Bad Memory Read online

  Lonnie and Kathleen turned up five minutes later, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pretending to listen to inane conversations and trying to stem the nausea that was being made worse by the smell of charred meat. Even his favorite liquor left a bad taste in his mouth. Bruce noticed Cynthia giving him “the look” a few times—the one that meant he’d have some explaining to do later—but he ignored her.

  He was thinking.

  He needed a plan.

  It was what Bruce Lucchese did best.

  So he laughed and nodded in all the right places as Rick and Lonnie droned on and on about the development, and he nursed his bourbon, and he ignored Cynthia’s pointed looks, and he kept on thinking.

  And a plan began to form in his mind.

  Later, once Rick and Linda and Lonnie and Kathleen had left, their bellies suitably stuffed full of bread and meat and booze, Bruce encouraged Cynthia to go take a nap, told her he’d clear up the mess.

  “Why not?” Her words were thick with too much chardonnay. “It’s not like you contributed anything else to the party.”

  After slipping out of her stilettos, she padded through to the den and closed the door behind her. Bruce knew the Zs would be hitting the ceiling in five minutes tops. Cynthia never could handle wine in the afternoon. He waited in the kitchen and watched the minute hand on the wall clock jerk forward five times; then he tiptoed to the den and peeked inside. Sure enough, Cynthia was sprawled on her back on the couch, eyes shut, mouth open, a trashy soap opera muted on the television. He pulled the door shut and returned to the kitchen.

  Bruce picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the number for Ed Crozier’s private detective agency. The office machine kicked in after one ring, the message advising callers the agency was closed for the holiday weekend and would reopen on Tuesday. Good. Far less chance of being followed by the private dick. Patty was confident she had convinced Crozier to drop Cynthia’s case, but tonight’s business was different. An audience was out of the question. He hung up.

  Then Bruce set about collecting what he’d need: a medium-size knife from the kitchen drawer; a pair of latex gloves from the cardboard box in the garage; the Glock he’d purchased illegally in Vegas stored in the locked gun cabinet in the hallway closet; and an old windbreaker, jogging pants, tee, and sneakers from the bedroom closet. He slid the knife into his pocket and dumped everything else into a duffel bag. As he passed by Tom’s bedroom, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” was playing on the stereo.

  Bruce Lucchese didn’t believe in prayers.

  He believed in plans.

  He made his way downstairs.

  At eight fifteen p.m., Bruce slipped silently into the den and left a note for his sleeping wife on the glass coffee table.

  Emergency at the construction site. Back soon. B.

  He walked out the front door with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and the knife weighing down his pocket. He looked up and saw a lamp glowing softly in the window of Tom’s bedroom. Dusk was beginning to claim the day. A streetlight hummed to life on the sidewalk. Bruce cut across the front yard to the driveway, where Tom’s Toyota Supra was parked next to his own BMW.

  He pulled the knife from his pocket, bent down on his haunches, and pushed the blade into the thick rubber of the Toyota’s rear tire. Twisted it from side to side. Heard a soft hiss and removed the knife. After walking around the trunk to his own car, Bruce climbed inside and tossed the duffel bag and knife onto the passenger seat.

  Then he set off for Devil’s Drop.

  Bruce Lucchese had killed a man once.

  It’d happened a long time ago in Vegas. Not with his own hands, but the guy was dead because of Bruce all the same. A onetime business associate who had made the fatal error of stealing a lot of money from Bruce. Once the orders were given, the guy never stole from anyone else again.

  Sweat dampened Bruce’s brow now, and he cranked up the AC. A similar outcome wouldn’t be necessary tonight, he told himself. The gun, the gloves, the change of clothing—they were all just part of a backup plan. All he wanted to do was talk to the girl. Make her see sense. Paint a picture of the life she could soon be enjoying—a college education, a job, an apartment, travel.

  All Megan Meeks had to do was keep away from his son and keep her mouth shut.

  He’d considered telling Patty what was going on with Megan and Tom but had decided against it. Patty was too emotional. She’d only panic, probably tell Megan the truth about her father, and that would increase the chances of Cynthia discovering he had an illegitimate child. No way was Bruce handing his wife that kind of ammunition. No, better he sort this mess out himself. Megan didn’t need to know why she had to stay away from Tom—she just had to take the money.

  Bruce flipped the blinker out of habit, even though the highway was deserted, and took the turn for Devil’s Drop.

  Once he reached the clearing, Bruce kept going and found a smaller space farther along the hilly terrain, where his car would be concealed from the make-out spot by a cluster of Joshua trees and California juniper.

  He swapped his chinos and Aquascutum polo shirt for the clothing he had packed in the duffel bag. After zipping the gun into the inside pocket of the jacket, he snapped on the latex gloves. The plan was for the weapon to remain inside the windbreaker and to keep his hands out of sight throughout the conversation with the girl.

  But it was better to be prepared in case the plan had to change.

  And Bruce Lucchese was always prepared.

  After twenty minutes, he heard the growl of an engine and the crunch of tires on twigs and rocks and dried wildflowers; then he saw the twin sodium beams of headlights through the foliage.

  She had arrived.

  Bruce emerged into the clearing. It was full dark now, and he could just make out the dark silhouette of a car, its lights off, parked nose facing out toward the canyon. He shoved his gloved hands deep into the windbreaker’s pockets, felt the cold steel of the Glock pressed against his chest.

  He hoped Tom would blow off the date completely once he discovered the flat tire. He was counting on his son being too lazy to fit the spare, as well as a lack of taxicabs in town on a holiday weekend to take him to Devil’s Drop. Cynthia didn’t drive, and Bruce was pretty sure Tom, like his mom and dad, didn’t have too many friends in Hundred Acres willing to drop their plans on a Saturday night and offer him a ride.

  He should have plenty of time with the girl, but Bruce wanted the job completed quickly. He approached the car. As he reached the driver’s side, the silence was shattered by a whistle and a crash and a bang. Fireworks from the town below lit up the black night, and Bruce Lucchese knew immediately he had made a mistake.

  Megan Meeks wasn’t alone.

  A young guy of about eighteen sat behind the wheel. As the sky exploded in pinks and greens and yellows and reds, the driver turned his head, and his eyes met Bruce’s. Shock registered on his face and quickly turned to confusion and then disgust. The teenager turned and spoke to Megan, who was beside him in the passenger seat; then he pushed open the door and got out of the car. The younger guy was tall, similar in height to Bruce, but far less muscular.

  “What the fuck are you doing creeping around my car?” the kid shouted. “Trying to get your kicks from watching folks get it on or something?”

  “I was looking for someone.” Bruce held up his hands in surrender and began to back away. “I clearly got the wrong car. I’m sorry.”

  The kid stared at the hands wrapped in the latex gloves.

  “What the fuck?” He reached into the pocket of his shorts, and Bruce heard a flick and saw the glint of a blade. “You fucking pervert.”

  Bruce took another step back as the younger guy moved toward him with the knife.

  “It really was a genuine mistake. I’ll get out of here, leave you kids to enjoy your night.”

  Then the inky sky turned pink and green and yellow and red again, and the kid said something that changed everything
.

  “Wait a minute; I know you. You’re that casino dude.”

  Bruce said nothing.

  The kid called over his shoulder. “Hey, Megan, is this your boyfriend’s dad?”

  Megan leaned across the driver’s seat and peeked out of the car. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide.

  “Uh, I don’t know. I’ve never met Lucky’s dad.” Then she frowned. “I do recognize this guy, though. He’s the one who was hanging around outside school a couple of times.”

  “You sick fuck,” the young guy said.

  Then he lunged forward, waving the knife back and forth, and Bruce charged at the kid and made a grab for the weapon. They grappled with each other, and then they were on the ground, rolling in the dirt. Nature’s potpourri of burnt earth and dried leaves and wildflowers filled Bruce’s nostrils, along with the kid’s sweat. He clamped his fist around the knife hand. He was a lot stronger than the kid, and he pushed down, away from his own chest. Didn’t even realize the blade had pierced flesh until the kid’s eyes widened, inches from his own, and he gasped.

  Bruce fell back and saw a dark stain spreading at the top of the guy’s shorts. The knife was lying beside him on the ground. The kid was breathing heavily, and his face was gray and coated with a sickly sheen. With some considerable effort, the kid pulled himself to his feet, clamped a hand over the wound to stem the blood, and staggered toward the vehicle’s rear door.

  “Megan,” he called, his voice hoarse. “Start the car.”

  Panic flooded through Bruce and made him feel light headed. He had crossed a line. He knew there was no way back now. He grabbed the knife and threw himself at the kid. As the young guy tried to climb into the back seat, Bruce plunged the blade between his shoulder blades once, twice, three times. The kid slumped forward into the car and stopped moving.

  Megan started screaming. Bruce’s eyes went to the knife in his hand, the blood dripping onto the dirt. He looked at Megan. She was screaming the kid’s name. Lucas. Over and over again. Her eyes met Bruce’s, and she stopped screaming. She slid into the driver’s seat and reached for the keys in the ignition to start the engine, but her fingers were trembling so badly she knocked them into the dark floorboard. Bruce’s head cleared suddenly, and he knew what he had to do. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and threw himself at the open driver’s door before she could close it and lock it. Megan scrabbled backward into the passenger seat, her face streaked with tears and mascara.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered.

  She reached behind and opened the passenger door, and Bruce could see her weighing the options. Make a run for it or stay and fight. Neither of them was good. Before she had even reached a decision, Bruce had slid across the hood and was on top of her.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  He’d come here thinking he’d be able to shoot Megan if she refused the hush money. A last resort. Clean and quick. He didn’t know the girl, wouldn’t feel any more for her than he did the guy who had crossed him in Vegas. It wouldn’t come to that anyway, he had reassured himself; she would take the money. But his plan was shot to shit. Another kid was already dead. The girl had to die, too, and that knowledge broke a part of Bruce’s heart. He’d been wrong when he thought he’d feel nothing. He knew now, had things turned out differently, he wouldn’t have pulled the gun on her. Wouldn’t have taken her life. Now, he had no choice.

  Bruce reached out a hand to wipe away a sooty tear, and with the other he drove the knife deep into Megan’s heart. Blood spurted from her mouth onto his shoulder, like a just-burped baby throwing up milk. He held his daughter in his arms for the first time and cradled her gently as the life drained from her, and he bellowed until his lungs burned as fireworks continued to explode across Hundred Acres.

  Then Bruce Lucchese noticed the diamond-and-emerald bracelet wrapped around Megan’s wrist, and he knew he needed one more plan.

  This one was simple.

  Two kids fooling around in the back seat of a car.

  A robbery that went horribly wrong.

  39

  FOURTH OF JULY

  1987

  Rue Hunter pushed her way through the crowd to the window and wiped the condensation steaming the glass.

  Through the damp smear, she could see the parking lot and the street beyond. There was no car, fancy or otherwise, parked at the curb with its engine gunning. She grabbed the wrist of the guy closest to her and twisted it until she could see the display on his digital watch: 9:14.

  “Shit,” she cursed, the word swallowed up by the thundering beat of the music. Rue beckoned the guy toward her and shouted in his ear. “You got a couple of quarters for the phone?”

  His mouth formed the word sure, and he plunged a hand into his front jeans pocket and came up with the coins. She drained her beer, took the money, and handed him the empty bottle. After weaving through a sea of hot, sweaty bodies, she burst through the front door. It was cooler outside than it was in the bar, but the evening was still sultry.

  Rue tottered unsteadily in her heeled sandals over to the phone booth, dropped a quarter into the slot, and dialed Megan’s private line at home. It rang and rang and rang, and eventually someone picked up, but the voice on the other end belonged to Patty, not Megan. Rue slammed the receiver hard into the cradle.

  “Shit!” she yelled, and this time, the word seemed too loud in the empty street.

  She paced in front of the phone booth, listened for the roar of a car engine, and squinted at the corner up ahead. Everything was blurry around the edges now, just the way she liked it. Behind her, there was the scrape and hiss of a match being struck, and she spun around too fast and almost lost her balance. The ugly bartender, the one who’d once tried to feel up Rose, was staring at her.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” she shouted.

  He took a long drag of his cigarette and turned his head away.

  A heavy bass line continued to pound through the walls of Cooper’s over the muted whoops and cheers and chatter of folks having a good time inside. Rue was just about to head back into the bar when a cherry-red Toyota Supra screeched to a halt in front of her. Lucky Lucchese wound down the window, leaned an elbow on the sill, and grinned at her.

  “Need a ride?”

  Rue marched over to the car, her cheap heels clacking on asphalt.

  “You’re late, asshole. Where the hell have you been? I swear to God, you better not have ruined the plan. You’re such an asshole, d’you know that?”

  Lucky’s grin widened. “Yeah, you told me already. I’m sorry I’m late, but I had car trouble.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Rue folded her arms across her chest and pouted. “We’re probably too late to meet Megan and Lucas now. They probably left already. I might as well go back into Cooper’s and get myself another drink.”

  Lucky jerked his thumb in the direction of a six-pack sitting on the back seat.

  “I have booze right here.” Then he pulled a joint from where it had been tucked behind his ear. Held it up for Rue to see. “And a little something else you won’t find in that dump.”

  Rue could feel her pout turn into a smile despite her best efforts to stay mad at him.

  “Still plenty of time to party,” he said. “You want a ride or not?”

  Rue paused a beat, then walked around the car and climbed in the passenger side. A key chain shaped like a four-leaf clover hanging from the rearview mirror bobbed and swirled in the cool air blasting from the vents.

  In the mirror’s reflection, she saw the ugly bartender watching them as the Toyota burned rubber and headed in the direction of Devil’s Drop.

  Rue told herself Lucas and Megan would still be waiting for her and Lucky. They’d be a half hour late tops. She didn’t know Lucky at all, hadn’t even met him before tonight, so she had no idea if he was the reliable type. But she knew she couldn’t always be depended on herself, especially where booze was involved. Lucas and Megan knew it too. But
they would still be at Devil’s Drop—wouldn’t they?

  Why hadn’t she just agreed to the ride with her best friends? Rue knew the answer. Because she’d wanted to start the party early by getting lit with a bunch of strangers in Cooper’s. Lucky’s place was on the same side of town as the bar, so it was agreed he would pick her up. But Rue knew she should have stuck with her friends. It’d be her own damn fault if Lucas and Megan had ditched her and Lucky. The whole evening was in danger of being ruined, and to make matters worse, her feet were in agony, the straps of the sandals biting into the skin. She pulled off the shoes and threw them on the floorboard. Then she reached into the back and helped herself to a beer from the six-pack.

  “You want one?” she asked.

  Lucky sucked hard on the joint and nodded.

  “Sure. There should be a bottle opener in the glove box.”

  Rue popped the tops off both bottles, handed him one, and greedily drank half of her own in one go. Felt herself begin to relax a little. She leaned back and put her feet up on the dash and took another long pull of beer. Lucky passed her the joint. The radio was tuned to a station playing chart hits, and the orchestral intro of a recent power ballad streamed through the speakers.

  “Oh my God, I love this song!”

  Rue twisted the volume knob up a notch and tapped her feet in time with the music. Joined in loudly and tunelessly with the chorus, and they both laughed at her bad singing.

  “You do know what that song’s about, don’t you?” Lucky wiggled his eyebrows in what looked to be a suggestive manner.

  “Yeah, it’s about being so much in love with someone that you feel like you might die of happiness when you’re in their arms.”

  Lucky smirked. “Yeah, if you say so.”

  “What’s it about then, smart-ass?”

  “You never heard the phrase la petite mort?”

  “I don’t think so. Sounds French or something.”

  “It is. Maybe I’ll tell you what the song’s about later. Better still, maybe I’ll show you.”