I know the pass code to get into his garage, but I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to startle him. He’s already seemed nervous. I’d prefer he come out and get me.
I look up at his condo, but I’m looking into the sun and can’t see any indication of what’s going on up there.
At five after twelve, a mild case of panic starts to set in. I need to see him. What’s he doing? Did he forget? But how could he forget?
He’s freaking out, that’s what’s happening, he’s freaking—
The door rises, startling me. I hike my bag over my shoulder and walk inside.
At the doorway into his condo stands Christian, wearing a dirty white T-shirt, hair fallen into his dark-ringed eyes.
“Happy Halloween,” I say, but he doesn’t smile. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”
I follow him up the stairs. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He stops in the kitchen and looks at me. “I’m fine. Just nerves, I guess. I’ve never done something like this.”
Don’t go wussing out on me now, Christian. I need you, pal.
His eyes are glassy, almost like he’s been crying. He’s pale and sweaty and shaky.
Are you fucking kidding me? He’s going south on me now? We’re just hours away.
“Let me get you some water,” I say.
“Gloves,” he says, pointing at the kitchen counter.
A pair of rubber gloves, pulled out of their wrapping and waiting for me. Smart.
“I just spent . . . all weekend scrubbing you out of this condo,” he says.
I snap on the rubber gloves, grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and hand it to him. “Drink,” I say. “Do you have the flu or something?”
“I just . . . threw up,” he admits. “Nervous stomach, I guess. I don’t have the flu.”
“Let me take your temperature. You have a thermometer?”
“Uh . . . I think so. An old one.”
I head into his bathroom. It reeks of vomit. The toilet lid is still up. What a freakin’ cream puff. But what did I expect, I guess, from a guy with a titanium toothbrush and matching nose-hair trimmer?
“I’ll clean up in here a little,” I call to him. “You should lie down. Get some rest.”
Get some rest and grow a pair of testicles.
? ? ?
When I come out of the bathroom, Christian’s lying on the couch, trying to relax but not succeeding. I drop my bag down and sit next to him, putting his feet on my lap.
“We’re only getting one chance at this,” I say.
“I know that. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”
“Did you practice with the Glock?”
He nods. “I practiced. It’s fine. It’s easy to handle.”
“Okay. What time are you going?”
He blows out. “Probably six-thirty or so, I’ll be there. I’ll try to blend in with the crowd. I’ll make it down to her house about five minutes til seven.”
“Good. A couple minutes before seven, ring the doorbell. If it’s after seven, she might not answer—”
“I know. I got it.”
“And right at seven, people might be sticking their heads out to shout ‘Happy Halloween’—”
“I know, Vicky. A couple minutes before seven. And what happens if other kids are there at that time? Other trick-or-treaters?”
“Not very likely,” I say. “But if so, wait for them to leave.”
“And you’re sure Conrad is out of town?”
“I’m sure. It will be Lauren answering the door. She’s there alone. Okay?” I shake his leg. “We okay? It’s a good plan, Christian.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as me. “I’m fine.”
Jeez. Does he want his hands on that twenty-one million or not?
72
Simon
This isn’t over.
After Vicky leaves Monday morning, I try to find an outlet for my nervous energy. I clean the downstairs, spraying and wiping and vacuuming and dusting. When I’m done, I stretch my back, sore but calmed by the physical labor. The sunlight streaming into the family room helps, too. The middle of the night, dark and desolate, is never a good place for me. Daytime is much better.
And it’s nice to have that green journal behind me, every last page burned to ash and scattered into the wind in my backyard. It’s just about the last remaining connection to Lauren.
Other than the green phone, turned off, in my pocket.