Page 70 of The Furies

“People will still be able to move around some for essentials, but—”

“But there’ll be fewer of them,” Veale finished for him.

“That’s right. And who knows? If this virus gets any worse, maybe they’ll put more police on the streets, even call out the National Guard to restrict activity. We could get stuck here, or find ourselves being asked questions about our reasons for being in town, questions we’d prefer not to answer.”

“And we don’t want that.”

“No, we definitely do not.”

Both men had criminal records that would set alarm bells ringing if they were stopped as part of any routine check. Once they were on the local radar, it would be impossible for them to complete their work here.

Veale tested the air, but could smell only himself. He wanted to shower. By now Pantuff should have been up and dressed, but he’d become obsessed with the virus, which meant monitoring the news channels even when there wasn’t any news, or none worth hearing. Veale wasn’t as worried about the virus as Pantuff was. Whatever happened, he knew he’d be okay. Veale was kin to the cockroach, which was fine by him.

“We gave her until the end of the week to get the money together,” he said.

“I’m aware of that. We’ll have to tell her that circumstances have altered, and not in her favor.”

“And if she doesn’t have it all?”

“Then we’ll take what she has,” said Pantuff.

This wasn’t a big score, but they weren’t big-score guys. Big scores attracted greater attention. You got greedy, you got caught, and it wasn’t as though they were running yachts, or had staff to pay. They drifted between forty-dollar motels and cheap trailer parks, ate at Denny’s and buffets, and drank in bars where the special came in a plastic cup. They were survivors, and you survived by staying close to the mud at the bottom of the pond.

“What if it isn’t enough?” said Veale.

“You’re starting the day with a lot of questions.”

“It’s that kind of day.”

Pantuff returned his attention to the TV.

“We could stage a burning,” he said, “make a video, and send it to her. It would focus her attention if she kicks up, encourage her to try harder. Nothing like a countdown to set a body moving.”

Veale had another question. It didn’t bother him that Pantuff was showing signs of irritation. Pantuff, regardless of rest, wasn’t a morning person. Anyway, Veale wanted an answer. He didn’t like leaving issues unresolved, and was organized by nature. As Pantuff had said, circumstances had altered. The woman was about to be put under additional pressure, and when you pressured people, they grew unpredictable.

“What if she does something stupid?”

“She’s a woman,” said Pantuff. “All they do is stupid.”

Pantuff hated women, which was why he liked tormenting them so much. Veale thought it likely that Pantuff wanted to torment this woman, too, because he’d missed his chance the first time around. It might even have suited him for her to renege on their deal. It would give him an excuse to go after her again.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Veale.

Pantuff got to his feet. He had his cell phone in his right hand.

“We destroy everything she cares about,” he said. “We turn it to ash. Then maybe I’ll rape her to death. Does that answer your question?”

Veale showed no surprise. He’d figured as much, but it was best to be clear.

“Yes,” he said, “it does.”

He stayed quiet while Pantuff made the call. He noticed that Pantuff’s voice changed as he spoke to the woman. It became lower, almost a purr. Veale knew that Pantuff liked to talk to the women while he raped them, and he would have bet good money that this was the voice Pantuff used, because Veale could see him growing aroused. In Pantuff’s mind, he was already inside her.

When the call was done, Pantuff entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Moments later Veale heard the shower running, although he knew Pantuff wasn’t bathing, not yet. He was only using the noise of water to mask whatever sounds his body might be about to make while he was sitting on the john, and he’d left the TV on for the same reason. Pantuff was funny that way. He was embarrassed by the workings of his own body, yet he never insisted on separate rooms, even when they could afford them. Veale knew that Pantuff wasn’t queer. He just didn’t like being alone.

Veale continued half watching the news, and listening to talk of quarantine and sheltering in place. The idea of enforced seclusion appealed to him. It meant he wouldn’t have to deal with people he didn’t know. If there was an issue beyond his comprehension, Pantuff would be there to explain it to him. Otherwise, Veale could read—history, preferably, but only of the ancient world, when life was simpler—and take walks alone. Perhaps, by then, the child would be gone. He hoped so, because the idea of sequestration while the child was still with him did not appeal, not one bit.

The woman worried Veale in ways that Pantuff’s misogyny prevented him from seeing. Veale didn’t believe she was stupid. Her husband might have been—he wouldn’t be dead otherwise—but she wasn’t. So much had already been taken from her. In her position, Veale would be trying to find a way to guard against a double-cross. He might even have been considering a double-cross of his own. If they did decide to lean on her, she would have to be watched.

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