Twenty-Seven

For Lucy, it was becoming a question of who to fear most. Digby, the hospital orderly who wanted more fentanyl and was ready to hurt Lucy if he didn't get it? Billy, if he figured out she'd dipped into the shipment? The pair he was working for, whose idea of a good time was hooking battery clamps to a guy's tits? The cops?

So far, Billy appeared to buy her denials that she'd had anything to do with it, but that could change. If and when he knew the truth, would he give her up to the people he worked for? If she stole any more from Billy, it upped the odds he'd catch her. Maybe he'd set up some cameras in the garage. It was a wonder he hadn't done that from the get-go, if only to protect his precious automotive tools. And now, if Billy had even half a brain—and, to be honest, this was often in question—he'd have put a new lock on the cabinet where he kept the drugs, be more careful with the new key.

No way she was YouTubing her way into that carry-on bag again.

And even if she did dare to, Billy's associates kept pretty close tabs—no pun intended—on the inventory. If he came up short again, what would they do to him? Lucy wasn't sure just who these people fronted for, but it wasn't the Girl Scouts. The flights were coming from south of the border, so it wasn't hard to connect the dots. The cartels, baby. They controlled the drug trade down there, had their own labs making this stuff. So long as the money kept coming in, Billy didn't ask questions. He really didn't want to know.

If there was an easy way out of this, Lucy didn't know what it was. Could she chip away at her list of potential threats? Cross one off, move on to the next? Digby, for example. Could she make an anonymous tip to the hospital admin? Say he was stealing pharmaceuticals, helping himself to patients' personal belongings, fondling female patients while they slept? It was probably true, anyway.

She'd returned from a trip to the grocery store and was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space as she nursed a beer, thinking about how she'd go about ratting out Digby, when she heard Billy's van pull up beside the house. She got up, left the beer on the table, and went outside to meet him.

He'd reversed the vehicle up to the garage, gotten out, raised the rear hatch, and was swinging open the garage door when Lucy approached.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied.

He was unloading boxes and carrying them to the rear of the garage. He had brand-new power tools, all in their original packaging. Belt sanders, jigsaws, drills, reciprocating saws.

"You gotta be kidding me," Lucy said. "I thought you were all tapped out. No money left."

"Didn't buy it," he said, puffing as he made another trip.

"Don't tell me. You know a guy."

It would go with the other goods she'd seen in the locker, she thought. Laptops, DVD players, phones.

"I'll pay them off one way or another," he said, more to himself than to Lucy. "I got merchandise. Makes up for the shortfall."

"Is this enough?" she asked. "And what makes you think they're even going to want this? What are they supposed to do? Put it up on eBay?"

He ignored her. Once he had placed the last load in the garage, he came outside and lowered the door, took three deep breaths, and said, "I need a drink."

She followed him into the house, where he went straight to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He took one long draw, set it on the counter, and then did something that made Lucy's jaw drop.

He reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun. He set it on the kitchen table and stared at it for several seconds, panting.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Billy. The hell is this?"

"That's a gun, Lucy. You should get out more."

"Why do you have it?"

He took another drink. When he put the bottle down, let go of it, his hand was slightly trembling.

"Insurance," he said. "Just... need to be ready."

He couldn't look her in the eye. He studied the gun on the table in front of him, turned it slowly with his index finger, the barrel briefly pointing at Lucy as it revolved.

"Is it loaded?" she asked.

"Wouldn't be much good if it wasn't."

"Where'd you get it?"

He rolled his eyes. "Lucy, this is America."

"What are they gonna think, they see you with a gun?"

"I'm not an idiot. I'll hide it. Someplace I can grab it fast. In case things go sideways."

Lucy pictured it. Billy shooting two people dead in the garage. Like that would be the end of their problems. What was he going to do with two bodies? What did Billy think would happen next? That their bosses wouldn't be wondering what happened to them, wouldn't send someone from Mexico to find them? That Billy wouldn't be the first person they'd want to have a word with? Would he shoot them, too?

The thing was, there'd been a moment there, when they'd first come into the house, when she was thinking she should just tell him. Come clean. Tell him it was her, that she dipped into the stash, that she was really, really sorry, but lay some of the blame on him, too, because he'd never been willing to share any of the proceeds, and if he had, maybe she wouldn't have done what she'd done.

But she'd tell him she'd find a way to make it right. She'd give him what money she hadn't already spent after selling the stuff to Digby and others. Maybe she could hit up her mom in Utah for some cash. Lucy hadn't talked to her in six months, but maybe if she told her she was pregnant, that she needed help setting up a nursery and buying a car seat and a stroller and all that other shit, her mother would be so excited she'd dip into her savings. (Even if it did mean that it was Billy who got her pregnant. Lucy's mother had tried to tell her the guy was a loser, but did she listen?) Later, when there was no baby, she'd come up with some sob story about losing the kid.

Or maybe she'd tell him they should disappear until things cooled down. Go stay with her mom. Couple of drug dealers really going to chase them all the way to Salt Lake City? They might not head off with a fortune, but they'd have enough to buy gas and junk food till they got there. After they arrived, they'd try to figure out a way to get out of this mess.

Those ideas, and others, had been running through her head, right up until the moment Billy set that gun on the kitchen table.

That gun changed everything.

You did not tell your significant other that you'd been stealing from him and putting his life in danger when he had a gun.

A loaded gun.

"You know," Lucy said, changing her tone, trying to be upbeat even if she didn't feel that way, "I think they'll love the tools, the laptops, all that stuff."

Billy slowly raised his head, fixing his eyes on her, as though he'd had some sudden realization.

"What did you say?"

"I said I think they'll go for it. You can buy some time this way."

"You said laptops."

"What?"

"Laptops. That's what you said. Laptops. I didn't bring in any laptops."

"You brought in all kinds of shit," she said. "I thought maybe there was some laptops in there."

"It was you," he said.

"What was me?" she said, reaching for her beer, her mouth going dry.

"How would you know I had laptops if you haven't been in my locker?"

"Come on," she said, smiling nervously. "That's crazy talk."

"Christ, what have you done?" he asked her, picking up the gun. "You're going to get us both killed."