“Title of my autobiography,” I said. “I need to know where the uranium is.”
Robert grunted and flexed his arms against the railing, assuming the same defensive posture I’d come to recognize whenever I asked him to do something he didn’t want to do. This time, I cut it short.
“No,” I said, “no more of that. The first part of the plan worked. Every single company I called told Trish they were ending their partnership.”
“She pissed?”
“Less than I thought she’d be but more than she let on. But she was very interested to know that I had moved your uranium to a new location that only I knew about and no one else.”
“Why the fuck did you tell her that?”
“Because I knew you’d try to wriggle out of telling me where it is, so I needed to put some pressure on you.”
“Jesus Christ, Ben, this isn’t a game.”
“No it’s not, so stop playing around. I need to know where it is to draw her away from you and onto me. Otherwise, you’re about to spend the rest of your lives running. Trust me: it’s no way to live.”
His jaw clenched, but he knew I was right about this too. In the end, he settled for a weak threat. “If I find out you sold it back to her or anyone else, I swear to God . . .”
“That’s never been the plan, Robert.” I’d like to say I felt bad for lying to him, but I didn’t. I had no idea what would happen to that box of uranium once I handed it back to Trish, who she would turn around and sell it to, or what they would do with it once they had it. Chances are, it would wind up being used to make a dirty bomb, yes. But dirty bombs were made all the time. It’s what keeps the uranium black market afloat. Fortunately, the authorities apprehend the assholes who make the bombs before they ever get a chance to use them. I was betting what little morality I had left on them doing so again. It was the only option I had to keep my family safe, which made it a risk I was willing to take. Does that make me a cold-blooded asshole? Yes. But we’ve already established that to be true.
Robert shook his head and bit his tongue, but he was out of moves and he knew it. “It’s in a lockbox,” he said. “Stashed underneath the floor panel in my uncle’s boat, out near Warminster.”
“Jesus Christ, you told your uncle about it?”
“Even if I did, he wouldn’t remember. My uncle’s been in a nursing home for the past two years with late-stage dementia. I go by once or twice a month to check on the house, clear out the junk from his mailbox, mow the lawn in the summer. Nobody gets suspicious when I drive up there to make sure the box is where I left it last time. The boat hasn’t been in the water for at least a decade. Just sits in his driveway, rotting in the sun.”
“Still seems risky to me.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think. Do you want the address or not?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The next morning, Robert and I went car shopping. He, Denise, and the kids were to stay at the house with Erica while I made the drive to Warminster, but I wanted them to have the Chevy in case they needed to get out of Dodge quick. As far as Trish knew, until I sent her proof that I had the uranium, this could all be one huge bluff. She wasn’t going to call off The Persian until that box was in her hands.
We passed by a small dealership and went browsing on the side of the road instead, where owners sold for cash and didn’t ask any questions or require any paperwork. . Robert spotted a 1994 Buick Regal parked on the front lawn of a small ranch house about five miles outside of town. The handmade sign in the windshield said $950. It had 149,000 miles on the odometer. The metal had rusted away from the bottom of the passenger door so it rattled like a gong when you closed it. The owner was a widower and the car belonged to his son, who had upgraded to a model made in this century. We talked him down to $900 and paid in cash. Robert checked the engine before handing over the money and felt confident that it wouldn’t crap out on me halfway to his uncle’s house.
The fan behind the center dashboard vent squeaked, but the heater worked fine otherwise. I had it on full blast as I sat behind the wheel, parked outside Aunt Irene’s house, after saying my goodbyes. They weren’t anything special. Ethan never came out of his room. Of all the failures I’d accumulated in my life, my son’s persistent condemnation of me was the one I knew would stick around the longest, and hurt the worst. Denise wished me luck and told me to be careful, but only because their survival depended on my success. Robert spent another ten minutes trying to talk me out of it, being more obstinate than usual. Maggie gave me a hug, squeezed me tight, and started to say something but then turned away, her eyes glassy. She came out to finish her thought as I was getting ready to leave.
“Hey, Peanut,” I said, as she opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. “Everything okay?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head back and forth, as if the motion would jar loose the rest of the words she wanted to say. “It’s not your fault, Dad,” she managed at last.
“Yes,” I said, staring at her. “It is.”
“You couldn’t have known any of this would happen when you took that job. You had no choice, you said so yourself. Look what they did to your finger! You’re not a bad—”
“Maggie,” I said softly. “Stop. Honey, I love you, but we both know what I am.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, and now the tears were building. “You’re a good person. You wouldn’t have come here to help us if that wasn’t true. You’re making them go after you now, not us. You could die.” That line came out as a croak. “You saved our lives.”
I smiled, but only because that’s what she needed to see right then. “Too little, too late, sweetheart,” I whispered.
“It’s not fair.”
It wasn’t. And that was my fault, too. I leaned over and hugged her, and she hugged me back.
I heard the cars before I saw them. My eyes were shut, the lower half of my face pressed into the soft spot between Maggie’s shoulder and her neck, not wanting to let the world back in, not wanting the moment to end. Even over the roar of the heater, though, I heard the crunch of the tires on loose stone. When I looked up there were three of them, older model Ford Tauruses, two with the classic red and blue lights flashing on top and one, unmarked, with a single red globe spinning on the front dash. The other two had the words “Wright Township Police Department” stenciled in black letters on the sides.
“Dad,” Maggie said, pulling away. Her eyes were wide.
“Just relax, Peanut,” I said, although my voice betrayed the confidence of my words.
The three cars pinned us in against the cabin. One behind, one in front, and one next to my driver’s side. Two uniformed officers each spilled from the cars behind and to my left, their guns drawn and pointed at me and Maggie. From the unmarked car, parked in front, came a big guy, thick in the arms and the chest. He was wearing a plain gray sweatshirt but no jacket against the cold. Black jeans and boots, with a gun holstered on his belt. There was a badge clipped next to it. He stood six-three, six-four maybe. Smooth, bald head and a no-nonsense face.
“Come on out of the car now,” he said, his voice booming through my window.
Maggie said, “Uncle Jimmy?”
Fucking. Robert.
“Hey Mags,” Robert’s partner said, catching her look.
She got out of the car and stared at him over the roof, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” Robert said, walking down the steps. “Get out of the car, Ben. Don’t be stupid.”
You’re the only stupid one here, pal.
