Say Hello To Mothers - The Wheelman

A HALF HOUR MUST HAVE PASSED. LENNON COULD feel the blood spurting out of his shoulder in slow, steady waves. He grew bored with making an inventory of the items in his captor’s garage—channel locks, hammers, picture frames, band saw, power screwdriver … but at least it kept his mind off Katie. For a few moments. Until he started thinking about Katie again.

Lennon had to rethink this. There was some other leak—not Katie.

Why, then, did she pop into his head the first moment he realized there’d been a double cross?

Her behavior over the past month. Weird. Katie was not a secretive girl—not to him, anyway. It wasn’t one huge thing, just a series of small, seemingly inconsequential things. Sudden errands to run. Phone calls that suddenly turned polite after he returned home. The “history” on their Internet browser routinely erased.

Stop it, Lennon. Think about who else could have sold you out. Not Bling. Bling was dead.

But you didn’t open the body bag, did you? You don’t even know both body bags went down the pipe. Where were Holden and Bling during the crash? The backseat. Where did the van hit? Pretty much Lennon’s driver’s side door. Did the crash knock Holden and Bling out? Or did Holden and Bling owe the Russian mob money, and decide to cash in their getaway driver to settle the debt?

No, not Bling. Bling was almost as ridiculous as Katie.

Unless it was Bling and Katie.

No.

Think about the bleeding first. How to stop the bleeding. How to get unstrapped from this table. How to get the hell out of this garage.

Then answers.

A door opened behind him. “I can’t believe it,” a voice said. “Pat, are you still awake?”

Lennon stared at the ceiling.

Someone slapped him in the face. “Hey, come on. Don’t be rude. I’ve brought along a friend. Patrick Selway Lennon, bank robber and fugitive, meet the man who’s going to get a few answers out of you.”

The other guy walked around the table, eyeing Lennon up and down. He was a big guy. Not fat or especially strong-looking, just big and wide and tall. He had a thick black moustache tucked under his nose, a sleepy-eyed expression on his face, and a Borsalino hat on his head. The man looked tired, mean, and permanently rumpled.

“Say hi, Pat,” the ex-cop said. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Sorry.”

The big guy turned away and started looking around the garage. “You got a drop cloth or something?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know. Wait—I painted the back bedroom a few months ago, and the set came with a plastic drop cloth. Never use ’em, because they’re for shit. Will that do?”

“Yeah. Unfold it and put it over here, to his right, on the floor and over anything you don’t want splattered.”

His captor found the plastic drop cloth and unwrapped it. His big pal unholstered a Sig Sauer pistol from under his right arm and yanked back, popping one into the chamber. His captor dropped out of Lennon’s sight. There was the sound of crinkling plastic.

“Hey, Saugherty.”

The captor’s head popped up. “Huh?”

The big guy aimed and shot Saugherty in the chest. The man’s fingers tensed on the table, scraping at the surface, and then his head flopped forward, as if on a hinge that suddenly decided to unfold the wrong way. Then a gurgle, fingers slipping from the table, then a thud on the floor.

Lennon looked up at the big guy.

The big guy stared back at him. “What, you waiting for an explanation ?”

Lennon stared at him.

“Well, this is gonna be an extremely disappointing day for you.”

The big guy disappeared and walked up the steps. The floorboards above creaked. He started making a phone call.