Blind to Sin Read online

  Tammy sank into the couch and her muscles relaxed. A faint pain settled in her stomach, like someone gently prodding her with a needle.

  “All right, Mack. See you soon. Thanks.”

  “Calling in a favor?” Tammy said.

  “You have to rest,” Sarah said.

  Tammy laughed. “I feel better than I have in weeks.”

  Sarah shot Matt a look. He shrugged.

  “Who did you call?” Sarah asked.

  “Mack. He’ll help. Somehow.”

  “The cops will get here first.”

  “Probably. We’ll be okay.”

  “He was going to kill us,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah.” Herrick looked at the ceiling. “His last words were ‘tomorrow.’”

  Their conversation continued, but Tammy didn’t care. She focused on the TV, some old sitcom from the 80s she’d changed the channel to. The old Tammy was back, even if it was only for five minutes.

  She laughed at one of the stupid guys on the screen.

  DONNE SAT behind the wheel of a 1998 Honda Accord. The used car dealer on Riverside Ave in Lyndhurst nodded his approval. Probably more at the promise of fifteen hundred dollars in cash rather than loving the car Donne was about to buy. It didn’t matter.

  A full tank of gas would take him a few more stops, and then he would get the hell out of Dodge. Kenneth’s money would probably keep him going for a week or two.

  “This car will take good care of you. Hondas are built to last,” the dealer said.

  Donne didn’t answer, instead passing a fist full of cash through the window to the dealer.

  “Are you in a hurry, sir? We have some paperwork we should fill out.”

  He got out of the car and followed the dealer into the office. There were pictures of him shaking hands with different customers in front of different cars, big grin on his face. There was also a frame of a dollar on the wall. His desk was a mess, paperwork, the newspaper and an outdated Mac computer resting precariously on the edge.

  Donne took a seat and stared across the desk. The dealer—Donne didn’t need to remember his name—shuffled through the papers on his desk. Maybe it was a stroke of luck for Donne. This guy was so disorganized that even if Donne passed his ID along, the guy would lose the photocopy. And by the time the police made their way to the car dealership, he’d be long gone.

  “Let me see here,” the dealer said. “Ah, here it is.”

  He passed Donne a contract to sign, which Donne barely scanned over. As he reached for a pen, the dealer stopped him.

  “Did you forget to grab a napkin after breakfast, sir?” The dealer pointed at Donne’s hand. He grinned, like they were buddies busting balls during a Happy Hour.

  Donne looked at it and saw the dried blood. Jesus Christ. He thought he got it all using the hose near an old warehouse.

  “Yeah. Stupid Taylor Ham and egg. Let me go wash it off.”

  “Salt, pepper, ketchup?” The dealer laughed. “Get that stuff on the contract and it messes everything up.”

  Donne washed his hands in the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. It seemed like each day the lines on his face got deeper, and the circles under his eyes got darker. Maybe it was time to go back to the beard, and cover half his face up again.

  Running was possible. Donne knew it. He’d done it once before. Jeanne had done it twice and, as far as he knew, had never been caught. She was somewhere warm raising her kid. Maybe he could find her.

  After this was over.

  He left the bathroom, and the dealer grinned.

  “Much better,” Donne said.

  Donne took the pen and scribbled his name as illegibly as possible. Didn’t want to make things too easy.

  “The thing about Hondas,” the dealer said, “is they’re reliable. No matter how long you have them, as long you change the oil, they will survive. I’ve heard people put two hundred thousand miles on them. They just keep trucking. Get you out of a lot of jams. You’ll never be stranded. Even in the snow.”

  Donne nodded. He knew that, it was why he wanted one. “And this one has barely a hundred thousand on it.”

  “Yeah, the previous owner hated giving it up. But time moves on, and we offer good deals.”

  The dealer took Donne’s ID without looking at it. He photocopied it. When the piece of paper shot out of the copier, Donne’s stomach knotted up. He inhaled and waited for the dealer to look at it. But he didn’t.

  It was amazing this guy was still in business. His attention to detail was awful. But good for Donne.

  “We all finished here?” Donne stuck out his hand.

  The dealer took Donne’s hand. “Enjoy the car.”

  “I intend to give it a good run.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Ten minutes later, Donne was on the road, weaving through excess traffic. He found the Parkway and headed south.

  When it was time to run, that was the direction he was headed.

  This time, go south for the weather. No need to drink anymore, and there was nothing wrong with a good tan. Kenneth Herrick once told him he liked the winter. It was cold and felt pure. He felt clean in the winter. Donne didn’t agree. He wanted the sun to burn the guilt off him.

  The dealer was right. The car was handling well. He pressed the gas and got off the Turnpike exit that would take him to his old stomping grounds of New Brunswick. He was leaving this world behind.

  He thought about the dealer one more time. The car was reliable. Saves you, even in the snow. Just like Donne tried to do for Herrick. Save him.

  But Herrick had to show up this morning, didn’t he? Couldn’t leave well enough alone. And now, he was back in the shit. Herrick needed to give this gig up, it only caused a world of hurt. It may have toughened his skin to the point of unfeeling. And Herrick didn’t need that.

  Herrick needed someone to rely on one more time. Donne was a beat up Honda Accord, wasn’t he?

  Because the job wasn’t over. Cole had gotten away with it, and six people had died. With Herrick there, the spotlight would be on him again. He saw the gun pressed to Herrick’s head. He couldn’t miss that scene.

  And now Donne was just going to run away?

  He shook his head and looked for the next exit. He couldn’t run yet. It wasn’t time. He still had to finish things.

  Herrick wasn’t a hero. Herrick needed a hero.

  Jackson Donne.

  DONNE SQUEALED into New Brunswick and found a parking spot easier than he probably ever had. He held the steering wheel tightly with both hands and stared out the windshield. College kids carrying book bags and staring at phone screens passed him. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

  Usually, he’d go to Jesus for this. But Jesus was dead. And Donne didn’t have the kind of contacts to take the next step deeper into Sanchez’s world. At this point, that was probably a good thing. But he still didn’t have guns. He had a pistol, but not the firepower he’d need to help out Herrick.

  Donne opened his eyes. Herrick. The radio had been playing his news report for the last forty-five minutes. The dumbass who didn’t use a gun. Who got him into this situation just by passing him a note. If Donne hadn’t hooked up with Kenneth, none of this would be happening to him. He’d still be sitting in prison, whiling the hours away.

  Or dead.

  But he wouldn’t be about to walk into the one place he’d promised himself he wouldn’t go.

  The Olde Towne Tavern.

  Well, it wasn’t called that anymore. It was called Artie’s Sports Palace, rebuilt from the ground up after a nutjob had destroyed it with a Molotov Cocktail before Donne went away. But, if the drug world didn’t get you the shit you wanted, you could always try a bar.

  Because the regulars in a bar could get you whatever you wanted.

  Donne shook his head. Here we go.

  He got out of the car, crossed the road and pushed the door to the bar open. The music didn’t scratch silent like in old movies. In fact, no
one even looked up from their drinks. Donne ambled past two college kids playing darts and found and empty seat at the edge of the bar. The Yankees were just getting started on the flatscreen TV overhead. Getaway day.

  Appropriate.

  The bartender, a woman who was probably a fifth year senior, walked up to him. She wore a halter top with the name of the bar written in script on it. Her bellybutton ring glittered under the light. Artie had really switched things up here.

  Again.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A club soda, and Artie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need to talk to Artie.”

  The bartender nodded, passed him a club soda and moved on. She filled two more beers, the usual tap fare: Yuengling and Bud Light. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. Donne smelled the fryer and his stomach grumbled. He didn’t know the last time he eaten. Thirty seconds later, Artie, now fully gray, came out from the kitchen.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said.

  Donne spread his hands.

  “You mother fucker.”

  “Let me have it,” Donne said.

  “Get out of my bar.”

  “I need help.”

  Artie slammed his palm on the bar. Some of Donne’s club soda sloshed onto the wood. The patrons looked their way and then turned their focus back to their drinks or their dart game.

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, Artie said, “I’m not helping you. I don’t want you here. Every time you come in here, something explodes. Someone dies.”

  Donne nodded. “Because I don’t finish the job the right way.”

  “You’re supposed to be—” And then, as if a light went off in Artie’s head, “Why the hell aren’t you in jail?”

  Donne gave him the quick rundown. Money. Kenneth Herrick. New York City. He tried to keep as much blood out of the story as possible.

  But when you were about to ask a man for guns, you had to connect the dots with some gore.

  “Who can you connect me with?” Donne asked. “Jesus sent me to you.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with this.”

  “Listen, Artie, remember how we met?”

  “You came here and got shitfaced on a nightly occurrence, I believe.”

  “Before that. Me, Bill Martin and Alex Robinson tracked a dealer here. He would come in here every night. I came in and asked you about him. I know shady people come in here all time.”

  Artie shook his head. “I rebranded. Not anymore. In fact, you can get the fuck out.”

  Donne pushed back from the bar. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “Then all I want to do is say goodbye, Artie.”

  Artie rubbed his face in his hands. “Goodbye.”

  “Forever. Without your help, I’m probably going to die. I know you don’t care. You probably want me dead. I get it. I bring hell everywhere I go. But I’m learning how to change that.”

  The New York Yankee pitcher struck out the batter and the inning was over. A commercial about a used car dealership popped on the screen.

  Artie sighed. “What do you need?”

  “I need to buy some guns. Good ones.”

  “You’re in the wrong place.”

  “Am I?”

  “Can’t Jesus help you out with this?”

  A chill went through Donne’s nerves. “No.”

  Artie shook his head one more time, as if he was trying to rattle something loose. He stared at Donne for a long time. Enough for one commercial to end and the next—an exterminator—to begin. Finally, he said, “Come with me.”

  Donne followed Artie through the kitchen to a rundown office. It was the same office Artie always had, where he kept the books. It was the one thing that hadn’t changed about this place. The one area that was still the Olde Towne Tavern.

  Artie reached into his desk and came out with a business card. He gave it to Donne.

  “You able to pay?”

  Donne said, “I have the money.”

  “Call that number. An old Vietnam buddy. One I hoped to forget. Of course, you’d remind me.”

  Donne didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

  “Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

  Donne started to say thank you, but changed his mind.

  “Never come back,” Artie said.

  Donne left, hoping to comply.

  HERRICK STARED at the front door of his apartment. It wouldn’t close right anymore, not after it had been kicked in. And, he realized, he’d spent too much time this past week reacting and not acting. Donne, his dad, Uncle Adrik, Cole and even his mother. Each had been a chess piece that had put him on the defensive, instead of being aggressive.

  He would have much rather been coaching his team instead of dealing with another life and death situation. But now, as the cops worked around him, he wanted it to be different. The target was on Cole’s back now. Because Haskins had gone too far. And that must have been because of Cole.

  Tomorrow was the day.

  For the moment, though, Herrick still waited, as much as that burned his skin. He needed Mack here. He needed an ally to talk his mom out of this mess. The detectives had taken Tammy back into the bedroom to question her. Herrick asked if she could bring Sarah, just to keep her cool, and the cops acquiesced. But Tammy just grinned the whole way into the bedroom.

  A smile Herrick hadn’t seen since he brought a home straight A report card in fifth grade. She was proud of herself.

  Still Herrick waited. Where was Mack? It had been over an hour. Herrick’s gut twisted and churned old coffee.

  Low voices came from the bedroom, and Herrick strained his ears to try to hear the conversation. The words didn’t come. In the apartment hallway, a medical examiner talked to one of the cops who stood guard. Herrick got up and went into the kitchen, hoping he could get himself another cup of coffee. Of course, everything was evidence, so he was cut off at the pass.

  When he came back into the living room, Mack stood there. Herrick’s stomach settled and he took a calming breath.

  “What the hell?” Mack strode over to him.

  “A guy. His name is Neil Haskins, he came here to kill us. My mom—she shot him.”

  Mack ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Matt.”

  “I know, I know. I thought we were out of this.”

  “Out of what? I haven’t talked to you since the mall.”

  Herrick filled him in as fast as he could, trying to leave no detail out. Donne, his dad—his dead dad. Elliot Cole and Uncle Adrik. All he left out was what the heist was. He told Mack he didn’t know. As he spilled his guts, Sarah helped Tammy back into the living room, and the medical examiner finished his investigation. Two EMTs came and started to tend to Haskins’ body. When he wrapped things up, Mack stared at him without anything to say.

  “I need help, Mack. My mom can’t go to jail.”

  “You should have called me.” Mack tilted his head and wagged a finger. It reminded Herrick of a move Harrison Ford would make, even though they looked nothing alike. “You should have called me a week ago.”

  “You’re right. But it was my dad. And my mother.”

  Mack shook his head. “Let me talk to the lead detective. I’ll see what I can do. But—holy shit, Matt.”

  Herrick turned and walked over to Sarah and his mother.

  “How is she?” he asked Sarah.

  “I’m fine. This is the best I’ve felt in months. I told the cop that.”

  Sarah nodded. “She did great in there.”

  “Are you okay?” Herrick asked Sarah.

  “When this is over, we need to talk,” she said.

  Herrick ignored the icepick in his side. “Mom. You could be looking at a prison sentence.”

  “They’re not going to put me away.”

  Mack sauntered to them. “She’s right.”

  Herrick shook his head. He thought he might fall over.

  The cops were marking stuff up and
finishing up. They’d been around nearly three hours, and day had turned into night. One of the detectives—he’d given Herrick his name, but Herrick had forgotten it in all the commotion—beckoned him. Herrick obeyed.

  “Your friend talked to me, and you’re a very lucky man. I’m not finished with this investigation yet, but I’m not going to bring your mother in. Not today anyway.”

  Herrick nodded.

  “She’s a very strong woman. You’re all very lucky. He had another gun strapped to his leg. She saved you. Stay in town and I’ll be in touch. Also, don’t do anything stupid.”

  Herrick shook his hand and agreed, all the while planning on doing something incredibly stupid.

  He took out his phone and texted Donne, Tomorrow.

  Minutes later, Donne wrote back, I know. It’ll be early. Very early.

  Let’s let the cops handle it.

  Hell no.

  Knew you’d say that. It’s why I didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe me anyway. And I don’t want you anywhere near there.

  No answer.

  Herrick was going to do something stupid. Stop Donne from stopping Cole.

  And then let the police handle it.

  MANUEL WAS weeping.

  Cole and Adrik sat across from him, waiting for him to get control. It didn’t appear that was happening anytime soon. They just needed him to calm down and get him back on point.

  “I’m very sorry,” Adrik said. “My police friends told me. They heard it on the scanner.”

  Another long sob.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Cole said. “We have to get rest and be ready.”

  Manuel wiped his eyes, and for an instant, Cole thought he got through. But Manuel, giant among men, pulled his knees up to his chest in some sort of fetal position.

  “Call it off,” he said through the tears.

  Cole shook his head.

  Adrik said, “The time for mourning is when you are rolling in money.”

  “He was a good man,” Manuel said. “He loved me.”

  Adrik said, “He was cra—”

  Cole reached over and put a hand on Adrik’s arm before he could say anymore.

  Adrik nodded. “Now is not the time.”