by M. M. Silva
And I had.
There were six missed calls from Moira. They’d started at ten o’clock, and like clockwork, she’d redialed every fifteen minutes thereafter. 10:00, 10:15, 10:30, 10:45, 11:00, and 11:15. But she hadn’t left a single message, which was very odd. There was no way she’d butt-dialed me that many times at those exact intervals.
I glanced at my watch; it was only 11:22, and I didn’t have the patience to see if she’d call back at 11:30. Given the pattern, that was almost a certainty, but given the weird circumstances, I wasn’t going to wait. I told my limo-mates what was up, punched the speed-dial for her number and heard someone pick up immediately. “Moira?” Worry crept under my skin when I received no reply.
“Hello? Sis? Can you hear me?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and studied it, wondering if something was wrong with our connection. I hung up and immediately redialed.
Again, someone picked up right away. But this time, I heard Moira’s voice in the background, and she yelled. “Meagan, don’t—”
I heard a whap and Moira cry out in pain. Then silence.
“Hello?!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Who is this? Who’s there? Put Moira back on the phone!”
A menacing voice growled in a whisper. “Get home, you fucking bitch. Or your sister isn’t gonna be pretty much longer.”
What the hell? “Who is this?!” I demanded. “What the fuck is going on? Put Moira on the phone right now!”
I heard an evil, deep-throated chuckle on the other end of the phone. And the world stopped spinning for a moment.
My God.
Melanie.
There was no one else who would be sadistic enough to do this. There was no one else who would want to hurt me by hurting my family.
My voice came out in a whimper, but I couldn’t help it. My baby sister. The air left my lungs. “Melanie, don’t do this,” I begged. “You’ve done enough already. Don’t add to the list of bodies. Don’t do this to Moira. She’s done nothing to you. Your beef is with me.”
Silence.
I was becoming hysterical. “Melanie, what is oh or ho or whatever you’re trying to tell me? I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t you hurt her. I’ll kill you; I swear to God, I will kill you!” I was shaking and sobbing and screaming as we pulled down the long driveway and wound our way toward Jeff’s home.
I heard the menacing whisper again. “Get home quickly, Meagan. And if you call the cops, she’s dead.” The line disconnected.
In a stupor, I explained the situation to my friends and watched as the men sprang into action. Watching them was like observing people in fast-forward. Jeff was at the driver’s door, asking the man how much it would take to keep the vehicle for the night. As Jeff handed over a wad of bills, Kayla touched me lightly.
“I’m sorry I got sick, girlfriend. I’ll stay here with Sampson and bring him back when everything is okay.” She paused and looked at me imploringly. “And everything will be okay, Meagan.”
“Melanie…” was all I could say.
“Are you positive, Meg? Is there any chance you misunderstood what was going on there?”
“I know what I heard, Kayla!” I screamed. “Moira’s in danger, and it’s my fault. If anything happens to her—”
“It’s not going to,” Kayla said firmly. Then she squeezed me hard. “We shut one bitch up tonight; there’s always room for more. Call me when you take care of business.” Then she was gone.
Jeff leaned in and hugged me tightly. “Be careful, Meagan.”
Too terrified to speak again, I nodded. Doob gave the driver the address to our apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. I couldn’t imagine what we would find when we arrived.
CHAPTER 20
I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH ABOUT THE DRIVE TO BOSTON. I recall Doob shoved another wad of money toward the driver and told him to get us to my condo as quickly, and safely, as possible. I remember dialing Norman, but I reached his voicemail and did my best to coherently explain the situation.
I considered phoning my parents, but I banished the thought as quickly as it came. If something happened to Moira…well, I couldn’t quite process the possibility. But our family would never, ever recover. I would never forgive myself, and my parents would never forgive me, of that I was sure.
The drive to Massachusetts passed mostly in a fog, and before I knew it, the bright city lights were in my sights. As the limo maneuvered through the mostly-deserted, complicated streets of Boston, adrenaline kicked in. This psycho bitch would not hurt my sister. This was between Melanie and me, and I think even Melanie knew that. She was just using Moira to call me out.
Well, here I was. And this time I wasn’t leaving anyone behind.
Three blocks from our condo building, I turned to Doob and demanded, “You stay in the limo, Doob. I don’t know what we’re going to find up there, and I can’t have you getting hurt. Norman will be here any minute, and we’ll handle it. Don’t challenge me on this. Promise me you’ll stay here.”
His eyes were huge when he nodded solemnly. “I promise, Meg,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
A million thoughts rushed through my mind, mostly about Moira, my parents, and Sampson. But right here, in this moment? Here was my little Iowa friend, and I knew he was so worried about me he could barely function. I grabbed him in a bear hug and squeezed as hard as I could. Then I clamped my hands on his shoulders and put my face very close to his. “You are my very best friend, Doob. Don’t ever forget that.”
And then the limo was suddenly at my address, and I rushed outside and into the building. I burst out of the stairwell into the hallway on the floor one level below Moira’s and mine, gasping for breath. I’d sprinted up the stairs in high heels and barely noticed; being on auto-pilot tends to do that to a person. I hadn’t wanted to take the time to change at Jeff’s house, so now I would be fighting the devil in my second-hand evening gown.
Before blazing up the final set of stairs, I decided to make one more call to the apartment, just to have the tiniest gauge about what I’d be walking into. If Melanie didn’t let me speak with Moira, then Moira could already be gone. And then my life may as well be over, too.
I dialed the apartment number, and Moira answered right away, her voice shaking like leaves in a windstorm. “There’s a gun to my head, Meagan. If anyone besides you walks through our door, I’m dead.” She clicked off.
As I listened to her terrified voice, something—some fissure, something tiny—cracked within my psyche. My brain wasn’t totally keeping up with the situation, but I was aware enough to know that a part of me was shutting down and abandoning me for good. I wasn’t sure I was going to survive this.
I took a deep breath and said a quick prayer. Time to go upstairs to get my sister.
CHAPTER 21
JUST AS I PUT MY HAND ON THE DOORKNOB TO THE STAIRWELL, my phone blared out its melodic tune. Norman. I answered and quickly told him what I was doing, and he was livid, insisting I wait. I explained there wasn’t time, and I asked if he could get a shooter lined up directly across the street from our apartment.
“I’ve already done that,” he said in his baritone voice. “I called in a few favors. Meagan, I’m telling you, do not go in that apartment. The shooter can get her without you putting yourself in danger. He’ll be set up in less than five minutes—”
“Norman, Moira is in danger, and I’m not waiting one more second. Get that shooter ready to go, and I’ll do my best to get Melanie in front of the window. And when you get here, be quiet about it. She said no cops.”
“Goddamn it Meagan—”
“Conference in your shooter on this call, and then push the mute button on your phone. I’m going to leave my phone on so you guys can hear what goes down, but I don’t want Melanie hearing you.”
He did as I asked, and when we confirmed the shooter was on the line and almost set up across the street, I told Norman I was going upstairs.
“You’re a stubborn little shit. Don’t ge
t yourself killed,” he muttered, and then his phone went quiet. I put the volume up as loud as it would go and put my phone in the clutch I’d been so proud of just hours before. How silly the whole stupid night seemed at this point.
I hustled up the stairs toward the upper floor. I noticed every crack in the wall of the stairwell; every nick of chipped paint seemed larger, and the already-annoying fluorescent light burned my eyes. I smelled the food odor from the Carmichaels’ apartment at the end of the hallway even before I opened the steel door to our floor.
With my back close to the wall, I side-stepped my way down the corridor. I didn’t plan to announce myself before going into the apartment. Assuming it was unlocked, I would simply walk in and hope to God I could execute the game plan. The fly in that ointment was neither Moira nor Melanie knew their roles in said game plan. The potential variations on that theme ranged somewhere in the billions. But I wouldn’t dwell on it; it wouldn’t change anything anyway.
My breath came in quick bursts as I neared the apartment, and my heart seemed ready to leap out of my chest. And then I was at the door.
Taking a gulp of air, I reached out, turned the knob and found it unlocked as I’d anticipated. I forced myself to quickly turn it the rest of the way and was then inside, shutting the door behind me in less than a second.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the stark brightness out in the hallway to the low lamplight in the family room. When I took in the scene, I couldn’t quite process it. Bags of groceries lay all over the floor of the entryway, some with contents strewn about. Moira huddled on the couch, and her mouth had dried blood on one side. A gun was held to her head as she’d told me.
But the person holding it was a man.
CHAPTER 22
I TRIED TO COMPREHEND WHAT I WAS SEEING, but it was like trying to run at top speed underwater. Where was Melanie? This had to be about Melanie. It was time. I was ready.
Well…I was ready for that. This? For this I was completely unprepared.
“Fuckin’ bitch, good of ya to show up. Took yer sweet fuckin’ time, dint ya?” the man snarled at me. “Drop the purse and put yer hands in the air where I can see ‘em. Nice ‘n high, getem up there.”
Hearing his backwoods-rapper-wannabe-voice helped clear my internal fog just the tiniest amount, and I did as instructed, twisting the clasp on my clutch open as I set it down. Studying the wiry young man, I hoped the phone would pick up every word for Norman and the shooter.
“Ya happy? Are ya happy with what ya done?!” he demanded and jabbed the gun at Moira’s head to emphasize his point.
That’s when I fully took in her appearance. Beautiful Moira, who’d aged ten years while sitting on the couch. Whose porcelain face was mottled with splotches and whose red nose betrayed how much she’d been crying. The blood around her mouth was the icing on the cake. How had this happened?
She wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Instead, she stared straight ahead. It didn’t look like she was in shock, and she wasn’t whimpering or cowering. She might have been before, but now? She just looked…angry.
Somehow I knew, simply from looking at her, she would do nothing to get us out of this situation. Her glazed stare told me, You got us into this, you get us out.
And she was right. I needed to fix this, and I needed to fix it now.
Sadly, I’d been in a similar situation before, and I’d done almost everything wrong. The one thing I knew I wouldn’t do was go sit by Moira on the couch. I wasn’t going to give this madman any advantage. Well, yeah, other than the gun at Moira’s head. I wasn’t going to give him any additional advantage.
The other thing I absolutely would not do is run. I ran last time, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. So here we were, all three of us, sequestered in this apartment. Someone would win, someone would lose.
My decision was either I would leave with my sister on my arm, or I’d leave in a body bag. That decision would mean the same outcome would go for her. Since Moira leaving in a body bag was unacceptable, it was time to outsmart this asshole.
I cleared my throat and found my voice. “So, uh…sir, what’s your name?”
He guffawed. “Cut the act, bitch! Sent my girl a bunch o’ shit ‘bout me, and you’re gonna play stupid? Fuckin’ bitch.”
His girl? “You have a daughter?”
His face pinched as he snarled at me. “Ya know I don’t have a fuckin’ kid! That’s what this is all about, ain’t it? Meagan fucking Maloney tryin’ to be a goddamn hero, sending shit to the house. To my girl’s fuckin’ house! Who the fuck ya think ya are?”
Holy shit. This was the guy Kayla told me about. This was Les. We sent the anonymous package to his girlfriend. Is that who he meant by his girl? How in the hell had he found us?
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Doobie had given it to Becca to mail. Stupid, inept, always-on-Facebook, forever-putting-on-lip-gloss Becca. And moron that I am, I asked him to give it to her. I knew her limited capabilities when I did it. She is capable of Facebook and lip gloss. She isn’t capable of anything else. So really, who was the idiot in this situation?
Becca clearly hadn’t sent the information anonymously. The sweet young thing had probably enclosed business cards, a pamphlet, our Yellow Pages ad, our website, and maybe a couple of close-up head shots of Norman and me for good measure. Then she’d probably called to ensure they received the package and offered our services for any of their future needs.
If I got out of this alive, I was going to strangle and then fire Becca.
“Sinkin’ in, bitch?” He was taunting me and still jabbing the gun at Moira’s head. “The light bulb done gone off in that there noggin’? You went and fucked up, and now we’re all in a helluva bind. This is all yer fault.”
And just that fast, I became utterly pissed. I am so tired of people, of society—of whoever—blaming their bad decisions on someone else. This man, who was holding a gun to my sister’s head, believed it was my fault because I dared to warn someone that he’s a psycho.
I could hear it all now. I’m sure his mommy smacked him around, and I’m sure his daddy left when he was two years old, and I’m sure he had to drink milk past the due date. I’m sure he had acne and Santa gypped him, and some pretty girl called him a loser at some point. I’m sure he played violent video games, and looked at porn, and I’m completely sure his little boo-boo pee-pee had been letting him down for years. I’m sure everyone in the entire blessed world was to blame for his issues. Everyone, but him.
So, no. This guy wasn’t getting the better of me. Moira and I wouldn’t go down tonight because of anything I did or didn’t do. This was on him. I wouldn’t let the newscasters announce our demise at the hands of this creep and use his full name—first, middle, last—like they always did with these sickos and tell the world of how he was wronged as a child.
And then I remembered a key fact about Les. Thank you, Doob.
I nodded. “It is sinking in; I’m with you now. Your name is Les, and you’re pissed at me for sending a package to your girlfriend. But that doesn’t have anything to do with Moira. So she needs to leave right now, and I’ll take her place on the couch.”
“Ya ain’t in charge bitch!” he exploded. “I say what the fuck is gonna happen, and no one leaves ‘til I fuckin’ say so.” Spittle flew out of his mouth, and his complexion had turned an interesting shade of purple.
“Les, please think about this for a minute. We’re definitely in a bad place. But it’s really between you and me. You seem like a smart guy—” I almost threw up in my mouth a little, “—and I know you can see Moira had nothing to do with this. None of this is her fault; it’s mine.”
His eyes darted around as I was talking, and it was obvious he was on some type of drug. His mannerisms were nervous and jerky, and that couldn’t be good. I needed to get Moira out of here.
“And Les, not only is it not Moira’s fault, it certainly isn’t our dog’s fault, either.”
&nb
sp; His dilated eyes stopped darting and fixed completely on me. Good.
“The fuck ya talking about? Ain’t no dog around here,” he said as he scanned the room. His movements had slowed a fraction, and he genuinely seemed to be looking for a dog.
My hands still in the air, I motioned toward an end table with my chin. “There is a dog. His name is Sampson, and he’s in the picture there with Moira and me. He’s a Springer Spaniel, and he loves to run and jump. A great hunting dog, you know?” Yeah, if hunting included homemade dog-treats from an overpriced delicatessen on Cambridge Street.
Les didn’t move away from the couch, but he strained his head to glance at the picture. “Well, I don’t see no dog here now,” he said with a little less aggression.
“I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s outside. He’s probably been outside for hours.”
Les narrowed his eyes, and Moira kept staring straight ahead.
I kept up the bullshit. “See, I think I know what happened. Moira was grocery shopping tonight; she’s a creature of habit is how I know this.” I knew no such thing. “And she always takes Sampson with her because he loves to be outside. Isn’t that right Moira?”
She nodded her head just enough to show she agreed with me, but she didn’t join in the conversation.
“So, she always ties him up to this cute little doggie post outside the store, and he waits for her when she’s inside.” Sampson so wouldn’t do that. “He’s such a good boy. People come by and pet him and talk to him. There’s really nothing better than a dog, is there?”
He scowled. “I din’t hurt no dog, if that’s what yer gettin’ at.”
My arms ached, and I lowered them to ear-level as I shook my head. “No, no, I’m sure you didn’t. You wouldn’t hurt a good dog like Sampson, a great hunting dog like him. Anyway, my thinking is Moira tied him up outside our building when she got home because they were going to go on a longer walk. But she needed to come up and put these groceries away before some things melted. Does that sound right Moira?”
