Killer, Come Back to Me

Finlay looked up the dark stairs at the light in the opening door above. “Never mind.”

Hamphill came down very quietly, one step at a time, pausing on each one with pain, as if his body were old, tired, and it was no longer fun to live and walk around. He got about halfway down when he saw Finlay. “What do you want?” he said.

“It’s about Sherry,” said Finlay.

I tightened up. The boss said, far away, “What about Sherry?”

“I want her back.”

Hamphill said, “No.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me right. I said I wanted her back, now!”

“No,” said Hamphill.

“I don’t want no trouble,” said Finlay. His eyes moved from my empty hands to Hamphill’s empty hands, puzzled at our strange actions.

“You can’t have her,” said Hamphill slowly. “Nobody can have her. She’s gone.”

“How’d you find us?” I asked.

“None of your damn business,” said Finlay, glaring. To Hamphill: “You’re lying!” To me: “Ain’t he lying?”

“Talk quiet,” I said. “Talk quiet in a house with someone dead in it.”

“Dead?”

“Sherry’s dead. Upstairs. Keep your voice down. You’re too late. You better go back to town. It’s all over.”

Finlay lowered his gun. “I’m not going anywhere until I see her with my own eyes.”

Hamphill said, “No.”

“Like hell.” Finlay looked at Hamphill’s face and saw how much it looked like bone with the skin peeled away, white and hard. “Okay, so she’s dead,” he said, finally believing. He swallowed. He looked over his shoulder. “So we can still collect money on her, can’t we?”

“No,” said the boss.

“Nobody knows she’s dead except us. We can still get the money. We’ll just borrow a bit of her coat, a buckle, a button, a clip of her hair—You can keep the body, Hampy, old boy, with our compliments,” Finlay assured him. “We’ll just need a few things like her rings or compact to mail to her father for the dough.”

A vein in Hamphill’s hard-boned brow began to pulse. He leaned forward, stiffening, his eyes shining.

Finlay went on, “You can have the body, we’ll leave you here with it, so you guys can take the rap.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said, remembering our plan to do the same for Finlay. That’s life.

“Step aside, Hampy,” said Finlay, walking big.

Hamphill fooled everyone the quiet way he stepped aside, turned as if to lead Finlay upstairs, took two steps up, then whirled. Finlay shouted as Hamphill pumped two shots into his big chest.

I shot the gun from one gunsel’s hand. The second gunsel, outside, cursed, banged the door open, and sprang inward, his revolver aimed. The second gunsel shot Hamphill in the left arm just as Hamphill clutched Finlay, and they fell downward, collapsing together.

I got the second gunsel easily with one shot. The first one stood holding his awful red hand. Footsteps came in the back door. Willie came lumbering downstairs, bleating. “Boss, you all right?”

“Upstairs!” I said, helping the boss to his feet from Finlay’s quiet body. “Willie, take him up!”

The third bodyguard rushed in, maybe expecting to see us all laid out stiff. I made a mess of his hand too.

Willie helped the boss upstairs and came down with some rope he’d found. There were no more footsteps outside. I pulled the door wide, letting the mist in, cooling my face. It smelled so good I just lay against the wall, smelling and liking it. The car was parked, its lights dark, but there was no movement. We’d taken care of everybody.