“Get it. Quickly.”

She nodded, her eyes on his as she backed toward the counter. A good-looking woman, seemed smart. A shame. Jack looked back and forth between her and Tom, his adrenaline running, tuning him up. He could feel the faint ache in his toes, the heat in his armpits. City sounds came through the windows, the bark of a dog, a faraway siren.

“You,” he said. “Drag the table over to the wall.”

Tom grimaced, then took the edge of the table in his right hand and scraped it across the floor. A faint line dug in the hardwood marked the passage.

“Get up on the table. Anna?”

She was still rummaging through the drawer. “I know it’s here.” She threw a handful of delivery menus up on the counter, dug back in with both hands.

Jack stepped away, widening the margin and putting his back to the wall to keep them both covered. “Hurry up.”

Anna nodded, then said, “Here it is.” Came out with it, started to walk toward Jack.

“Give it to him.”

She hesitated, then stretched to pass the screwdriver. When his fingers touched it, it knocked from her hand and clattered to the ground. She froze, then bent, picked it up, shaking. She passed it to Tom.

“You know what to do,” Jack said. Tom turned to face the wall. With his good hand, he stretched the screwdriver above his head and went to work on the return vent. The table rocked slightly as he moved.

Jack watched, gun level, mind steady. Probably two minutes, maybe three, since the woman arrived. Figure another few to get the cover off and dig out the money. His ears buzzed in the aftermath of the gun blast, a rhythmic whine that rose and fell. Tell the couple he was going to tie them up, to lie down. With a.45, one shot each would be plenty. Collect the brass. The guy had the vent cover off, finally.

Anna said, “It’s really far back there. You might need a ladder.”

The guy went up on tiptoes, his arm all the way in. A hollow rumble sounded as he hit the walls of the vent.

What else? His gloves should cover him on fingerprints. He’d been bleeding up and down the hallway, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The cops could match his 1911 to the one at the club, but it would be going over the Skyway Bridge on their way out of town. The whine grew louder, and he realized it wasn’t in his ears, but outside, sirens. As always, there was that moment of automatic panic, but he put it aside. Chicago was a big city.

Still, there was something missing. Something right in front of him. Jack stared at Tom, saw the guy digging as far as he could. Looked at the wife. She stared back at him. Why did that seem wrong? Wasn’t it human nature to be looking up at her husband? Especially if he was pulling money out of the wall? It was almost as if she were-

The sirens stopped, and Jack realized what he’d missed. “Oh, you cunt.” How had he not seen this? Had he been that distracted by pain and surprise? It was only the sirens stopping that triggered him. The cops did that when they wanted to roll up quietly. Screaming sirens to get close, then silence for the final approach. The alarm had a panic code.

Tom Reed was frozen, his right arm lost to the shoulder, his neck twisted to look down at his wife. Anna stood straight-backed, defiant. Jack sighted down the barrel of the 1911. “I still have time to kill you.”

Her eyes widened, but she said, “You’ll never get the money if you do.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyes darted over the kitchen, taking in the windows, the rear door. The cops might be a mile away. They might be a block. No way to know. His cell phone rang. Marshall. He grit his teeth.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said. “Just give me the money.”

Anna Reed said, “They’ll be here any second.”

Jack ran.

THE RETREAT OF IMMEDIATE DANGER was like a break between waves at the beach. Tom had been leaning into horror, bracing himself against it, and the sudden absence left him weightless. He pulled his arm out of the vent, shoulder creaking. Stood on the table he and Anna had bought together at a flea market, staring around his kitchen. Everything the same, only viewed from an angle that made it all strange and threatening.

“Are you okay?” Anna stared up, eyes wide. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her arms, first reaching for him, stopping herself, almost crossing them over her chest, and finally letting them dangle awkwardly.

He didn’t answer. Just sank to a squat. His left hand throbbed a warning, and he caught himself in time. Put the handle of the screwdriver in his teeth, then picked up the vent cover with his right hand. Slowly he rose, fighting dizziness. The cover was hard to manipulate with one hand. It had been easy to take it off, but putting it back together was tricky. The way of things.

“Tom?”

He managed to fit it into the open hole. The edge of the drywall held it in place just enough for him to let go, take a screw from his pocket and gently insert it. The handle of the screwdriver was slippery. He slotted it and began to turn, rightie-tightie.

“Tom, don’t bother with that now. We have to think. The police are coming.”

A dozen twists, and the screw was sunk. He pulled the other and went to work on it.

“Honey-”

“Why did you take the money?” He kept his eyes on the vent. The table rocked lightly as he moved.

“I didn’t.”

He laughed.

“I mean, I didn’t take it. I just moved it.”

“Why?”

“I was afraid you would give it to them. The police. Trying to protect me.”

He nodded, habit more than anything else. Now that the adrenaline was fading, everything was starting to hurt. Warming up like an orchestra, all discordant and garbled. His hand led the way, hot swelling throbs of brass-thick pain. Right behind it, his head, a metronomic ache from the blow of Jack’s gun. His back and stomach hummed and warbled, and across his body came a hundred faint stabs and ripples like the twinkling of flutes. He grit his teeth and worked on the screw.

“Tom, we have to get ready for them.”

A final twist, and the cover was in place. For a moment he badly wanted to unscrew it, take it off, and then put it back on again. To repeat the process all day long.

“Honey.” Her voice pleading, strained. “We have to think.”

“You lied to me.” He tucked the screwdriver in his pocket, dropped to the edge of the table, and stepped to the floor.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t think anything like this would ever happen. How could I know?” Her eyes pleading. “I’ll tell you everything, answer any question you like, but right now we have to talk about the police.”

Tom looked away. “What about? We tell them the truth.”

“We can’t.”

He snorted. Gripped the edge of the table with one hand, began to pull it back where it belonged.

“Tom, listen to me. Would you just-” She grabbed the other side, pulling away from him. “Just stop.”

He yanked harder, and she braced herself to resist. The table came off the ground, wavered back and forth. He glared, and she glared back. All of it spilled out between them, the lies, the pressure, the slow tectonic shifts of their relationship exploding in a tug-of-war over a table.

Then a buzzer sounded, loud and insistent. The doorbell from downstairs. The police.

He dropped his side, started for the hallway, where the intercom would open the downstairs door. She was closer, hurried to block the hallway. “Just listen for a second, okay?”

“Get out of the way, Anna.”

“Listen.” She spat the word, then took a breath. “There is no way to tell the cops why that guy was here without telling them about the money. No way at all.”

“I don’t care.” He started to push past her.

She put an arm against either side of the hall to block him. “Damn it, think!” Her eyes pleading. “Later, we can talk all we want. We can figure out what to do, you can be pissed at me – I don’t blame you – but right this second there are cops coming to our door, and we need to be together.”