But all that happened after the hunt; after the grouse burst from the thicket, its wings flapping wildly for flight; after Raynor pulled the trigger and peppered the bird’s meaty chest with shot; after the bird went into a hapless tailspin before gravity did its job; after his father burst from their hiding place to confirm the kill. Raynor watched his father trudge through the dense grasses with a look of joy bordering on reverence.
How can he be smiling? Raynor thought.
Raynor’s bottom bled into his underwear a full day after his beating. He had to squat to take a crap, and would have to do so for at least a week. The worst part of all was that he would get another thrashing, probably sometime soon, over something just as stupid as those video games.
Truman picked up the bird and held it up for Raynor to see. A broad smile cut his face.
But Raynor wasn’t smiling. He was back on his bed, his pants down to his ankles, his teeth clenched together, waiting with dreaded anticipation for the next blow from his daddy’s leather whip.
Everything went black.
But it couldn’t have been all black, or he’d have missed his target. He remembered the tension against his finger as he pulled the trigger. He remembered the crack and an echo like a peal of thunder. He remembered seeing his father’s neck explode, blood spewing from several holes as if pumped through a strainer, a confused look replacing the beam of pride.
Gravity took his father down, same as it did that dead bird. Eventually the police came. Raynor refused to leave his father’s side. He was sputtering and crying, all very real because he was deeply upset. He loved his father, but hated what his father did to him. None of that ever came up during the investigation. He never spoke a word of the abuse. His brothers never suspected their own kin capable of murder, or they didn’t share the theory if they did.
Truman Sinclair’s death was later ruled a tragic hunting accident.
Raynor’s punishment was the guilt he would carry for the remainder of his days. It hurt a lot less than the belt, though he accepted that he did miss his father, strange as that was to admit. He hunted as a reminder of the better times. Hunting in Virginia was damn good sport, with big game like elk, bear, and deer to bag and plenty of birds to shoot.
Raynor wasn’t so lost in thought that he failed to notice Angie drive past his car. He waited a few beats before pulling out into traffic behind her. He could bag all the elk he wanted, but nothing exhilarated him quite like hunting people.
CHAPTER 31
“Back at it” meant Angie was back in her car—the Taurus with a bullet hole in the rear—and Mike was in his—the little red Corolla. Angie would submit the repair bill to Greg Jessup, along with the charges for Mike’s hotel room and a host of other expenses they’d racked up on this case. Angie also was back to having aching legs, a stiff back, and a bloated belly, this time from the stale bagel she ate because she couldn’t find a decent meal in the neighborhood.
They were down the street from the brothel, or the alleged brothel as the Baltimore PD seemed to think of it. The response (or lack thereof) infuriated Angie, who put aside her fears about Elise and another murder-suicide bloodbath. She wanted more engagement from law enforcement, though it went without saying she wanted a different outcome.
She’d brought two-way radios so she and Mike could communicate without using up cell phone minutes.
“Just charge Papa Greg for the overage,” Mike suggested.
“I’ll handle the billing and you talk to me on the radio from now on,” Angie replied, not curt, but leaving no room for negotiation.
Mike covered one side of the busy two-way road. Angie, who was parked about a hundred yards away from him, covered the other. It was relatively easy to maintain a proper stakeout in the daylight, under the cover of heavy pedestrian and vehicle traffic. With temporary tinting to her windows, she didn’t worry about Casper and Buggy spotting her.
Even so, she had no intention of being in this for the long haul. She wanted Nadine to call. Every minute, it seemed, she was picking up her phone, glancing at the display, cradling it in her hand, waiting for the vibration of text, the chime of her ringtone.
The phone finally rang, but it was her father. She went through a health check with him. He assured her he was doing just fine. She believed him enough, and told him she was back in Baltimore. Her dad sounded more worried about her than she did about him. But he was used to her job and the dangers it brought, and he accepted those dangers with the expected degree of reluctance.
What her father couldn’t do was offer an explanation about the check registers Angie had discovered in the attic. “Your mother had a lot of causes she supported,” her dad said.
“Yeah, but the MCEDC isn’t one she ever talked about, and it just so happens they provide care for the same condition our Jane Doe has.”
“Maybe your mom felt obligated to the girl somehow.”
“Well, I’d say,” Angie replied. “But the same amount, given on the same day each year? Don’t you think that’s a little strange, Dad?”
“I think the whole thing is little strange,” her father said for the first time. “I don’t know what to make of the picture or your mother’s note on the back, or any of it. And to be honest, it’s really starting to upset me.”
Angie shriveled up inside. Disappointing her dad was something she strived to avoid, but upsetting him, especially now, felt like an egregious violation of their close bond. She made a fast retreat. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m just trying to figure it out, that’s all.”
Her father went silent for a long time and Angie’s anxiety level spiked. Why was it she could take down two armed and dangerous men in a street scuffle, but when it came to her father, she still felt like a little girl eager to please? Some roles could be reversed, she guessed, the way a spouse could become an ex, but others were so ingrained, so deeply rooted, they were burned into the psyche as if seared with a cattle brand.
“Angie, I understand your need to pursue this,” her father eventually said. “Your mom’s death has been—”
Angie figured the next word would be hard, but a few shaky breaths interrupted him, the kind that foretold tears the way dark clouds implied rain.
“It’s been difficult on us all,” he eventually managed. “I don’t know what to tell you about the picture and your mom’s checks to that organization. All I can tell you is that your mom loved you very much. Maybe there was a secret in her past, something she kept from us both . . . from everyone, for all I know. But is it going to do you any good to find out what it was?”
That took Angie by surprise. She hadn’t considered any other way to look at it. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have a vision of your mom and that vision is frozen right now. She can’t get any older. She can’t change who she was to you, what she meant. In a way, odd as it is to think about in these terms, she’s in a state of suspended animation. She’s the woman who gave birth to you, who loved you, who cared for you. She’s that woman. Now if you find out something about her, some secret she didn’t want us to know, how is that going to change your perception of her? The way she is now is something you can’t ever get back.”
“I just think I should know the truth.”
“Okay, okay. I get it, I really do,” her father said. “But give this some consideration, if you will. Your mom is in a state of suspended animation for me as well. Don’t just think about what the answers mean to you, Angie. Think about what it could do to me.”
The only time Angie had ever been hit in the gut hard enough to take her breath away was when Flo Mendelssohn sucker-punched her in the eighth grade. Angie had the same creeping sick feeling in her stomach once again. Her dad had a point. Was digging into the past jeopardizing the future? What good would the answers do any of them? She had an unblemished vision of her mother, and her father had the same. Angie was living a perfectly good life. Was the truth worth knowing if it came at the expense of all her memories, of her contentm
ent, of her dad’s happiness? It was a question without an easy answer.
Angie’s mind churned up various possibilities. What if her mom had led a double life, and somehow that little girl was a part of it? Could she have had an affair? Could the girl be a niece or someone of importance her mother turned her back on? What if her mother had somehow hid a pregnancy? Angie had seen enough Lifetime movies in her days to come up with a myriad of explanations, all of them with the potential of ripping her dad’s broken heart into even more pieces.
One thing was certain—she wasn’t going to stop searching for answers—but now she had a new wrinkle to consider. Would the truth become a burden, a secret she would have to keep from her father?
They ended the call with usual salvos of I love you, be careful, call if you need . . . but something lingered, a residue Angie found unpleasant and hoped would clear with time.
The cloudless sky cast in bright sunshine had turned her car into a terrarium of sorts. She cracked a window for air, but could still sponge sweat off her body. She needed to clear her head and get a bit of fresh air.
She radioed Mike. “I’m taking a walk.”
A crackle first, and then Mike said, “I’m taking orders for lunch.”
“We just ate lunch.”
Crackle. “No, you just ate a bagel and I had a corn muffin. That is not lunch, Ange. That’s what old ladies feed pigeons. I’m getting a burger, fries and a Coke. Good news. I’ll buy and fly.”
“Wait until I get back from my walk. I want to see if anything is going on inside the apartment.”
Of course, going for a stroll as herself wasn’t an option because Casper and Mr. Fedora might recognize her. From the trunk of her car, Angie got the box-o-disguises, as Mike had taken to calling it. She waited for a lull in foot traffic before slipping on a red wig, stylish black-rimmed glasses, and a beige trench coat she’d picked up at a thrift store. Angie adjusted her wig, using the window for a mirror.
Mike called her cell phone. “Angie, careful. There’s a gorgeous redhead standing right outside your car door.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the warning, Mike.”
“Think you could get her number?”
“Mike, please.”
“Okay, well, ask her if she wants a cheeseburger. My stomach is sending out Morse code.”
“She wants a salad, maybe with chicken on the side if it’s not from some greasy spoon.”
“Tell her I’m going to Paul’s Pollo Emporium.”
“I thought you were getting a burger.”
“I am. Paul does it all. You forget I’ve been here a few days now. I have the lay of the land.”
“Just get me a salad, but wait to go until after I get back,” Angie reminded him before ending the call. She grabbed her purse from the back seat and made sure the camera hidden in her glasses was recording.
Mike hadn’t gotten any pictures of Ivan and the others. Angie hoped she might get lucky. If one of them had a warrant, it could inspire a little more attention from the police.
Then Angie went walking. She pretended to window shop at the art supply place, but gave real consideration to trying Zumba after peering in on a class in progress. Her situational awareness sharpened once she crossed the street. She strolled in front of the auto repair place, and then came upon the alley that Ivan Markovich took to reach to the back of the apartment building. It was the same alley Casper had chased her down, though it looked a lot different during the day—far less threatening. She could still feel Casper’s presence looming behind her.
When Angie came to the front of the apartment building, she considered backtracking, cutting through the alley, and going to the basement door, but decided against it. Too much risk for potentially too little reward. She decided to try to sneak a peek into one of the apartment windows instead, and maybe record some video evidence for the police. The windows weren’t quite at eye level, but she noticed an overturned milk crate she could use as a step stool.
Letting go a long exhale, followed by a couple furtive glances, Angie emboldened herself to step onto a patch of dirt in front of the apartment where a small garden could have gone. She picked up the milk crate and positioned it directly underneath one of the first floor windows. She climbed up and her weight sank the plastic edges of the crate a couple inches into the loosely packed soil.
She craned her neck to get a look inside, but the windows were grimy, the lights were off, and the bars made it difficult to get a clear view of anything. Angie put her face closer to those rust speckled bars when a sound drew her attention toward the front steps.
The front door came open and out stepped Mr. Fedora, hat in hand, shielding his eyes from the bright sunshine. He slipped on his shades to combat the glare and noticed Angie after she had jumped down from the milk crate. While getting down, she’d pulled out one of her earrings and tossed it to the ground, then directed her gaze to her feet. She pretended not to look at Mr. Fedora, but from her peripheral vision, saw him put his hat on his head. His swagger blossomed.
“Yo, yo, lady,” he said, dirtying his brown shoes to traipse through the soil. “Whatcha you doing here?”
Angie looked up, her camera filming the man’s scowl in enough detail to capture wisps of hair coating his top lip. Her heart rate accelerated, but she masqueraded her fear with confidence. “I dropped an earring. It hit the curb and bounced into the dirt. I can’t seem to find it.”
Mr. Fedora became the consummate gentleman. “I’ll help you look, baby.”
Funny how his stare seemed more focused on Angie’s figure than on the ground.
“What’s your name, sweetheart? They call me Buggy.”
“Buggy?” Angie said, not looking up and not moving her foot where the missing earring would be found underneath.
“It’s a family name,” Buggy said with a laugh. “Say, you fine looking. Who you here with?”
Am I supposed to thank him for the compliment? What Angie wanted to do was hit him with her TASER again. But the weapon was in her purse and right now, unnecessary.
“I’m just on my way to meet a friend,” Angie said, careful not to move her head too much because the wig wasn’t fitting quite as snugly as it should.
Buggy moved in, allowing Angie’s camera to film a close up of his leering grin. She smelled beer on his breath.
“You live around here, baby? I ain’t seen you before.”
“Like I said, I’m visiting my friend,” Angie said, maybe a little too quickly.
“Yeah? Where she at? She fine lookin’ like you, Big Red?”
If Buggy understood the concept of personal space, he damn well knew he was violating hers. Angie’s throat tightened as she shifted her foot ever so slightly, her mind churning for a simple answer to a simple question.
She lives down on . . . on . . . on where?
Angie had had brain freezes before, but never quite like this. She didn’t know these streets, this neighborhood. She knew the apartment and the alley, nothing more. But she did remember Mike saying they were on the outskirts of east Baltimore, what was commonly referred to as “Middle East” in reference to the ever-present violence.
“She’s over in west Baltimore,” Angie said, hoping being vague wasn’t inviting suspicion. “But we’re taking a Zumba class here.”
“Come a long way to Zumba,” Buggy said.
“Well, she’s trying out new studios. A good instructor makes all the difference.”
“Yeah, I’m a teacher. You should take my class.” Buggy gyrated his hips.
Angie moved her foot and made a delighted sound. She bent down, retrieved her dirt-covered earring, and held it up for Buggy to see. She took a step in retreat.
Buggy held his ground. He seemed to be weighing the earring discovery against the Zumba story, deciding if his BS radar should be pinging loudly.
“You come back here any time you want to party,” Buggy said, slipping a smoke in his mouth from a pack he kept in the pocket of his bowling
shirt. He lit it and blew a waft in Angie’s face that wouldn’t have bothered her twenty-year-old self, but made the older version want to gag.
“What’s your name, baby?”
Without hesitation, Angie said, “Kathleen.” She backed away. Only one person could ever comfort her after a nightmare. It was no great surprise when she opened her mouth and spoke her mother’s name.
CHAPTER 32
Exhibit D: Excerpts from the journal of Nadine Jessup, pages 51-57
Every night I went to bed telling myself tomorrow would be the day I’d make the call. Tomorrow would be my last day here. Wherever this is . . . somewhere in Baltimore, I’m told. Tomorrow I’ll say good-bye to Tasha and the other girls forever and then I’d say good-bye to this chapter of my life. Every day I promised myself I would do it, but I never did. Instead, I watched the phone’s battery level drop like it was my own life slipping away, down from a hundred percent to fifty. Half life. Half left. But the half remaining meant I could go another day without having to make that call. It meant I could have another day without being terrified of what Ricardo would do to me if he found out I was trying to escape, or what he would do to my mom and dad if I betrayed him. The remaining bit of battery meant I could put off having those fears become a reality for at least one more day.
I didn’t know what was going to happen when the battery got down to ten percent . . . or five. Would it give me strength I didn’t have? Would I just dial the number on the card Mystery Man gave Tasha? Would I? Could I? There was a Nadine who I believed in, a girl who I thought had the courage to do it. But it felt like that girl was lost somewhere in a maze of cheap rooms down in a basement with mold clinging to the ceiling. That Nadine was lost and I was calling her name but hearing the echo not of my voice, but the voice of Jessica Barlow, the girl I’d become, whoever she is.
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