Period 8 - By Chris Crutcher Page 0,45

is hard to un-ring.”

“Well, you and I have no strings.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Arney says. “But for me. I’m not like the Bomb, I can’t focus on more than one person. And that’s okay. I get it that we’re not a ‘couple.’ I just value loyalty above all else. I can’t do it any other way.”

“Arney, I’m not getting into anything.”

“Understood,” Arney says. “I know where you stand and I want you to know where I stand.”

A mother quail and several chicks dash onto the road, sense Arney’s car speeding toward them. Hannah tenses, looks at Arney, who doesn’t brake and maybe even accelerates a bit. In the side-view mirror one of the chicks flaps on the pavement while another lies still and squashed.

Hannah stares at him in horror, thinks she sees the hint of a smile cross his lips, but instantly he says, “Damn! I thought they were going the other way! I thought I could speed up and get around them. Oh, God. That was awful!”

Hannah sits back, stunned, not sure what she just witnessed.

“We better go back,” he says. “See if there’s anything I can do.”

“They’re birds, Arney. They’re dead.”

“I can’t believe I missed that,” he says. “They ran out and I thought they’d go back. Jesus, I turned right into them.” He is visibly upset.

Hannah takes a deep breath. “Just drive,” she says finally. “We’ll get over it. Let’s just get to your parents’ cabin and forget it.”

.13

Arney Stack parks outside the Comfort Inn, leaves the car running, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and enters the front office. The girl behind the counter looks up and smiles, calls out, “Rick!” and continues reading People. Rick Praeger, a thin, dark-haired, handsome man in his early forties, wearing khakis and a knit polo shirt, emerges from the back office with a padded manila envelope and hands it to Arney.

Arney feels its weight, peeks inside, counts without removing any bills. “This isn’t right,” he says.

“Woody says there’s a note,” Rick says.

“About what?”

Praeger’s hands go up. “Just the messenger.”

Arney drives two blocks to a vacant lot. He pulls in, leaving the engine running, and opens the envelope. He dumps out the contents. There is cash—considerably less than Arney anticipated—and a short note: “Arney, you are a master at what you do and your contribution to our investment is invaluable. We couldn’t have found a better colleague. Your insight on this project has been uncanny. Unfortunately your part of the return on our investment hasn’t panned out this week. When you overachieve you are compensated. When you underachieve . . . well, John says that’s why it’s called a high-risk investment. With the remedy to this situation will come full restitution of agreed-upon monies.” The note is unsigned.

Arney slams the heels of his hands against the wheel. “Those bitches!” He sits a moment to calm himself, but an almost murderous rage burns inside. “And fuck John. This operation doesn’t exist without me!” He slams the wheel several more times. “Who’s taking all the fucking risks?” He accelerates onto the street.

Paulie marches up the walk to the Wells mansion. What am I doing? He thinks. Logs is right. I should steer clear of this.

“Hi, Paulie. She’s not here.” Becca, Mary’s younger sister by three years, stands in the doorway.

“Really,” Paulie says, though he’s actually relieved. “She said I should pick her up at six-thirty.” He glances at his watch.

“I don’t think she came home from school,” Becca says. I got here a little bit late, but I haven’t seen her.”

“Your parents here?”

Becca nods toward the house. “Mom’s at her exercise group.” Her voice lowers. “But the King is here. And he’s mad.” She steps onto the porch and in almost a whisper, says, “How did you get him to let you hang out with her?”

Paulie smiles. “Persistence, I guess.”

“Persistence around here would get most guys killed. You know Roddy Blackburn?”

Paulie nods. “Yeah, I know Roddy.”

“Well, tell him your secret.”

“Becca, your dad may be a hardass, but I know hippie parents that wouldn’t let their daughters go out with Roddy Blackburn. That kid was voted ‘Most Likely to Take a Life.’”

She looks back toward the door again, lowering her voice even more. “He’s a bandit, all right, but God.”

Paulie turns back toward his car. “Tell Mary to give me a call when she gets back,” he says. “If, you know, she isn’t chained to her bed.” He looks into the garage. The Lexus is missing.

In Period 8 the following day, Mary Wells’s