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He hitched his jacket tighter around him, ducked across a deserted lot, and wound his way back toward the north, only to spy a police cruiser slipping down the road. He ducked back into an alley and flattened against the wall of a strip mall. Heart hammering, praying the cop car wouldn’t turn into the alley, the beams of its headlights illuminating the narrow space, he held his breath and heard a soft snort.
“Hey, boy,” a growling voice said, “what you doin’ here, eh?”
Turning his head slowly, pain shooting through his neck, he spied a wiry, bearded man with eyes burning deep in his skull. “Nothing,” Noah said.
“You got any money?”
“No . . . no, just out of the hospital.” Noah was sweating. The cruiser slowed as it passed the alley. He swallowed.
“Drugs? Pills? Y’know, from the hospital.”
“No!” he hissed. “Shhh.”
“Hey, don’t you go shushing me none.”
The cruiser rolled by, not turning in.
“You on the run?” the guy asked, and he stepped closer. “The cops after ya?” In the darkness, his eyes glimmered at the thought of a possible reward.
“I just don’t want any trouble,” Noah said.
“A little late for that,” the man said, and in the darkness, Noah caught a gleam of silver in the man’s big hand. A knife of some kind. His guts hardened.
“Leave me the hell alone,” Noah warned.
“Just turn yer pockets inside out. Let’s see whatcha got.”
“Nothin’,” Noah said. “I got nothin’.” And as the guy lunged, he sidestepped the blow, then hoisted a knee hard in the attacker’s groin. For years, he’d been ducking Ike Baxter’s attacks, and this guy, smelling of booze, was no challenge. With a hard kick, the bastard went down, sprawling, the knife flying from his meaty fingers. Noah swiped up the weapon, tucked it into his pants, and took off at a dead run, cutting across the street and through a parking lot, to head north again. The guy, if he’d even gotten up, didn’t give chase.
He ran through the night, until his lungs started to burn and he had to slow to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. Ike would be at home at least until 6:30 in the morning, when he headed out, first for coffee and smokes with other members of the crew, then onto the job site of the latest building Peterson and Jones Construction was adding to the already sprawling landscape of Las Vegas. Noah would then make his move.
He didn’t think of what he was planning as stealing. More like “borrowing” or even paying Ike back for the times he had lashed out and hit him, either with the back of his hand or a fist or even with a belt. That had ended a few years ago when Noah had grown six inches and put on forty pounds of muscle his junior year in high school. He had effectively taken on the older man, to Ike’s mortification. But as long as Noah had held a job and “contributed to the family budget,” Ike had left him alone. So he figured Ike owed him.
But when he approached the house, not only was it dark, but it seemed empty. Even Roscoe was missing. Noah eased in through a window so as not to wake anyone, and he crept cautiously down the hallway, hardly daring to breathe, but there was no one at home.
Were they out looking for him?
Had he been IDed and the cops called them in for questioning?
Had there been some kind of emergency?
Or had they just packed up and left to avoid the creditors who called day and night?
Had the killer found them? No—they would all be here waiting if that were the case. Right?
He stood in the darkened, narrow hallway and wondered about where they were, the old house creaking around him. He should wait.
For the killer to come looking for you?
“Screw it,” he muttered under his breath as he crept into the den. He half expected Ike to be lying in wait for him, the two plastic bags spread on the desk, his expression murderous. But, again, the room was empty, and when he reached into the vent, he found the stash just as he’d left it. This time, he took the rest of the money and left the drugs.
He thought about taking a vehicle but decided it was too risky. He had the switchblade for protection, so he walked to the main road, faced the sparse traffic, and stuck out his thumb. He felt a pang of regret for his mother. She would be worried. He’d have to call. But for Ike Baxter? He only felt a rush of freedom now that he was no longer under that toad’s thumb.
Several cars passed, until a guy in an aging pickup rolled to a stop on the shoulder, his blinker still pulsing amber. Noah jogged to the side of the idling truck and noted that the door was a different color from the rest of the vehicle. As he approached, the driver, a farmer from the looks of him, leaned over and pushed open the door. “Where ya headin’?” he asked.
“West.”
“That takes in a lot of real estate.” The farmer, wearing glasses, three days’ worth of beard-shadow, and a Raiders baseball hat, looked him up and down as the truck’s engine idled loudly. “Any particular place?”
