her forehead and right eye. Then it was shock, blood, bright white, then black.

—

Dena Macht wore cutoffs and a pink tank top, dressed for summer in not-yet-fifty-degree weather. She had the same eyes as her mother—blue and set close together; except hers were bright and agonized whereas Mrs. Macht was past all that, long since resigned to bland disappointment. Dena had a gun in one hand but held it awkwardly, no finger on the trigger. Her other arm was wrapped around Bailey Brandt.

Cap curved his body around like a ribbon and pressed his face against the side of the house so he could get a better look: Bailey’s face was buried in Dena’s ribs; her blond hair was stringy and snaky down her back, and she wore the pink dress she’d been kidnapped in, the tulle wrinkled and ripped in the skirt. Cap shook his head to an invisible audience and bit the inside of his cheeks—those fuckers hadn’t given her a bath or changed her clothes for six days.

Dena did not have the gun pointed at Bailey, but it could be there quickly. These things could unravel in a second, Cap knew. There was no fight and then there were fists, no accident and then a pileup, no gunshots and then, suddenly, blood and brains.

Dena was steering Bailey slowly toward the car when McKie called from the house: “I got one, Dena, I got one!”

He sounded giddy, like a kid catching frogs. Cap cringed. Dammit, Vega, how’d you get caught?

Dena’s eyes went wild as she held the gun up, pointing it at the sky.

“Get her in the car!” shouted McKie.

Dena shuffled toward the car, pulling Bailey, who moved like she was sleepwalking, her bare feet turned in slightly, head still pressed against Dena’s midsection. Cap brought his head back from the edge and just sat for a second against the side of the house, tapping his head on the wall.



He knew a few things: he knew McKie and Dena were planning to take off soon, and he knew he was a man down. Once they were in the car it was over; there would be no way for him to get to his car fast enough, especially if he had to make sure Vega was still breathing. He knew people were easier to talk to when they were apart; together they got mobby, gave each other ideas. He knew he had a matter of minutes to convince Dena.

He knew it was time to talk.

—

Vega tried to open her eyes, and then the pain landed. She put her hand over her right eye, which was wet, muddy. She looked at the blood on her fingers and touched again right above her eyebrow, and it was like a fucking ocean of pain there, blood rushing from an actual hole in her head. She gasped before she could realize she should keep quiet, looked around and saw she was right in the hallway where she’d been hit, and then he was above her again.

She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows, but McKie grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her off the ground.

“Who are you? Who the fuck are you?” he said, spraying spit in her face.

Vega moved her tongue around in her mouth but it felt gigantic. She tried to say what Perry told her to say to every dumbass skip who asked the same thing, but all she could do was grunt. His breath was rotten, and his teeth were uneven like the broken piano keys in a cartoon.

He asked her one more time and then dropped her, the back of her head smacking the floor. Then it was all snowy static as her eyes rolled up behind the lids.

—

Cap led with the Sig held in both hands and turned the corner.

“Dena!” he called.

Dena and Bailey both jumped. Dena raised her gun with a shaky arm, aimed it in Cap’s general direction as her eyes scoured the woods, looking for him. Bailey flipped around so Cap could see her face (scared, thin). Dena’s arm slid around Bailey’s clavicle and clutched her tight.



Cap took a step on the porch, made sure she could see him.

“Dena, it’s okay,” he said, as levelheaded as he could sound. Ready to get the cat out of the tree.

Dena tightened her grip on the pistol and pointed it at him.

“Don’t tell me that when you got a gun on me, mister,” she called, her voice high like a much younger girl’s.