Extracurricular Activities

by Maggie Barbieri

  “God, if only,” I said, turning back around on my stool to face the dessert case again. I put my hands on either side of my face and looked down, my eyes closed. “Please, Peter. Please leave me alone. We have nothing to bind us anymore. Not Kathy, not the case, not Ray. They’re gone and the case is over.” I removed his hand from my knee. In the brief instant where our fingers touched, he wrapped his around mine and squeezed. “We may meet again when I testify against you in the trial for Ray’s murder, but if they don’t get you, then we’ll never have to see each other again.”

  He looked sad. “You never understood what I was about. I wanted to help you. I wanted to pay you back for all of your help. For solving Kathy’s murder. I wanted to put us all out of our misery.”

  “I always understood what you were about, even in college. You’re about intimidation and hurting people. You’re about ‘the family.’ You are the most despicable person I’ve ever met.” When I thought about how he had probably killed Ray, I felt tears pressing at the backs of my eyes, a lump growing in my throat. “You kill people. You killed Ray. And God knows who else. I hope you rot in hell.”

  He studied my face for a minute before putting his hand behind my head and pulling me close. He surprised me by tilting his head and putting his lips on mine, holding them there for several long seconds. The kiss was gentle, not grotesque, and nauseating all at the same time. Anybody watching us would have seen two people engaged in a tender yet passionate kiss, a couple who had to show their love for each other.

  I pulled back from him and let the tears flow freely. I looked around to see if anyone was watching us, but nobody was. It was as if we didn’t exist and nothing had happened. My lips were numb and I hoped they would stay that way. Peter caressed my cheek and looked at me sadly until I finally broke his gaze and looked away. I took a bunch of napkins from the holder and placed them over my eyes, trying to compose myself; I was shaking with anger, but the sobs were from sadness. After a few minutes, I took the napkins off and looked around.

  Peter was gone.

  Chapter 24

  Before going home, I stopped in at the local pharmacy and bought the biggest bottle of Listerine that I could carry. The memory of Peter Miceli lingered on my lips and I thought some noxious, alcohol-based mouthwash was precisely what the doctor ordered.

  I wended my way home, feeling a little nauseous. If Gianna didn’t like that Peter had brought me biscotti, what would she say if she found out that we had kissed? I didn’t even want to entertain the thought of how she would react. I flashed back to the destruction she had wrought at Maloney’s all those years ago and shuddered.

  I walked up the driveway and was just about to enter the house when a voice called out my name.

  “Hi, Mrs. Bergerson!”

  I turned and looked across the street and saw a strapping young lad, about sixteen or seventeen, calling to me from his front lawn. I had seen him around but didn’t know his name. I assumed he was the bellows-challenged Bagpipe Kid. He ran across the street and deposited himself on my front lawn, a six-foot-two bundle of energy.

  “Hi!” I said with extra enthusiasm, making up for the fact that I had no name to go with the greeting; I’ve lived here a long time and I should have known the kid’s name. He wasn’t offering and I wasn’t about to ask at this point in our relationship. He obviously, or sort of, knew my name.

  “Can I take Trixie out?” he asked. He was a tall, gangly kid, with a pale face dotted with freckles. His red hair all grew forward and stuck up in places, but judging from the number of teenage girls who came and went from the house, he was either a real Don Juan or had an older brother who was.

  “Um, okay?” I said.

  He saw the puzzled look on my face and explained. “I used to walk her for the Morrisons.”

  “Who?”

  He pointed to Jackson and Terri’s house. “The Morrisons.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My mom told me that they left and that it looked like Trixie was living with you.”

  His mom was pretty observant; I, on the other hand, wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a lineup, so I was impressed. I started toward the house and he followed me. “Actually, if you want to help me out with her, that would be great. I can pay you what the Morrisons were paying you.” I said a silent prayer that the Morrisons weren’t paying him fifty bucks a walk or something equally outrageous.

  “Oh, they weren’t paying me. I was just doing it because I love Trixie.”

  Even better! And anyone who loves Trixie is a friend of mine. A responsible and free dog walker. How did I get so lucky? Now if I just had an unmarried boyfriend, I’d be all set. I opened the front door and let Bagpipe Kid in. Trixie, sensing a compadre in her midst, bounded down the hall, her leash in her mouth. “Trixie, you learned a new trick,” I said, amazed.

  The kid blushed. “I taught her that.”

  “Good work!” I said, and gave him a high five.

  “She’s been digging a hole in the back of your neighbors’ yard,” he said, hooking a thumb toward Terri and Jackson’s vacant abode. “It’s way in the back behind the shed so I’m letting her do it. She loves to dig.”

  I didn’t care. Nobody lived there so it wasn’t like anybody else would care, either. I sent the kid and Trixie on their way, telling him to just tie her up in the back when he was done playing with her. They took off down the front walk, a boy and…well, a dog he didn’t own.

  I took my bottle of Listerine into the kitchen and filled a tall glass halfway with the stuff. Damn that Peter Miceli and his roving lips. I took a hearty sip of the mouthwash, looking out onto the backyard and craning my neck to see if Trixie was still working on the hole. She was at the edge of the shed working as hard as she could to dig a giant chasm. I could see her hind legs kicking up earth, great clumps of it flying to and fro. The kid crouched next to her, staring down into the void that she had created, smiling and petting her from time to time, seemingly happy that she was happy.

  I gargled a few times, swishing yellow liquid around in my mouth until my tongue had gone numb. When my eyes started to water, I spat out the fluid into the sink, rinsed the glass out, and filled it with water, drinking down the residue that remained in my mouth. I didn’t know if I felt any better or if I had completely erased the idea of Peter’s lips touching mine, but my mouth felt tingly and clean. I peered out again to check on Trixie’s progress, surprised when a flash of red flew past the window over my sink which I recognized as Bagpipe Kid’s head. His furious knocking at the back door interrupted my reverie and I opened the door to find him in a tizzy, winded and agitated.

  “Mrs…. Trixie…the hole,” he said, finally putting his hands to his knees and taking deep breaths. It dawned on me that he wasn’t as winded as he was terrified. When he stood up straight again, I noticed that his face was ghastly white, his freckles standing out against a pallid background.

  “Slow down,” I said, putting a hand on his back.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen, the force so hard that it lifted me off my feet. “Come with me.”

  I could see Trixie standing by the hole, whimpering, her tail between her legs, and her head hanging dejectedly.

  The kid reached the hole before I did and he pointed, his arm stiff. He looked away, focusing on the side of my garage, the structure directly opposite from where we stood. A couple of strangled sobs escaped from his throat.

  I walked over to the hole and peered in, the bile rising in my throat. I turned away quickly and closed my eyes but the sight of the body, missing its hands and feet, remained imprinted on the insides of my eyelids.

  I backed away from the grave, dragging the kid along with me. Trixie started walking in circles, issuing a low, sad moan. I turned and put my hands on the kid’s shoulders.

  “What’s your name?” I asked. I figured now was as good a time as any for introductions.

  “Br…Br…”

  “Brian?”

  He shook his head
, unable to form a complete word or thought.

  “Bruce?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Brady?”

  “Br…Br…Brendan,” he finally managed to get out.

  I put my face close to his, steadying both of us with the pressure I put on his shoulders. “Brendan, do you want to go call 911 or stay here with the body?”

  He pointed at my house.

  “Good. Go over to my house and call 911. I’ll stay here.”

  He started to walk away but when he reached the hedgerow, he turned back. “What should I tell them?”

  Poor kid. “Tell them that you found a dead body. They’ll know what to do,” I said. “Then call your mom and tell her to come over here. You should stay with me because the police are going to want to question you.”

  The look on his face almost broke my heart; it was a mixture of sadness, shock, and terror. In this one instance, his world had changed forever. I watched his shoulders sag as he walked toward my house.

  I sat on the grass, a dozen feet or so from the grave, and waited for the chaos to begin.

  Before Crawford left work, he spoke to the desk sergeant and told him to alert all sector cars to Alex’s disappearance. Most of the cops in the precinct knew Alex, and those who didn’t got a copy of a photograph that Crawford kept in his desk. “Put the word out, Sarge. Anybody who sees him should call me on my cell.”

  He left work tired and dejected. He got in his car and headed toward Connecticut to pick up his daughters.

  The slapping of the wipers on the windshield lulled him into an almost hypnotic state and he drove as if on autopilot, letting instinct and memory steer him in the right direction. He hadn’t talked to Alison since earlier that day, when he had been knee-deep in Maloney’s garbage in a Dumpster behind the bar. He and Carmen had found Alex’s stash—a blanket, a stack of books, and an empty bottle of Wild Turkey—right by the Dumpster and stayed around the area, looking for anything that would give them an idea of where he might be or might have gone. Crawford spied a bloody shirt hanging out of the Dumpster, but Tommy Maloney confirmed that a fight the night before in the bar had produced the rent and soiled garment. A call to the desk sergeant confirmed that there had been a fight the night before and a sector car had responded. He bagged the shirt anyway and asked the sergeant to hold the paperwork on the fight so that he could see it on Monday; he’d want to question everybody involved to see if they had seen Alex.

  He arrived on Donald Street about forty minutes after he had left the precinct. He walked up the curving front walk of Christine’s small Tudor and rang the doorbell. She answered the door, looking beautiful in a black dress and the pearls he had given her for their first anniversary.

  “You look nice,” he said, making her blush. She opened the door wide and let him in.

  “Girls!” she called from the bottom of the stair.

  Meaghan bounded down the stairs with her knapsack and ever-present iPod attached to her jeans. Erin followed close behind, in pajama pants and a tank top. Crawford raised an eyebrow. “Are you sick?”

  Erin threw him a snotty look. “No.”

  “Then why are you in your pajamas? I’m taking you to dinner.”

  Meaghan laughed. “We always dress like that. Everyone does.”

  Crawford pointed up the stairs. “Put on some clothes,” he said. “Please.” She stomped up the stairs, muttering at the injustice of it all. He looked at Meaghan. “You always dress like that? When? Where?”

  “When we go to school. Or out.”

  He shook his head. He didn’t have the energy to argue with them about something as trivial as wearing pajamas in public, and fortunately, Meaghan let it go. Erin came down the stairs a few minutes later in baggy jeans with a hole in one knee. He gave her another disapproving look; they weren’t a vast improvement over her original pants.

  “What?” she said. “You said no pajama pants. These aren’t pajama pants.”

  He looked at Christine and gave her a tense smile. “Okay! We’ll be on our way then.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “They’re all yours.” She opened the front door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “Around five.”

  She ushered the girls outside and put her arm through his. “Can you stay for dinner? There are a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”

  He smiled. “Does one of them have to do with why you look so gorgeous on a Saturday night?”

  She blushed deep red again. “It does.”

  He leaned down and gave her a long hug. “I’ll be here.” He started for the door. “Have a good time.”

  The girls wanted to go to a restaurant in the city, and after much discussion, they decided on Chinese. Crawford dropped his car off close to his house and locked their bags in his trunk. They went to their favorite Chinese place—Hunan Garden—and ordered enough food for six, after which they filled him in on the details of the swim meet.

  Crawford took a swig of his beer. “So, how was the rest of your week?”

  “Mom’s dating a stockbroker,” Erin blurted out.

  Meaghan punched her sister in the arm. “You are an asshole.”

  Crawford gave Meaghan a steely look. “Hey!”

  She looked down at the table, shamefaced.

  “And he’s got four kids!” Erin said, obviously distressed. “All under ten!”

  “So, if they get married, you’ll be the Brady bunch,” Crawford said, laughing. “You’ll have to hire an Alice, though.”

  “It’s not funny, Dad.” Erin pouted, ripping her napkin into little pieces. She looked at him, her face sad. “Does Alison have kids?”

  He took another sip of his beer. “No.” He set his beer down on the glass-topped table. “She has a dog.”

  “Does she want kids?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve never talked about it.” And that was the truth. “From what I know, she didn’t even know she wanted a dog.” He took in their confused expressions. “Long story.”

  Erin continued ripping her napkin. “What if she does want children? What if she wants to marry you and have children with you? Where does that leave us?”

  Crawford held up a hand to stop her. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Alison and I haven’t actually begun dating. Not in the traditional sense of the word.”

  Meaghan gave him a sly look. “Dad’s a player!”

  “No, no, no…” he said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He didn’t know when these two had gotten so sophisticated but he didn’t like it. He knew what Meaghan was implying and he wanted to set the record straight. “It’s not like that. It’s complicated. Our lives are complicated.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Dad. You’re a pretty simple guy,” Meaghan said, dipping a crunchy noodle into the duck sauce on the table. “How complicated could it be? As long as she’s got beer in the refrigerator, a bag of chips, and knows how to make guacamole, you should get along just fine.”

  She had a point. “Well, it just is,” he said, for lack of a better retort. He drank the rest of his beer and motioned to the waiter to bring another one. It seemed like it was going to be a long night. A muffled phone rang and all three of them checked their pockets for their cell phones. Crawford held his up and saw that it was ringing. “Hello?”

  It was Carmen. “Hey, handsome. I miss you, baby. What are you doing?”

  “I’m out to dinner with Meaghan and Erin. What’s up?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Bad news, honey. Sector car just found Alex in the park.”

  Crawford rubbed his hand over his eyes. If she was calling, it couldn’t be good. “Time of death?” he asked.

  “Right after he called you.” She spoke to someone in the background and then returned to the call. “I think he got in the middle of that drug thing that Casey and Mariano are working on. One of the Brotherhood left his calling card.”

  The Brotherhood were a Bronx gang and responsible f
or most of the pot-dealing that went on. Although most people thought of pot as the gentle person’s choice of drug, it produced some of the most vicious and deadly turf and gang violence in the city. The Brotherhood were territorial, brutal, and killed without a second thought; their signature was a black bandana left at their executions.

  Crawford felt the tears pressing at the back of his eyes and he took a swig of beer to wash down the lump in his throat. He looked down at the table to avoid the girls’ gaze; it was clear that they knew something was wrong. “Do you need me?” He mouthed a thank-you to the waiter when his second beer appeared.

  “No. I’ll handle it. I’m pulling a double so I can go to Ricardo’s sister’s baby shower tomorrow. That oughta be fun,” she said. The noise in the background got louder and she shouted to an officer to cut his siren. “I’ll call you later,” she said and hung up.

  A wave of exhaustion took hold of him. The body count was rising and his energy was ebbing.

  Neither one was good.

  Chapter 25

  I managed to make it through the Hardin/Madden tag team questioning session in just under two hours. Brendan and I spent those two hours answering their questions until it became apparent to them that we had nothing to say beyond “we found a body in a grave and we don’t know anything else.” They were perplexed as to why not one, but two, bodies missing body parts had been found by me. I reminded them that it was Brendan, not I, who had found the second body. Small but salient point, in my opinion. I was perplexed about the two bodies, too, however, and asked them if they had any theories about that.

  We also reviewed the 911 calls of the early morning, and they told me that they would follow up on that. I got a glimpse of the cop I had seen earlier that morning and he didn’t have the look of someone who had just gotten the news that he was receiving a commendation in the near future.