“What are you talking about?” Jimmy wanted to know.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I kept reviewing the plan in my head. So many details. I wanted more time, yet I could not leave Jill in Brand’s hands for another night—I just couldn’t. I made as many of the preparations myself as I was able, partly because it was easier than explaining it all to the others and partly to convince myself everything was done correctly. But mostly I did it because I needed to keep busy and not think too much. I was the one who put Jill in the jackpot. I could blame Bullert and the ATF all I wanted—and I did—yet I was the architect of this insanity and no one else. Jill was in danger because I wanted to play junior G-man, and the realization tied my stomach in knots. The nonstop work was because I was afraid that if I remained still even for a few minutes my growing anxiety would infect the others.
In between tasks I had briefed the Bandits relentlessly.
“Probably there will be complications,” I told them.
“What complications?” Josie had asked.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why they’re called complications. Otherwise they’d be problems, and those we can solve ahead of time.”
That hadn’t seemed to fill anyone with confidence. As it was, the last thing Josie said that morning before I sent her off was, “Should I be afraid now?”
“Probably,” I told her.
She had hugged me and kissed my cheek, and for a brief moment I told myself, if we get out of this alive …
And then the woman we had been waiting for drove up the street.
“Here we go,” I said.
She slowed as she approached the house, turned into the driveway, and stopped parallel to the side door. She got out of the car, pulling a large purse with her that she draped over her shoulder. Her long hair was dark, nearly black though not quite, and she wrapped it in one of those god-awful scrunchies to keep it out of her face. She was dressed as if she expected to spend the day working in her garden. She opened the trunk and heaved out two bulging paper grocery bags by the handles. After closing the trunk with her elbow, she carried the bags to the door, fumbled briefly with her keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside the house, leaving the door open behind her.
Clever girl, my inner voice said.
“Stay here,” I said. I opened the door to the Jeep Cherokee and stepped out. Daniel ignored the command and followed me. I didn’t ask if maybe he wasn’t being just a tad anal retentive in his compliance with Brand’s orders—I didn’t have the time. Instead, we crossed the street and the woman’s lawn in a hurry, pulling on black ski masks as we went. I met the woman at the door. She was coming out just as I was going in. I grasped her throat with one hand and shoved backward. My other hand I filled with the bartender’s SIG Sauer. I pushed the woman inside the house, pinning her against a kitchen wall. The way she gripped my wrists and fought to pull my hand away, you’d have thought I was trying to strangle her. I loosened my fingers on her throat, yet she gasped for breath just the same. I pointed the gun at her face.
“Where are your children, Ms. Rooney?”
Her eyes were large and fearful. Her voice was like the loud whisper of a stage actress. “Children?” she asked.
“Where are they?”
“At, at their grandmother’s.”
“Do they always stay there while you’re at work?”
“Yes. Yes, I see them … see them … after.”
“Do you love your children?”
“My children, yes, I love—my children—what are…”
“Your children are perfectly safe, Ms. Rooney. Do you want to see them again?”
“What are you saying? What do you want?”
“Do you want to see them grow up?”
“Please…”
“You must do as I say, Ms. Rooney.”
“Don’t hurt me. Please…”
“I will not hurt you. I will not hurt your children. Everything will be fine if you do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand anything.”
I tightened my fingers slightly. Rooney pulled her head up and away as if the pressure were too much. The words came out of her mouth as if she were speaking them with her last breath.
“I’ll do what you say. Anything. Please don’t hurt me.”
Daniel was standing inside the kitchen doorway and watching. I could see his eyes through the slits in the mask. They seemed flat and without emotion.
“Park the Cherokee in the driveway,” I told him. “Bring the others in. Remember, no names.”
He continued to watch me.
“What?” I said.
He turned and hurried out of the door. I released the woman’s throat. She brought her hands up and massaged her neck.
“That hurt,” she said.