Ta Tuirse Orm - The Wheelman

LENNON TRIED THE DOORKNOB; AS HE SUSPECTED, IT was open. Henry. Holden. The failed heist. Too many coincidences; he’d sort them out later. He took one of the Sig Sauers out of his jacket pocket—he’d stashed the other one downstairs, in the park—and slowly edged his way into Wilcoxson’s apartment. No sign of anybody in the living room. He heard a voice speaking in the bedroom, which was down a short hallway. He edged around corners, taking it nice and cautious. But the only people in the apartment, it seemed, were in the bedroom.

A dead guy, facedown on the floor. The back of what appeared to be Holden Richards’s head. And Katie, handcuffed backward to a pole.

Holden was holding a butcher knife in one hand and trying to loosen Katie’s pants with his other hand. The button on her jeans was already undone, the gold zipper halfway down.

Relief flooded Lennon. Katie was alive. Even better, she was alive, and not guarded by a phalanx of beefy Russian gangsters. Just Holden, the little fuck.

Soon to be ex-fuck.

Katie saw him and smirked. She was still here.

“My brother’s back, and you’re gonna be in trouble,” she sang softly.

Holden’s head whipped around, knife in hand, fabric in the other, looking like the cover of a rape counseling video. His mouth flopped open.

“Lennon? Who told you to come here?”

Lennon responded by aiming the gun at his face.

“The only reason he’s not shooting,” said Katie, “is that he doesn’t want to get blood all over me. Now put the knife on the floor, fuck-o, and crawl backward.”

Holden seemed to think this over; the knife in his hand jumped a bit. But after realizing that his only option—stabbing the girl, getting shot in the head—wasn’t a good one, he relented. The knife clanged when it hit the floor.

“Now kiss the floor, facedown. That’s it. Slide away … slowly. Toward the bed. Uh-huh. By the way, you know that wet stuff you’re lying in? It’s piss. Never handcuff a pregnant woman to a pole all day.”

Lennon watched Holden shudder.

“The keys to these cuffs are in the dead guy’s pocket,” Katie said. “I hope.”

Lennon checked both front pockets; the keys were in the left. He uncuffed Katie, then gently helped her crawl to a lying position on a dry spot of the floor. Katie touched his cheek, ran a thumb across his chin. She smirked again. Lennon winked. He leaned in close to her ear. He whispered: “Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”

“Ta tuirse orm,” she replied.

Lennon was supposed to be a mute. But too many people could interpret sign language. So Lennon had taught Katie—who had been born in Massachusetts, not Ireland—some Gaelic, which they used in secret, or in sign. She told him she was tired.

Lennon walked over to Holden. His objective was now relatively simple: Holden had sold the Wachovia job to somebody. Lennon needed to know who, and where the money was now. He wasn’t very good at the heavy stuff—even in bank situations—but the way things were going, Lennon didn’t think he’d have too much trouble improvising on the spot.

Something caught his eye. An iridescent flash of blue reflecting from a window in Wilcoxson’s bedroom.

“Patrick,” Katie said.

She’d seen it, too.

Blue, then red lights, flickering through the air outside the window.