37
Gordon and Wendell Touay were all packed.
The plan was simple. Nothing remotely fancy. They were going to drive to East End Harbor. They were going to wait until Justin Westwood and Deena Harper were together and they were going to kill them. If possible, they would hurt them first. Hurt them badly. But that would be a luxury. All they really cared about was putting an end to their lives. Putting this whole unpleasant situation behind them. The bonus, they hoped, would be the little girl, Kendall. Her they’d let live for a while. A little while, anyway.
They went out through the small workout room, into the garage. They had no luggage; they weren’t planning on staying overnight. When this was all done they had decided they were going to put their luggage to good use. They were going to take a long vacation. Maybe down to the Islands. Spend a few weeks on the beach, soaking in the sun, drinking margaritas. Looking for some new and different kinds of fun.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Gordon said as he opened the car door.
“What?”
“Did you drink my Diet Coke?”
“What? No.”
“Well, somebody did.”
“Gordon,” Wendell said, “I don’t drink Diet Cokes. I have never in my life had one of your Diet Cokes.”
“I’m just saying, I had one in the fridge this morning and now it’s gone.”
“Maybe you drank it and forgot.”
Gordon shook his head. “I didn’t drink it.”
Wendell looked at his watch. “Can we discuss this while we’re on the road?”
Gordon was certain Wendell was lying—who the hell else would have been in their house, been in their refrigerator—but he sucked back his annoyance, nodded at his younger brother, opened the door to the driver’s side of the car, and stepped in. Wendell got in the passenger’s seat, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out the automatic garage-door opener. He pointed and clicked and the door began to slide up and open.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gordon said as he put the key in the ignition. “Look.”
Wendell turned his head. On the floor of the driver’s side, by the gas pedal, was a hand grenade. Wendell had a collection he’d brought back years ago from the Gulf. Gordon reached down and picked it up, handed it to his brother.
“For God’s sake,” Gordon said again, then snapped, “How the hell can you leave this thing in the car? Have you lost your mind?”
“I didn’t leave that in the car,” Wendell said quietly.
“Well, who else do we know who has toys like this?”
“I’m not saying it’s not mine. It is. I have two of them left. I’m just saying I didn’t leave it here. And I didn’t drink your Diet Coke, either.” Then they both fell silent.
The silence was broken when their cell phone rang. The twins looked at each other. As far as they knew, Alfred Newberg was the only one who had that particular number. And he’d made it clear that he would not be calling anymore.
“Hello?” Gordon said tentatively into the receiver.
“I got your number from Newberg,” a man’s voice said.
“Who is this?”
“Also your address.”
“What the hell do you want?” Gordon asked.
“I just want to tell you two things,” the voice went on.
“F*ck off,” Gordon said. When the man didn’t say anything in response, Gordon put a little bit of sneer into his next words. He was getting angry. Whoever this guy was, he was going to suffer. “Okay, here’s your big break. What do you want to tell us, a*shole?”
“First, thanks for the Diet Coke.”
Before the man could continue, Gordon and Wendell both heard the noise at the same time: a rolling noise, like a bowling ball slithering down a lane. The noise ended when whatever the object was came to a stop, bumping up against something. The rear right tire, it sounded like.
“You want to know the second thing?” the voice asked. “’Cause I’d really like you to hear it.”
Gordon swiveled around, saw a man standing outside their garage. The guy looked familiar. He looked like—
“Shit,” Wendell said. And when Gordon turned to face him, the younger twin said, “The other grenade.”
“Bye-bye,” the voice on the phone said. “That’s the second thing.” They both reached desperately for the door handles, Gordon to his left, Wendell to his right. Wendell got his fingers wrapped around the metal handle. Gordon didn’t even get that far.
By the time the fire trucks arrived, Justin Westwood was over a mile away, driving back north, heading out of New Jersey on the two-and-a-half-hour drive toward East End Harbor.
When he reached the sign on the side of the highway that welcomed him to Long Island, he realized he was whistling and had been whistling for quite some time.