The Greedy Three: A Thriller Read online

  Praise for The Greedy Three

  “Tense, darkly funny, and deeply entertaining, with quirky characters that are wholly original. Katchur’s clever crime thriller surprised me in all the best ways and kept me riveted till the very last page.”

  —Laura McHugh, award-winning author of What’s Done in Darkness

  “A darkly funny mystery with a cast of quirky characters, a scintillating premise, and a beating heart. It’s the perfect book for fans of the Coen brothers and Tarantino films.”

  —Robyn Harding, bestselling author of The Perfect Family

  Additional Praise for Karen Katchur

  “Karen Katchur is a master at writing into the dark spaces of our intimate family relationships.”

  —Mindy Mejia, author of Everything You Want Me to Be

  “I’m entranced by Karen Katchur’s direct, well-crafted prose, artful plotting, and characters that leap from the page.”

  —Marissa Stapley, bestselling author of Things to Do When It’s Raining

  “Karen Katchur knows how to write and write well about ordinary people stretched to their limits.”

  —David Bell, bestselling author of The Forgotten Girl

  ALSO BY KAREN KATCHUR

  River Bodies

  Cold Woods

  Spring Girls

  The Sisters of Blue Mountain

  The Secrets of Lake Road

  THE

  GREEDY

  THREE

  a thriller

  KAREN KATCHUR

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from Podium Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2023 by Karen Katchur

  Cover design by Podium Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-0394-1629-1

  Published in 2023 by Podium Publishing, ULC

  www.podiumaudio.com

  To Bigfoot

  “To be clever enough to get all that money, one must be stupid enough to want it.”

  —G. K. CHESTERTON

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  In the backwoods of upstate New York, Noah Weber waits for his contact. A bag full of money lies on the ground at his feet, and a .44 Magnum presses against his kidney. In the near distance, thunder rumbles across a blackened sky. It’s not long before the rain starts, pattering the leaves of the tall trees.

  Well, that’s just great, he thinks.

  A part of him wants to turn around and walk away, forget he was ever here. But this is his job. He shouldn’t have to remind himself it’s how he makes his money, and yet, it’s always in these moments right before contact that he must. If all goes as planned, he’ll pull in a whopping half a million dollars. He focuses on that.

  Somewhere to his right he hears voices and the sound of feet stomping through the brush.

  “Psst.”

  “Over here,” Noah says.

  Shot steps out from behind a tree. For a scrawny guy, he sure makes a lot of noise. A girl stands off to Shot’s side, slightly behind him, with a bundle in her arms. The shadows make it difficult to see them clearly, but a sudden flash of heat lightning gives Noah a better view of who he’s dealing with. Shot’s face is sharp and pointy. The girl is a tiny thing, young and overly thin.

  Noah expects Shot will want to take the lead. In his experience, the men he deals with always want to know about the money first. No matter what he’s buying for his clients, whether it’s stolen art, banned products, or simply information, the characters are all the same. Although Shot could be different, since Noah has never worked with him before or smuggled a baby across the border. Who knows? Maybe Shot will surprise him and ask how he’s doing, or maybe he’ll comment about the weather. It might make the circumstances they find themselves in a little more tolerable. Wouldn’t that be something?

  All right. Noah’s going to stay positive, hoping that it will be different this time. Then Shot opens his mouth.

  “You got the money?”

  Aw, too bad, Noah thinks. So disappointing. So predictable. “Yeah, I got the money. Is she gonna give me any trouble?”

  “Who? Her? Nah, she won’t give you any trouble.” Shot pushes the button on the switchblade that he must’ve been hiding in his palm this entire time. “She knows what happens if she does.” His arm goes up, and the girl flinches. He laughs, as if he’s only messing around with her, then in one swift motion he swipes the knife across her forehead, slicing it wide open.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” Noah asks.

  Shot waves the knife under Noah’s nose. “You got a problem with it?”

  It takes all of a second for Noah to make the decision not to shoot him. He can’t go around killing all of his contacts. It’s not good for business. Instead, he throat punches him.

  “Yeah, I got a problem with it.”

  Shot drops to his knees, clutching his neck.

  Noah turns to help the girl. He doesn’t see the rock in her raised fist until it’s too late. “Son of a—”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Hester has just sat down to work on a puzzle when the lights flicker. Thunder rattles the windows and at the same time a strong updraft carries the rain to freezing heights, then tosses it back at the cottage as hail. It’s eleven o’clock at night. She can’t remember a summer when they’ve had so many storms.

  “We’re going to set records with this weather.”

  She gets up from the card table, releasing a cacophony of creaks and pops from her joints. Reaching under the sink, setting off another round of crackling in her bones, she collects the lantern she bought with her iPad. It’s not just any lantern but the camping kind. When used on low power, it can last up to forty-five days.

  As she straightens, her lumbar spine sighs, letting her know what it thinks of all this unexpected bending at this time of night. Subconsciously, she rubs her lower back and stares out the kitchen window. The hail has stopped and is once again replaced by rain. The water hits the glass, and the tiny liquid snakes it makes slither onto the ledge. The night creeps in. Its inky shadow covers her fingers and slowly drifts up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, until it rolls over her head and swallows her whole.

  She is trapped here, she thinks.

  The lights flicker again, bringing her back from the dark place she desperately tries to avoid. Most days she’s able to sidestep the longing buried deep inside her chest. It’s funny how the heart tries to hide itself from the very person it beats for.

  She sits in front of the puzzle again, places the lantern next to it, turns it on when the electricity goes out. The wind howls through the chimney.

  The trick to puzzles is to start with the edges first. You frame it out and go from there, working your way in. She’s been looking forward to starting this new one all day. The edges are already separated from the other pieces, and she picks up a corner piece, holding it close to the lantern to see it clearly. Then she looks at the box, searching the beach scene on the lid to find which corner it matches. While she tries to decide where it goes, she considers making some tea on the gas stove. Does she want tea? Does she feel like getting up again? She’s restless, and she’s not sure why. The corner belongs here, at the bottom right with the seashells.

  The rain seems to be getting angrier. The water rushes through the downspout, pouring into the small yard at the side of the cottage. Thank goodness she cleaned the gutters at the start of summer. It had taken her all day, lugging the ladder out of the toolshed, leaning it against the stone walls, climbing up and down. Most accidents around the home happen from people falling off
ladders. It’s a dangerous thing to have to do by yourself, but she’s used to doing things alone. There’s no one around to help her, anyway. She pulled out leaves and debris, throwing handfuls to the ground. Then she walked around the yard and raked up the mess, which reminded her to buy new work gloves. She hates blisters.

  Something bangs against the door. It’s probably the wind, so she ignores it, picks up another puzzle piece, and studies it under the light. She takes her time. She has nothing else to do. But there it is again: a hammering noise. Putting the puzzle piece down, she turns toward the sound. Could someone be knocking? Is she hearing things? Is it simply wishful thinking? It’s hard to discern what it could be over the sound of the wind and rain, and yet, there it is a third time: Someone’s palm slapping the wood frame.

  Getting up from the card table, she grabs the .22 that hangs on the mounts that have been screwed into the family room wall long before she moved into the cottage almost ten years ago. It’s hard to believe she’s lived here that long. It seems like just yesterday she bought the place with the little money her mother had left her after she’d passed. Hester had been surprised when she’d gotten a call from a lawyer here in town that her mother had a will. She’d been estranged from her parents for more than three decades. Looking back, she supposed it was the least her mother could do.

  She’d met with a Realtor minutes after cashing the check. The woman wore too much makeup for Hester’s taste. What was she hiding underneath that thick layer of foundation? Even so, there was something pretty about her. Maybe it was her confidence or her enthusiasm at showing the old stone cottage to a potential buyer. It had sat empty for several long years. It was in a state of decay, but there was something about it: the cold stone walls, the wooden floors that creaked when you stepped on them, the relic of a gas stove and cast-iron sink. These things spoke to Hester, told her the cottage had strong bones.

  As they were leaving to fill out the paperwork at the office, driving along the dirt road through the woods that was over a mile long, the Realtor had said jokingly, “Be careful not to disappear back here.”

  She wasn’t kidding, Hester thinks. It’s exactly what has happened.

  Hester holds the rifle with one hand, her finger on the trigger. With her other hand, she unlocks the door and turns the knob ever so slowly, listening for any sound coming from the other side. It’s quiet except for the wind and rain. Maybe she’s imagined the knocking. She’ll never get any sleep unless she knows for sure. Throwing the door open, she raises the rifle. She doesn’t see anyone, but she can sense she’s not alone.

  “Who’s there?”

  A young woman steps out of the shadow and onto the porch. She’s soaking wet. Her hair is matted to her cheeks. Blood drips from her forehead, running down her face. Her shirt is torn. A pink bag hangs from her shoulder, and a baby cries in her arms.

  “Please. Help me.”

  Hester keeps the rifle raised, the barrel pointed toward the yard, away from the woman and child. “Who’s with you?”

  “No one.”

  Hester doesn’t believe her, but still she says, “Get inside.” What other choice does she have? Hester is not a heartless woman, although the teenagers in town would say differently. They call her a witch—the crazy old witch, to be exact—who chases them out of the woods. They egg her house at Halloween, shine flashlights in her windows, paint dirty words on her canoe.

  The young woman and baby slip around her and into the house. Hester points the rifle into the small yard, sweeping it left and right, trying to see through the rain that’s blowing sideways. A loud crack, almost like an explosion, startles her. For a confused second, she doesn’t know what has happened, and then a large branch crashes to the ground. A bolt of lightning has struck a nearby tree. Not far from the broken limb, Hester sees movement. She aims her rifle in the general area of the limb, but quickly realizes it’s only the shadow figure. She’s seen this figure before: an ethereal image moving with the wind. Whatever the shadow is, it’s brought this young woman and child to Hester’s home, knowing she’ll protect them.

  Hester backs up slowly, keeping the rifle aimed at the damaged tree until she’s back inside the house. She slams the door closed with her foot and turns around, lowers the gun. The young woman is standing in the middle of the living room, clinging to the baby, dripping watered-down blood onto the floor. There’s fear in the young woman’s eyes.

  “She’s cold,” the woman says about the baby.

  Hester steps closer to them, the rifle at her side. She stops herself from reaching out and touching them. She’s been alone so long she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing.

  “Please.” The young woman falls to her knees. The pink bag slips from her shoulder. It’s a diaper bag. The baby’s cries pitch higher.

  Hester worked in a hospital in housekeeping for many years. She might’ve been the invisible lady who emptied garbage cans, mopped floors, cleaned bathrooms, but she learned a thing or two. Like a ball of sticky tape rolling in and out of patients’ rooms, she picked up bits and pieces of information by observing and listening to the doctors and nurses who ignored her. She knows all about sickness, disease, and diagnosing symptoms. Death. And this young woman in front of her is suffering from some kind of psychological shock from whatever has brought her here to Hester’s door.

  The young woman removes the wet blanket from around the baby and lets it fall to the floor. Then she takes off the baby’s onesie and soiled diaper and holds the little girl close to her chest. She’s trying to keep the baby warm with her body heat, but the young woman is also soaked from the rain, and she’s shivering.

  “Let me get you some dry blankets.” So many questions swarm Hester’s mind, but now’s not the time to think but to act. She returns with an afghan and a small bath towel. She leans the rifle against the wall by her side. “There are some sweatshirts and sweatpants in the top drawer of the dresser in the back bedroom. Second door on the right. Take the lantern with you and get into some dry clothes, and here, wrap this around you.” She holds out the afghan for the young woman to take. “Now give me the child. My body heat will get the job done faster.”

  The young woman clutches the baby to her chest.

  “She’s going to catch pneumonia if you don’t give her to me.” Hester holds her arms out. By the expression on the young woman’s face, it’s clear she’s trying to decide if she can trust Hester. Hester realizes she must look a mess. She hasn’t considered her appearance in some time. She can’t remember the last time she’s combed her hair, wearing it tied and knotted at the base of her neck: the white, frizzy mane she hasn’t cut in years.

  The baby cries harder. Her lips are blue. The young woman glances down at the bundle in her arms.

  “She’s freezing,” Hester says, arms outstretched.