Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

72

They’d given him the night, but when morning came, they’d pulled out. Every last one of the six of them, armed and capable, hale and comforting, were gone, and now Lowell Gantcher was alone. He still saw the newspapers and magazines scattered around and the cups and plates used by his executive protection team. He didn’t blame them. They were professionals. When he’d hired them, he’d managed to talk his way around the wiring of the customary $10,000 retainer they required; after all, he seemed like such a big wheel. The minor scuffle in the casino gave him legitimate reason to act distracted and delay the payment even further. And when the two guys got busted up at his house, the company was apologetic and pissed off and agreed to stay on and beef up the team. But when another few days had elapsed, a manager type from the security company had called and given him the drop-dead to transfer funds, so Gantcher had written a check for the full amount. And last night the same manager had called again.

“That check was a Super Ball, sir,” he’d said. “I’m pulling my guys.”

“You can’t do that,” Gantcher pleaded.

“It’s done. First thing in morning. Pay your obligations, sir,” the manager had said, hanging up.

The last words rang in Lowell Gantcher’s ears. He had no more funds, but he was surely going to pay. He thought back to a time not two years ago when he used to spend and allocate money in hundred-thousand-dollar blocks. If his wife bought a couch for fifteen thousand dollars it wouldn’t even get on his radar. He had dreamed of, and saw close at hand, a time when he wouldn’t pay personal attention to anything less than big rocks-seven-figure transactions. But things had reversed course. The accounts had shrunk, and the liquidity vanished. There was nothing left now. Thousands would be a dream to have in hand at the moment. His wife was living on their last few hundred dollars cash up in lake country, though she didn’t know it. As for him, he was down to a few twenties in his wallet and a couple of traveler’s checks in the basement safe.

In the wake of the security team’s departure was a dread as pervasive as water rising inside a sinking submarine. Everything that constituted life had dwindled and was being squeezed out with that dread taking its place. Gantcher opened a rectangular metal case on the coffee table in front of him, revealing the sporting weapon broken down into two parts. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t been able to find a buyer for his Orvis over/under. He picked up the barrel piece and snapped it into the stock. He fished around in a shell bag and loaded both barrels, sorry that the gun was only a 28 gauge and the ammunition number six birdshot, good enough for fragmenting clay pigeons but woefully light to deal with the monster coming for him. Still, he thought, gripping it, raising it to his shoulder, it might do the trick.

He thought about what to do next. It was time to get in the car and run. The tank was full. The only question was: where? Nancy was up north with the kids. He’d give anything-not that there was anything left-to see them, but he couldn’t risk leading Dwyer in their direction. So he could go south, but the country would run out too quickly, and he hated the thought of being cut down in some Louisiana swamp. The west seemed to hold more possibility. If he could make California, he might be able to get lost in the endless overpopulated sprawl. Maybe he could catch on with a construction crew and get paid in cash. He’d be packed and out of the house in five minutes. It was time to go.

He felt a draft, a slight breeze that spread through the family room when the kitchen door was open. He didn’t hear anything over the rain, though …