Four Live Rounds Read Free Page A

and napkins and straws and stray salt packets in the glove
compartment convinced her it wasn’t there either.
    She glanced back through the partition that
separated the front seats from the back.
    In the middle seat, on top of a Penthouse
magazine, lay Martin’s black leather cell phone case.
     
    “Yeah, I was seeing this woman for a little
while.”
    “But not anymore?”
    Martin took another long pull from Old
Grandad, shook his head.
    “What happened?”
    “She wanted to domesticate me, as they
say.”
    Tim forced a smile. “How so?”
    “Tried to drag me to church and Sunday
school. Anytime we’d be out and I’d order an alcoholic beverage—her
term—she’d make this real restrained sigh, like her Southern
Baptist sensibility had been scandalized. And in bed…”
     
    Laura opened the door behind the front
passenger seat and climbed into the back of the cruiser. Wary of
the interior lights exposing her, on the chance Martin happened to
glance outside, she pulled the door closed.
    After a moment, the lights cut out.
    She picked up the leather case, fished out
Martin’s cell phone, and flipped it open, the little screen glowing
in the dark.
     
    “…I’d gotten my hopes up, figured she’s so
uptight about every other fucking thing, girl must be a psychopath
between the sheets. Like it has to balance out somewhere,
right?”
    As he sipped the whiskey, Tim glanced around
Martin toward the front door.
    “Sadly, not the case. When we finally did the
deed, she just laid there, absolutely motionless, making these
weird little noises. She was terrified of sex. I think she
approached it like scooping up dogshit. Damn, this whiskey’s
running through me.”
    Martin got up from the table and left the
kitchen, Tim listening to his brother’s footsteps track down the
hallway.
    The bathroom door opened and closed.
    It grew suddenly quiet.
    The clock above the kitchen sink showed
11:35.
     
    Laura stared at the cell phone screen and
exhaled a long sigh. Martin’s last call had gone out at 4:21 p.m.
to Mary West, his and Tim’s mother.
    She closed the cell, slipped it back into the
leather case, sat there for a moment in the dark car. She realized
she’d somehow known all along, and she wondered how she’d let Tim
know—maybe a shake of the head as she crept past the kitchen on her
way up the stairs. Better not to advertise to Martin that they’d
suspected him.
    She searched for the door handle in the dark,
and kept searching and kept searching. At least on this side, there
didn’t seem to be one. She moved to the other door, slid her hand
across the vinyl. Nothing. Reaching forward, she touched the
partition of vinyl-coated metal that separated the front and back
seats, thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me.
     
    Ten minutes later, flushed with
embarrassment, Laura broke down and dialed her home number on
Martin’s cell. Even from inside the car, she could hear their
telephone ringing through the living room windows. If she could get
Tim to come outside unnoticed and let her out, Martin would never
have to know about any of this.
    The answering machine picked up, her voice
advising, “Tim and Laura aren’t here right now. You know the
drill.”
    She closed Martin’s cell, opened it, hit
redial—five rings, then the machine again.
    The moment she put the phone away, Martin’s
cell vibrated.
    Laura opened the case, opened the phone—her
landline calling, figured Tim had star-sixty-nined her last
call.
    Through the drawn shades of the living room
windows, she saw his profile, pressed talk.
    “Tim?”
    “Thank God, Laura.” Marty’s voice. “Someone’s
in the house.”
    “What are you talking about? Where’s
Tim?”
    “He ran out through the backyard. Where are
you?”
    “I um…I’m outside. Went for a late walk.”
    “You on your cell?”
    “Yeah. I don’t understand what’s—”
    “I’m coming out. Meet me at the roundabout
and we’ll—”
    Martin’s cell beeped three times