Anna glanced over her shoulder, then said, “Fifteen thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars, and fifty-seven cents.”

“Sure thing, lady.” The clerk rolled her eyes, then gestured to the customer behind Anna. “Next.”

“Wait.” Anna didn’t budge. “Is there a problem?”

“Only with you being crazy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You serious?” The clerk stared. “You want a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars?”

“And fifty-seven cents.”

“How do you plan to pay for that?”

Anna reached into her purse, took out a bundle and a half of hundreds. Set them down on the counter, then smiled to see the clerk’s jaw drop.

THE SHOTGUN WAS a Remington Tactical 870 configured with a pistol grip and loaded with three-inch magnum slugs. Marshall liked it. At this range, it would tear a fist-sized hole in the door and eviscerate anyone standing on the other side. Of course, fired inside, it’d leave them both half-deaf for hours too.

Jack knocked, and they both watched the peephole set in “Bill Samuelson’s” door. Seconds clicked by. There was a faint odor of smoke. Jack knocked again, then rocked from foot to foot. “He’s not here.”

There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, and that irked Marshall. Professionally speaking, Will not being here was a good thing. It would give them time to search the place, find the money if it was inside. He was more than happy to help take care of Will – man had stolen from him too – but you had to have priorities. He put up the shotty. “How’s the dead bolt?”

Thirty seconds later, the door swung wide. The living room was spartan, just a lamp, a La-Z-Boy, and a television on a pressed-wood entertainment center. Marshall went first, sweeping the room and then the hall. Behind him, he heard Jack lock the door.

The apartment radiated that unmistakable feeling of emptiness, but Marshall moved carefully anyway. The bedroom had a cheap box-spring-and-mattress combo, the blankets ruffled like someone had been sleeping on them. The second bedroom had been converted to a weight room, with a crammed ashtray and a bench sporting iron. A hall bathroom had the lights off, toilet in need of cleaning. In the kitchen, the stovetop was scorched and the wall blackened. The source of the smoke, apparently. A back door led to a narrow stairwell. “Looks like he took a powder.”

Jack didn’t answer, just wandered back down the hall. Stepped into the weight room, looked around. He picked up one of the cigarettes, inspected it, the butt smudging his white surgical gloves. “What kind of an asshole smokes while he’s working out?”

“Will’s kind.” The hunter in him could feel Will here, could see him lifting, pausing between sets to fire a cigarette. The man would have been nervous, jumpy. Feeling a constant pressure behindhis eyes, that sense he was being watched, that someone was getting closer. Marshall let the shotgun dangle, checked the load on the bench. 120. Pussy. “Why didn’t he blow town?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe he figured we’d leave first.”

Marshall nodded. If Will thought they didn’t have a way to find him, then holing up wasn’t a bad idea. Without the cash, and with CPD working doubles to find them, leaving was a good call. The job had been all over the newspapers and the tabloids both.

“Damn it,” Jack said, slinging his.45.

“It’ll take a while to search.” Marshall shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, he’ll drop by, you two can have yourselves a chat.”

SHE HIT FIVE MORE Currency Exchanges in the next few hours. It seemed safer to spread it out. Then she stopped by the clinic and stunned the receptionist.

They’d figured it the night before, sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of three-buck-Chuck between them. “It should work,” Tom had said. “If we never deposit the money, never declare it, the government doesn’t know to look for it. Cashier’s checks.”

As it happened, Anna had found an even better twist. The cashier’s checks were good for the clinic and their medical expenses. But Currency Exchanges would let them pay their credit card bills directly, immediately depositing the money.

That morning, they’d been almost seventy grand in debt. By noon, they were even.

The feeling was strange and wonderful. In their wildest hopes, they hadn’t imagined being able to pay that down for years. They’d become resigned to it, this ethereal burden that trailed behind them, and suddenly they were free. It was like dropping ten pounds. She felt a radiance, a glow that made her smile, made her nod her head and tap her fingers as the Mountain Goats sang from the CD player, John Darnielle telling her how he was gonna make it through this year if it killed him.

Anna parked the Pontiac on their block, slung her purse over her shoulder, and took the hardware bag in her other hand. Leaves rustled in a hundred shades of green above her head, and the air was sweet with the smell of dirt and sunlight. She walked down the street, taking it all in, breathing beauty. She skipped up the steps to their front porch, hummed as she opened the door to the vestibule. She had a feeling she hadn’t had in years, one that used to come naturally, back in the days when a job was just a job, when the future was nothing but options. A simple, wonderful feeling that everything, everything, was going to be okay.

She pulled the keys from her purse and started for the stairwell door. Then paused. No point hauling the cleaning supplies up to their apartment. May as well just leave them in the bottom unit. Anna stepped to Bill Samuelson’s door and slid the key in the lock.

Still humming, she stepped into the living room and shut the door behind her. The place smelled like smoke, though not as badly as before. She set down her purse and the bag from the hardware store, then went to the bay window, unlatched it and hoisted it rattling upward. That was better. She started down the hall, intending to do the same in the kitchen, get a little cross-draft going.

The door to the bedroom was closed. That was odd. She didn’t remember closing it after they left the other day. Maybe they’d left a window open, and the breeze had slammed the door. Anna turned the handle, pushed the door open.

The drawers were all pulled out of the dresser, and the closet doors were open. The mattress lay askew on the box spring. Ghostly feathers traced her back. “Tom?” Had he come home early to start clearing out the apartment? She stepped into the bedroom like the floor might crack beneath her weight. “Honey?” Anna took another hesitant step, conscious now of her breathing, of the weight of the purse strap on her shoulder and the pinch of boots against her toes. She could smell something foul, a rotten stink that made her nostrils twitch. It was coming from the bathroom.

Slowly, she peered around the corner. The vanity lights were on, hot white spilling across the room. Below, the cabinets gaped, revealing the lonely leftovers of a life: air freshener, plunger, half-burned candle. The medicine chest doors hung wide, their mirrored faces throwing fragments of the room. Bottles had been knocked over, and the toothpaste and toothbrush lay on the floor. The room looked like someone had gone through it in a hurry.

The smell was worse here. It took her a moment to realize why, and then she noticed the toilet. Ughh. Why would Tom walk away like that, forget to flush-

Suddenly it hit her all at once. The disarray, the closed bedroom door, the toilet, Jesus, the disgusting toilet, left filthy by someone. Someone not Tom. The muscles in her neck tightened, and she threw one hand up to cover her mouth. Whirled around, realizing her back was exposed, sure someone was behind her.

The bedroom was empty.

She had to get out. Fast. But what if whoever had done this was still inside? Her temples throbbed, and her armpits went moist. Did she dare risk running for the front door? She’d come in humming, called Tom’s name, done everything but telegraph exactly where she was. He could be creeping down the hallway now, a skinny man with long dirty fingers, a knife in one hand, the other on the zipper of ragged pants, stroking slowly-