“I don’t understand.”
“We took the wish and found the guy, but too late. He’d already killed himself, hours earlier. Richie owed us a payment, so we decided to let him step in for the guy.”
“He could’ve been killed!”
“He could’ve been run over by a bus while crossing the street this morning.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Why, you think I can’t get a bus?”
I blink my eyes in horror. “You’re playing with people’s lives!”
“I wouldn’t call it playing.”
“What if that guy had cut off Richie’s dick?”
“Tell you the truth, I thought he would.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I were you, I’d dial it down. You don’t hear Richie bitching about it.”
He’s right, I don’t hear Richie bitching about it, and wonder why. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t recall Richie making a sound until the other goons showed up with Sally and Tom.
“Richie,” I say. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s not much of a talker these days,” Rudy says.
“What have you done to him?”
“We gave him three tasks.”
“But you nearly killed him tonight. Hasn’t he done enough?”
“Normally he’d be done by now. But he refused to honor the second one.”
I drive in silence a few minutes. Then I ask, “What did he refuse to do?”
Rudy pauses a moment. “Normally I wouldn’t say. But now I’m thinking it might be a teaching opportunity. This gets a little tricky, so pay attention. Like I said, we got a wish list from Tom and Sally, to find the man who killed their daughter. The killer was Robby Billups. But we also got a wish list from Robby’s mother, Margot.”
“This is insane!”
“It’s not such a big coincidence. Margot’s first wish was that Robby would get professional help. Her second was that Tracy’s parents would die.”
“Why would you grant a wish like that?”
“Look at it this way: when we get a wish from someone to kill a grieving couple like Sally and Tom, we figure there has to be a connection to their little girl, Tracy.”
“Which is how you found Robby in the first place.”
“That’s right. And a couple of days ago your friend, Richie, got the call.”
“What call?”
“To kill Sally and Tom.”
“What?”
“But he refused. So tonight we wanted to show him what happens when you refuse to pay back a wish.”
What bothers me about what I’m learning is that there’s a sort of logical pattern to the whole wish-granting and payback system. But some things aren’t as easy to follow. “You told Richie to kill Tom and Sally before telling them about Tracy.”
“Robbie Billups was dead, so we couldn’t grant Tom and Sally’s wish. So we decided to kill them, so Margot could get her wish. We gave the call to Richie. When he refused, we thought, why not grant both wishes? We’ll tell Tom and Sally that Richie killed Tracy. By cutting off his dick and hanging him, they’d get two of their wishes. When we kill Tom and Sally, Margot gets one of her wishes.”
My brain was fighting to keep up. I should have been horrified, but I was determined to comprehend the logic. I said, “And if Richie had died tonight?”
“You’d have gotten the call to kill Tom and Sally.”
From my vantage point I could only see Richie’s side and back. But I’d seen enough tonight to know he’d never be the same. “You’ll let Richie go now, right?”
“He’ll get the opportunity to kill Sally and Tom again, if that’s what you mean.”
“And after that, he still owes a fourth payment?”
“That’s right. If he lives to do it, he’ll be part of a group repayment.”
“What does that mean?”
“When a number of people wish for the same thing, we lump them together, if possible. If twenty people want front row seats to a concert tonight, we’d fulfill twenty wishes in one shot.”
“But that would be a group wish, not a repayment.”
“True. Group repayments aren’t as much fun as attending a concert.”
“Tonight I’ve completed my first repayment,” I say.
“Actually, you’ve made two. You just don’t know it yet.”
“What’s the other one?”
“We’ll let you know when the time is right.”
“You made a video of us burying Oglethorpe. Why?”
“My boss likes to watch.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Not your concern. But the video will also help prevent you from going to the cops.”
“I could tell them you forced me.”
“We’ve got the murder weapon, and your prints are all over it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“We transferred them. Also, we’ve got a pair of your sneakers with Oglethorpe’s blood on them. We’ve got…trust me, we’ve got plenty of evidence to put you away for life. But that’s just a contingency. We’ve got something much better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We know your biggest weakness.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Let me put it this way: what’s the most important thing in the world to you?”
Lissie!
He sees my expression.
“That’s right, Buddy. We can do whatever we want to your precious Lissie. Anytime we want. And don’t forget it.”
Chapter 26
Rudy tells me to take I-265 west to 64, and says I’ll be dropping him and Richie off in Simpsonville.
“What’s in Simpsonville?”
“You have to ask?”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“It’s where Sally and Tom live.”
“See? I keep telling our people you’re not as dumb as you look. By the way, we’ve got a tracking device on your car. If you try to stop somewhere on the way home, we’ll know it.”
I know these people are well-funded, but I’m pretty sure he’s bluffing. They couldn’t possibly have someone watching me full time on a monitor.
Rudy says, “I can tell you don’t believe me, so I’m gonna give you an example. When you get to the next exit, get off and try to hide somewhere.”
I take the next exit and drive two blocks and park my car behind a strip center. In less than a minute a car pulls in front of me and the driver flashes his hi-beam in my face. He gets out and walks to my window with his gun aimed at my face. He motions for me to roll down the window.
“You’re not allowed to stop on the way home,” he says. “You’re not allowed to use a phone, or enter a business, or any other structure. Not even a porta potty.”
He looks at Richie a long moment, then at Rudy. “Everything all right here?”
“I just wanted him to understand the rules.”
The guy nods and walks back to his car and waits for me to pull out. I do, and get back on the interstate, headed for Simpsonville. I don’t see him again, but I know he’s back there in the distance.
I drop them off and watch Rudy lead Richie to a black sedan. Richie never said a word to me before getting out of the car, and even now there’s not so much as a wave. I think back to the three guys who were hanging out in the basement of my split-level ranch less than a week ago, smoking a joint, dreaming about having sex with movie stars. As I watch Richie climb into the back seat I fear I will never see him again.
I check the clock on the dashboard and see I’ve been gone five hours.
All the way home, I’m trying to figure out how to make a phone call to the one person who might be able to help me, a contract killer named Donovan Creed. I just don’t know how to make the call without getting caught.
I drive back to my place and put the car in the garage. I go inside and race up the stairs to our bedroom to check on Lissie, and find her sleeping on her side, just the way I left her. I look for her cell phone, find it, and try to place a call. But there’s no dial tone. I pick up my home phone and hear a click. Rudy wasn’t lying, they’ve tapped our phone.
I go back down the steps, out to the garage, and check the places where I hid random bricks of cash. They’re all there. I go back inside the house, pour myself a shot of whiskey, down it in one gulp, head back up the stairs, and climb into bed with Lissie.
Chapter 27
“Jesus, Buddy, how much did we drink last night?”
I wake up, startled.
“What?”
“I’m so groggy. Are you?”
According to the clock on the end table, it’s nearly eleven. “Yeah, I feel like I’m in a fog. We were pretty lit.”
“My God, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“I should have made you stop.”
She sat up, tried to focus. “Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m still wearing my nightie.”
“So?”
“We didn’t make love.”
“Oh. You’re right. We must have passed out.”
She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, we’re not used to so much excitement. But Buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Congratulations, superstar. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks, hon.”
Lissie gets out of the bed and stumbles slightly on her way to the bathroom, reminding me of Jinny, and how she stumbled when heading to the closet to fetch my money. God, was that just yesterday?
“Oh, God,” Lissie moans from inside the bathroom. “Sorry, but I’m going to be in here awhile.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“I feel like a beanbag that’s been tossed one time too many.”
I hear her retch, and then throw up. I run to the door. “You okay, baby?”
“Not feeling so good. I must have been plastered last night. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“No, you were great. You remember dinner, right? And the concert?”
“Oh, my God, yes! And Perkins! I remember him walking me to the door.”
“Right.”
She vomits again. “God, I’m sorry, Buddy. I hate for you to see me like this.”
I feel guilty as hell about the sedative and ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. Please, just go downstairs or somewhere you can’t hear me. I really don’t want to gross you out.”
“Okay, honey. I hope you feel better soon.”
I feel like a complete shit heel. I’m happy about the million dollars in the garage, but I keep remembering Pete Rossman in the jet yesterday, telling me what was in the fine print of the Wish List Agreement:
“Your life.”
I rush downstairs to the kitchen and fire up my computer, get online, and type in www.wishlist.bz. When the website loads, I look for the Agreement.
I find the little box that lets you read the fine print, and click it. I scroll up, down, reading the words, searching for loopholes. Specifically, I wonder if I can make new wishes to cancel out the old ones. But I’m no attorney. I can’t make sense of all the legalese in the agreement. I start a new list and type the words Never Harm Lissie, and a message comes on the screen:
BUDDY, YOUR FOUR WISHES HAVE BEEN GRANTED.IF YOU’D LIKE TO CREATE FOUR WISHES FOR LISSIE,PLEASE CONTINUE. IF NOT, DELETE THIS WISH, ANDLEAVE THE SITE IMMEDIATELY.
Holy shit! I erase the wish and back myself off the website. I don’t want Lissie involved with these bastards any more than she already is. Nor do I want more wishes that have to be repaid! I just want to be left alone with my wife and our life and our million dollars. I don’t want to get arrested for killing my boss, and I don’t want to be linked in the killing of Sally and Tom, and I don’t want to know what made Jinny Kidwell agree to have sex with me. I wonder what the chances are that Rudy and the company will let me do my paybacks and leave us alone. It makes sense they would. If I participate, and do everything they ask, they should be willing to let me walk away.
Then I think about Richie and wonder what I’ll do if they ask me to kill someone.
At that precise moment, there’s a knock at the kitchen door. I jump up and look through the peephole.
And see Rudy.
Chapter 28
“What are you doing here? Lissie’s home!”
Rudy and I are on the porch. I’ve got the door closed, hoping Lissie doesn’t come downstairs before I can get rid of him.
“How’s she feeling this morning?” he says.
“You know about the sedative?”
“I know about everything.”
“Then you should know she’s a bit under the weather.”
“No need to bite my head off, Champ, I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Look, I just want out.”
“Out of what?”
“This whole thing. The Wish List. I want out.”
“I feel your pain.”
“No, seriously, Rudy. What can I do to get my life back?”
“Give us two paybacks.”
Hearing him say that reminds me of last night.
“What happened to Richie?”
“You’ll be pleased to know he came through with flying colors.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Amazing what you can do when your life depends on it.”
“Will you really let us go if we do what you ask?”
“Why wouldn’t we? You can’t have an agreement unless both parties fulfill their promises.”
He’s right! For the first time since meeting the guy, I’m beginning to get a glimmer of hope that everything that’s happened can somehow be swept under the rug. Because what he just said is a hundred percent true: if both parties signed an agreement, and we both agreed to fulfill four requests, doing so should terminate the relationship. I’ve received four wishes, paid back two. It’s a simple math equation.
Then he says, “You ever been in a fight?”
“What?”
“A fist fight.”
“You mean, for real? A real fight?”
“Yeah.”
“No, of course not. I don’t know a thing about fighting.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I signed you up to fight a guy tonight.”
“You what?”
“Tonight at eight. We’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“You know how you were asking me about the group payback last night?”
“What about it?”
“This is a perfect example. A bunch of people wished to see a fight between two guys with no training or experience.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Who would waste a wish on seeing a crappy fight?”
“It’s not gonna be a crappy fight. It’s gonna be a hell of a fight! And my money’s on you, Champ!”
“I’m totally out of shape. There’s no way I can win a fight. I can barely climb the stairs in my own house.”
“You just need a little confidence.”
“It’s not possible. I can’t fight, and don’t want to.”
“There are three motivations working in your favor,” Rudy says, “and I’ll tell you two of them now.”
I’m staring vacantly. I don’t believe in fighting. I’m terrified of confrontation. I can’t stand the sight of blood. I once signed a petition to ban boxing! Last night, watching Tom punch Richie’s face, I almost threw up. Jesus, it just hit me: Tom and Sally are dead.
