The Daughter She Used To Be

by Rosalind Noonan

  He moaned, but someone kept pushing him. Hands searched his body. Through the haze of pain he heard his mother talking to them.

  “What you doing? Don’t hurt him! He’s hurt already!”

  “We’ve got a warrant for his arrest.”

  Was that Marino? Had the cop come to salt his wounds?

  “What the—that’s a mistake. It has to be.”

  With one pop eye he saw cops move into the living room, their guns drawn like soldiers in Afghanistan. A dozen feet pounded the floor, the foul stench of sweat soiling the air.

  Suddenly the pressure lifted and he was pulled from the wall, someone’s hand yanking him by the neck of his shirt. He gasped at the air, stumbling back. The big man swung him round till he was leaning against the wall. He wasn’t shaking anymore, just reeling from the pain in his head.

  “This our guy?” One of the cops held a wrinkled paper, a mug shot, next to Peyton’s face. “I don’t think it’s him.”

  “Nope.”

  “Who you looking for?” Mama asked.

  “Jason Miller.”

  “Jason Miller? He’s not here. I’m telling you, he doesn’t live here.”

  “You know where we can find him?” the cop asked.

  “What you want him for?”

  Peyton slid down the wall, miserable. Jason Miller. He didn’t know who that was. Or ... wait. Was it the guy Gwen hooked up with?

  “We have a warrant for his arrest.” The main cop, the one in charge, had a cue ball head and dark eyebrows. It wasn’t Marino.

  But that didn’t mean Marino didn’t put him up to it.

  He stayed there on the floor, right there where he’d dropped. What was the sense in messing with the cops, who’d only push him ’round or find some other reason to arrest him?

  He sat still and quiet, but he wasn’t quiet inside. Hatred was tearing at him, a growl that got louder every time he breathed against the pain that cop gave him at the back of his neck.

  Breathing like a wild animal, it was roaring in his head by the time the cops left.

  Peyton got his shoes on while Mama went from room to room, worrying over anything the cops might have moved.

  “Not too bad,” she said, “but I’d sure as hell like to know what they want Jason for. I told Gwen something didn’t sit right with that man when I met him, but—”

  Peyton rose and pulled on his jacket.

  “Where you think you’re goin’?”

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t form words over the roaring in his head.

  “Peyton ...” She stepped in front of him. “You wait a minute before you go chargin’ out of here.”

  He felt bad for disrespecting her, but he had to go. It was the only way to keep the noise from getting louder and crushing him.

  “Peyton? Baby, hold on!” She grabbed at his shoulder, but he broke free and was out the door.

  He knew what he had to do.

  It was clear now.

  Riding the elevator down, he didn’t care that it smelled like old paint and piss. He wouldn’t be coming back to this hellhole, and that was fine by him.

  He had something to do.

  He kept to the handrail as he lowered himself down the steps of the Seaport subway station. Almost four o’clock. The digital numbers hurt his eyes—red glare—and he looked down at the turnstile to make sure he ran the card through right. He didn’t want to give the cops any reason to pick him up again.

  The platform was vacant, not as cold as the other night when Marino had made him sit on the platform, shivering in the draft. He walked right by that spot now, glad the place was empty. Maybe the cops had found their rapist. Maybe they were just working another station tonight.

  At the far end of the platform, he had to swing around a lip to reach the steel rods of the ladder. Most people didn’t know it was there, but he’d found it years ago. New York subway stations had plenty of hidey-holes, if you knew where to look.

  The steel rods of the ladder were clean and the tiles were shiny. Like someone steam-cleaned it recently. That made him nervous. He didn’t want subway workers snooping around here.

  He hoped they didn’t find his hiding place. Four tunnels came together here, like worms trying to squeeze into the same apple. He passed the green signal light and went to the short tunnel in the middle, a short track where they sometimes parked maintenance trains.

  This part wasn’t so clean. The only sound was the shuffling of his feet and the scratch and squeal of rats galloping out of his way. Yeah, his friends were still here. He hoped they didn’t build a nest near his stash. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he would.

  He needed his gun.

  When he got his first job he started saving for a gun. Back then he planned to protect himself and get back at all his tormentors.

  Tormentors like Darnell, who kicked you and beat on you for no good reason.

  The day came when he had enough money for a .38 revolver, but then he knew it wasn’t safe at home. He could only hide it in Mama’s flour tin for so long before she smacked him upside the head with it. Besides, it wasn’t safe from Darnell in the apartment.

  So he came down here, late, when no one was around. Working at night, he chiseled out a brick from a wall.

  He remembered thinking he was like the Birdman of Alcatraz. Only he’d be the Ratman of Queens.

  He had worked the mortar out with a key and a screwdriver until he could slide the concrete block out. There was a place in the hollow of the block for his revolver. And nobody knew about it except the rats and him.

  Twelve steps into the darkness and three to the right, and there it was, his stone. The dark putty that he’d put around it was soft and dry, but he hadn’t brought anything to pick it out with. He took the sharp, splintered end of his walking stick and poked at it.

  Nice and easy, it loosened up. One section peeled out in a long strip. When it was all out, he used the stick as a lever to jimmy the stone out.

  And there it was, wrapped in a plastic bag.

  The gun had saved his skin plenty of times. He’d needed protection after the beating, when he limped along like a dying dog. Some kids saw him as easy prey then, and he’d had to let them know what was what. The gun had helped.

  The plastic bag whispered to the ground as the cold steel fitted itself to his left hand.

  He’d learned to do everything with his left hand after his right side got screwed up. There’d been no money for doctors, so he never knew what really happened. One of the prison docs told him it was a brain injury. Real obvious. Another doctor called it Bell’s palsy, but that was supposed to get better on its own and that never happened. Not that you get the best care in prison, but you do get to see a doctor.

  The distant high-pitched sound of brakes let him know a train was coming. He waited in the shadows.

  Light bounced off the walls in the outer tunnel, but his cave stayed dark as the train screeched into the station. This little spur of track was still not being used.

  He broke the gun open and checked the chambers. Six bullets, and no backup. That was okay. He only needed one. He was glad he had a revolver. Sitting here five years, some automatics might jam up. Revolvers were more reliable.

  He spread his legs and raised his left hand. The cool steel of the gun fit into his left hand. He stood there, practicing in his mind as the train left the station and rattled through the tunnel, churning down to silence. He aimed the piece in the air, pointed it at Marino’s orange face. One steady pull of the trigger, and yeah. Marino would have a bullet right between the eyes.

  Chapter 14

  The third day of the Lobster Shift had ended for Bernie and Keesh, and just when it was over, Bernie was starting to feel as if her body had made the adjustment.

  “I have a love-hate thing going on with the Lobster Shift,” she said as she stole one of Keesh’s French fries. It was cold, but adequately salty. “The complaint reports that surface after midnight, I don’t know. There’s definitely
an edgier feel to them. Working the night shift is like taking a trip to the underworld of the planet. It’s a fascinating voyage, but it consumes you. Zaps your energy. Sucks the air out of life. I’m even too exhausted to sleep.”

  “Yeah. Working from one to nine in the morning is a real kick in the teeth. Screws up your circadian rhythms.”

  “But the need is real. Somebody has to help these people through the system.” She grabbed another fry.

  “Do you want me to get you some fries?” With his dark brows lowered, he could look so stern.

  “No, thanks. Too much fat.”

  “You’re not on a diet, are you?” he asked, turning to her. “You look fine just the way you are.”

  The sincerity in his voice nearly made her swoon. “I love you,” she said, and they both laughed.

  They sat side by side at the counter of Happy’s Deli, a spot frequented by downtown lawyers, mostly because of its convenience to 100 Centre Street. A handful of prosecutors working the night shift had agreed to meet after work, partly because it would be Keesh’s last Lobster Shift and partly because they were ravenous after staying up all night. But only two others. Meryl DuBois, the Legal Aid attorney who always made Bernie think of a mom who was late for a PTA meeting, had toasted Keesh with coffee, and Rich Lopez had downed a bagel, but headed home to collapse.

  So now it was down to the two of them, drunk with exhaustion and unwilling to separate. Keesh was such a good friend. Fun and easy to be with. But right now, with the way the watery light from the window outlined his dark hair—which was a little wild from the long night but could easily qualify as a sexy disarray—right now she felt very attracted to him. His dark eyes, so dark they sometimes reminded her of shiny, black obsidian, often seemed to challenge her to locate the warm center of his personality that he kept buried under that cold façade.

  How had she let him go? If she dismissed the fact that their families had put the kibosh on their Irish-Armenian union, she could imagine a wonderful day spent with Keesh. And really, parents be damned, they were two adults in their twenties. What was to stop them from going back to her place? They would slam the door behind them and fall into each other’s arms. They’d peel each other’s clothes off on the way to the bedroom, then make love like two crazy people atop her overstuffed white comforter. And then, skin against skin, they’d snuggle under the covers and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  It was a delicious vision.

  Bernie felt a growing hunger, even though she’d just eaten.

  Her sister’s rotten comment about her dwindling ovaries popped into her head, and she bit her lower lip at the prospect of letting the passion of the moment overcome the pause for birth control.

  And maybe she would get pregnant, and then their families would have to back down and work through their prejudices. Surely, for a new baby in the family, a grandchild ...

  Oh, sleep deprivation didn’t slow the hormones.

  Of course, Bernie would have to see if Keesh was on board, but right now she was very turned on by the prospect of getting naked with him, and soon.

  “So.” She wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “Got plans for the day?”

  “Sleep.” His eyes were on the counter, his lids lowered as if he could drop off right here in the deli.

  “Well, yeah.” And since I’m one of the few New Yorkers also dropping into bed at nine a.m., how about we keep each other company? She sent him mental vibes, wanting him to ask her, wanting to be courted.

  But he just gathered trash onto the plastic tray.

  “So.” She decided to go for it. “If you’re not—”

  “Actually, I do have plans today.” He stood up and brought the tray over to the garbage can. “Hanging out with a friend later.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She wasn’t deterred. They could still be together now. “One of your buds from college?”

  “Actually, she’s an attorney, too.”

  Bernie’s coffee went bitter on her tongue. She? His friend was a she?

  Of course, he had every right. They’d been officially broken up for months now. But still ... the news was a dagger in her chest.

  “Been seeing her awhile?” she prodded.

  He shook his head. “Just ... it’s still kind of new.” He pointed to the half-eaten fruit salad in front of her. “You finished with this?”

  “Done.” She waved it away, sliding off the stool, amazed to find there was solid ground beneath her feet after all. After the news, it didn’t seem to be a given anymore.

  Keesh was seeing someone. He’d moved on.

  The air around her was suddenly cold, and she wrapped her scarf around her neck and zipped her jacket to the neck. They would walk to the uptown subway, then take the number seven train out to Queens, just like always.

  But today was different, the beginning of the end.

  She was losing Keesh, losing him to another woman and another job.

  And if she was really honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she’d already lost him.

  Chapter 15

  Six bullets.

  It had been a long time since he’d shot a gun, and as he got off the train at Main Street, Flushing, with the weight of the pistol in his jacket, Peyton worried that six bullets would not be enough to kill a monster like Marino.

  Six chances.

  But you could kill a man with one.

  One bullet was all it would take, if he got it right.

  Get it right. Can you get it right this time? Darnell’s voice sniped at him, but he shook it off. Not now, Darnell. He had something important to do.

  He would make it work.

  He had to. He had to end the torture, the brutality he’d suffered at that man’s hands.

  He could still see the glittering hatred in his eyes, hear his animal cackle as the cop stood over him. His bulk had blocked the sun as Peyton looked up, praying for mercy but knowing it would not come.

  For a moment as Marino stretched up toward the sky, light eclipsed over the rock in his hands.

  And then a starburst explosion that sent Peyton into darkness.

  It was wrong, what Marino did, and Peyton was going to stop him from doing it to anyone else.

  The subway steps at the Main Street Station were steep, but he struggled up, not wanting attention from taking the elevator.

  From the top step the street rose above him, a clutter of store signs, buses, and humanity.

  Each step up the hill caused him pain, but he had to get there. It was up to him to set Marino right.

  The precinct was at the end of the street, a rundown box of a building. His gut wrenched at the sight of uniformed cops oozing out of the building. He slowed, keeping his eyes on the ground, but they didn’t care about him. Two of them passed him without a second look. He watched them climb into a patrol car that was parked crooked on the street. They didn’t even see him at all.

  He went straight in through the front doors. More cops, but none of them was Marino. He ignored them and went straight to the cop at the front desk. This guy had a neck as thick as a tree trunk. There were medals and a gold badge on his uniform. Someone special. His nameplate said: Todd.

  “Can I help you?”

  The roar swelled in his head, then went dead as Peyton formed the words he had practiced. “I’m looking for Officer Marino.”

  “Marino?” He squinted. “Do you have a first name?”

  “No. Just Marino.”

  Todd scratched his neck. “Nope. No Marinos working right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

  The noise rose again, rage swelling inside him. Was this cop covering for Marino, or just being a dumb ass?

  Peyton didn’t trust him. He wanted to dive across the desk and pummel Officer Todd.

  He pressed his eyes shut.

  You can’t pummel anyone. You can barely stand up straight.

  He shoved his left hand into his pocket and bumped into the steel, his hand closing around it for comfort.


  I can’t stand up straight, but I’ve got a gun.

  A gun with six bullets.

  Save them for Marino. He’s the one.

  Peyton’s nostrils flared as he sucked in air. This was going to take more time, and he was losing patience.

  “Where can I find Marino?” he asked the desk cop.

  “Get me a first name. I’m sure there are a hundred Marinos in the department.”

  A hundred ...

  No, that was no good.

  You’ll never find him. You can’t do nothing right.

  Peyton backed away from the desk slowly as the trembling noise began to shudder around him. He had to do something, and if he couldn’t find Marino, this might be a place to start, with Officer Todd and his fat neck.

  In his pocket, his fingers closed around the gun, and he thought of the six bullets. And if Todd took one—and all these other cops around here—he’d never get to Marino.

  Get it right. Get it right, you retard.

  The noise reached a burning pitch, shrill and high like the sting of antiseptic on an open wound. It pushed him back from the desk. Back out the door and out of the police precinct.

  Not here, not now.

  Not yet.

  Chapter 16

  At the bank Sully let another customer go in front of him so that he could wait for his favorite teller, Mrs. Jadoon. Sully did not suffer fools gladly, and the middle-aged woman from Pakistan was efficient and accurate, unlike some of the college kids back there whose thoughts were always racing in a million directions.

  Years on patrol had carved some life lessons into Sully. Stay in control. Weigh your options. And don’t take anything too seriously, because tomorrow, it might be gone anyway.

  As he waited, he kept one eye on the line of tellers, the other on the door. Despite cameras and the bulletproof glass protecting the tellers, banks were still apt targets, and his worst nightmare was getting caught unaware, without his gun, radio, or backup. Of course, he had his piece, a small five-shot strapped to his ankle. He’d never needed it, thank God, and any patrol cop knows that your best line of defense is not your gun, but your partner and the cops at the other end of the radio, ready to back you up in an instant.