Terminal (22 page)

The bathroom door opened and Sherm walked out, still clutching the .357. He jumped when he saw me, and I caught a glimpse of something behind him, something lying on the floor in the shadowy bathroom. Before I could make out what it was, he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. I shouted in surprise, thrusting my hands out in front of me.

“Chill, Sherm! Fuck, man, it’s just me.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” He lowered the gun nervously. “I almost shot you, man. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I wanted to see what was going on and talk over some shit.”

“I was taking a dump, yo. Don’t go in there for a while.”

“Thanks for the warning. I won’t.”

“Probably those refried beans I had last night— or the tequila.”

“Where’s Lucas?”

“Who?” He jumped again, trying to hide his surprise.

“The delivery guy. The driver. You said that you locked him in the bathroom, Sherm. So how’d you get back inside if you just took a shit?”

“Oh, him. The water dude. Yeah. When I needed to go, I just moved him into the janitor’s closet. He’s fine, dog. Chill. I didn’t hurt him or anything like that.”

I chose my words carefully.

“But you said that you’d squirted glue in the lock after you locked him inside. How did you get the door open again?”

“Must not have been as strong as I thought it was.”

“Oh.” He was lying, and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure why.

He glided toward me. His feet didn’t seem to touch the carpet. He stank. Armpits and stale, sour sweat, and cigarette smoke, along with a faint hint of cordite.

“So what’s up?” I asked.

“Just finished with the police negotiator again. Same asshole that was on the bullhorn— Ramirez. Why is it that those fucks act so nice, like they’re your best buddy in the whole wide world and the only chance you have to survive is by listening to them? They pretend that they’re so concerned about your fucking well-being and meanwhile, all they want you to do is let the hostages go so they can storm the place and shoot your ass and make the five o’clock news. God, that shit pisses me off. That’s why I was hoping the Quick Response guys would have a negotiator too. Just once, I’d like to fucking deal with a negotiator that was just straight up with me.”

“What do you mean just once?”

He winked. “Nothing. I’m just playing. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, the cops will be busy for the next hour or so. Couldn’t get them to go for backing away from the truck, so instead, I gave them a list of demands like you wouldn’t believe. And they still think there are more of us in here than there really are. So while they’re fucking around with that, let’s have some fun with our guests.”

“We need to talk first,” I said, positioning myself in front of the vault door. “Without them listening.”

“Let’s go in here, then.” He pointed to Keith’s office. Then he raised his voice and hollered at the others. “Listen up! We’re gonna be next door for a second. If any of you fuckers try to run out while we’re talking, just remember that we’re right across the hall. You’ll be dead before you take three steps.”

“Yes, sir,” Roy called. “You’re the boss, after all.”

“That’s right, I am. And you better remember it, old man.”

“We won’t try anything,” Sharon assured him.

There was murmured consent from the rest of them as well.

“After you.” I tried to grin. It felt false.

“You all right, yo?”

“Yeah. Just the cancer eating at my fucking stomach. It hurts, like I drank acid or something. Every time I burp it burns the hell out of my throat.”

“That must suck.”

He opened the office door and flicked the light switch. Behind us, hidden from sight in the vault, John coughed.

“How is he?” Sherm asked, stepping into the office.

“Still out cold, pretty much. Dugan says that he might not wake up again.”

In the vault, I suddenly heard John mutter, “W-what’s happening? Where’s Tommy and Sherm? Who are you?”

Sherm turned around. “You say something, Tommy?”

“Not me,” I shook my head. My heart was pounding. “It was probably Martha. She’s been rambling the whole time about God and shit. She’s a real religious nut.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

I followed him into the office and left the door halfway open behind us, just in case any of them really did try to run. The room was small and windowless. There was a coatrack, a potted and anorexic palm tree, and a few pictures of flowers on the wall. A big desk dominated one end of the office, and the leather chair behind it lay on the floor. I could see the silver wheels sticking out from behind the corner of the desk. Another chair sat in front of the desk. There was no sign of Keith, but there was a picture of him on the top of the desk, standing in front of the Washington Monument. His arm was around a smiling woman, and two smiling kids stood in front of them. The .38 Sherm took from Mac Davis rested on the desk beside the picture.

“So what’s up? What’d you need to talk about?”

“You tell me, Sherm. John’s not good at all, man. Any word on the ambulance yet?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t what you want to hear. They won’t send one. I asked them, but they wouldn’t do it. Fucking cops.”

“Did you tell them that John was one of us, or that he was a wounded hostage?”

“A hostage, dog. But they still wouldn’t budge.”

“Why?” I sputtered. I knew it didn’t matter, knew that John was getting better at that very moment. But I still had to distract Sherm and it was still aggravating.

He shrugged, not answering.

“Come on, Sherm. What reason did they give you?”

He shrugged a second time, his eyes flickered, and I knew then that he was lying again. He hadn’t even mentioned it to the cops.

“Sherm—”

“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?”

I pushed past him, rounding the corner of the desk and reached for the phone. He grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back. The phone slipped from my hands and I shoved him, grappling for it.

And I found Keith.

Strips of duct tape covered his nose and mouth. His face was purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets, frozen in death. The tiny veins inside of them had ruptured, and the whites turned blood red. His feet had left black scuff marks on the wall and desk, where he’d kicked at them in what must have been his death throes. I remembered that muffled thumping sound, and I gaped at Sherm in horror.

“Little fucker tried to holler out to the cops while I had him on the phone,” he explained. “I put him on to verify what I was telling them and instead, he started talking smack. Almost told them there was only the three of us and that John was wounded. So I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, just to keep him quiet. But he still wouldn’t shut up. So I put one over his nose too. Figured I’d just teach him a lesson— let him suffocate for a minute or two, then take it off. Fucking asshole went and died on me before I could do that, though. Heh. You should have seen him, yo. Kicking and straining and shit. His head looked like it was gonna explode.”

“So you killed him?”

“It was the only way, Tommy. I couldn’t shoot the fucker. Like you said earlier, if the cops heard another gunshot, they’d have been on us like white on rice.”

“Motherfucker . . . this is some bad shit, Sherm.”

“Yo, it’s not my fault, Tommy. Neither of them were my fault.”

“Neither of them? What are you talking about? Who? Do you mean Lucas?”

“Yeah, Lucas, the delivery driver. Dude wanted to try and make a dash out the back door when we were checking on his truck. Tried to slip out of my grasp, even though I had the gun pointed at the back of his head. Couldn’t let that happen, but I couldn’t shoot him either.”

“You said he was locked in the bathroom, Sherm. You said he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Are you telling me you lied about that too? You killed him and didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything. I didn’t want the rest of the hostages freaking out on us.”

“So what really happened to him then?”

“I drowned him in the toilet.”

I ran a hand across my face and sighed.

“You killed him too.” It wasn’t a question.

“Just like Keith. Had to do it, man. But hey, I didn’t lie, right? I said he wouldn’t be a problem anymore and he isn’t. I’m telling you, dog, it was the only way.”

“That’s not what I mean, Sherm.”

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. He shrugged and lit up another cigarette.

“I don’t get you, man. What the hell is your problem? I warned you we might have to be hard-core on this from the beginning. So why you breaking my balls about this now?”

“Why kill him at all, Sherm? For fuck’s sake, man. I mean, have you lost your fucking mind? Do you have to keep wasting people? Isn’t this shit bad enough already? Can it get any fucking worse?”

He shrugged again. “It’s bad, sure. But it could get a lot fucking worse, Tommy. A lot worse. I’m starting to think we ain’t gonna make it out of here alive, bro.”

Unable to keep the edge out of my voice any longer, I snapped.

“Not if you keep killing people we won’t. Jesus fucking Christ in a jumped-up frigging sidecar, Sherm! How many people have to die before you’re done? Kelvin. That cop, Mac Davis. Lucas. Now Keith. Maybe John. How many? How many do you have to kill? We need a fucking plan, man. What the hell are we going to do?”

“Seriously? ’Cause I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Of course, seriously. What’s the plan?”

“I think we should have some fun. You know. Make the most of what time we have left. Take that Kim chick for example. Did you see the ass on her? God, I’d love to pound that. And those ripe little tits? I’d like to chew my way through them.”

He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch, rubbing it through his jeans.

I shook my head in disgust.

“That’s your great master plan? Bang Kim?”

“Well, what the hell else we gonna do, Tommy?”

“We surrender,” I suggested. “Tell them that you and John were just unwilling accomplices. I’ll take the rap.” It sounds stupid now, but at the time, I really did believe it would be that easy— believed that they’d just let John and Sherm off with a slap on the wrist and a don’t-do-it-again.

“Fuck that shit. That’s all good for you, man, but John and I ain’t dying of cancer. You think they’ll just let us walk? What the fuck have you been smoking, Tommy? I’m looking at the death penalty, easy. They’ll give me a lethal injection, then strap my ass down in the electric chair just to make sure. And like I told you before, even if Carpet Dick lives, he’ll get at least forty-one months. They know they’ve got dead bodies already. They can see Kelvin and that dead cop from where they stand. No way, yo. We ain’t walking out of here.”

“Fine. Then John and I can surrender, and you can stay and negotiate separately.”

He raised the .357 and pointed it at me.

“No, Tommy. You must not have understood me. Let’s try this again. I said we ain’t walking out of here.”

My stomach felt cold and the bottom dropped out of it. Automatically, my hand dropped to my waistband, searching for my own weapon. Only then did I realize that I’d left it lying on the floor next to John and Benjy. Out of the corner of my eye, I considered the dead cop’s .38, still lying on the desk. But if I reached for it, he’d drop me before I could grab it.

“Goddamn it, Sherm . . .”

“Remember who planned this shit,” he warned me. “You couldn’t have pulled this off without me. Now, you still want to walk outside?”

“What are you gonna do, Sherm? You gonna fucking shoot me?”

He fingered the trigger, smiled, then relaxed.

“No, man, I ain’t gonna shoot you. I was just playing. But I want you to realize that you’re not thinking straight. That’s exactly what would have been waiting for you if you’d tried walking outside. A bullet. A fucking storm of lead.”

I let go of the breath I’d been holding.

“Look,” he continued, “we all knew the risks when we went into this. You were dying anyway, you said. You didn’t have to worry about getting caught. And as for John— hey, Carpet Dick was dumb enough to come along, even after we both told him not to. So whatever happens with him— well, shit happens. Life’s a bitch, then you die. That’s the rule, man. You can’t do anything about it. He made his decision.”

“And what about you, Sherm? What made you want to come along, knowing that we might end up just as fucked as we are right now?”

“I told you before, yo. We’re boys. I was bored with Hanover. Shit never happens here. I haven’t done anything fun like this since I left Portland.”

“What, you mean you’ve done this before? And this is fun to you?”

His face grew serious again. “Tommy, you got no idea some of the things I’ve done. Some of the shit I’ve pulled.”

I shivered.

He smiled.

“And yeah, this is fun. And it’s about to get funner.”

“Funner ain’t a word, Sherm.”

“Neither is surrender. At least not in my dictionary. So we cool on that?”

I looked down at Keith’s stiffening corpse, then back up at the gun still in Sherm’s hand.

“Yeah. Sure, man, I’m cool with that.”

“All right then. How about we go get this fucking party started?”

He stepped toward the door. I coughed, loud and hard, hoping that the others could hear me in time.

“You all right?”

I rubbed my throat, hamming it up as best I could.

“Yeah. Just thirsty, is all. My throat is really raw. I wish there was something to drink up in here.”

“There’s sodas in the office down the hall. They’re warm though. You want me to get you one?”

“That’d be great, man. Thanks, dog.”

“No problem.”

Before either of us could move, the phones began to ring.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he whined. “What the hell do they want now?”

They rang again. And again.

“Ain’t you gonna pick it up?” I asked.

“No. It’s just that asshole Ramirez, wanting to blow some more smoke up my ass.”

Three more rings.

“I don’t know, Sherm. It might be important.”

Four more.

“Fuck them.”

There was a squawk from outside, then Detective Ramirez’s voice boomed over the still-ringing phones.