by Sandra Block
“Did you know him?” he asks as we sit at the table.
“No.” I rip off a piece of the bread. “For the life of me, I cannot remember anyone named Cary.” But as I say the name, a chill passes through me. A flash of a memory from senior year. The guy from Civ Ed, whom I politely turned down. Quinn and I were walking out of Sanders Hall the next week, and as he passed me, he said something under his breath but loud enough so I could hear it: Cunt.
“Cary,” I say. “Not Terry.” I pick up my phone again to look at the screen.
“Who’s Cary not Terry?” Eli asks, his mouth full.
“The guy from Civ Ed class,” I answer. “Rapist number one.” But then I remember Eli’s never watched the video, so he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I tap my finger against my forehead. “What the hell was his last name? Cary, Cary, Cary,” I repeat, trying to stir it from my memory. Then it hits me. “Of course. I’m such an idiot!” I jump out of my seat.
“What?” Eli asks, stabbing a piece of ravioli.
“Face book,” I say, heading over to the other room.
“Why would he be on your Facebook?”
“No, not Facebook. The freshman yearbook thing,” I call back from the storage closet. “The original face book.” I’m referring to the book sent out to all incoming Harvard freshman with wallet-sized photos of the whole class. Folks call it the “face book,” after which Zuckerberg famously titled his website. Rifling through a box of stuff, I’m wondering why I didn’t think of it before. Probably because even looking at the book made me nauseated. I had thrown it out when I left college and came home, and my mom snuck it out of the garbage. The musty box is full of stuff I haven’t looked at in years: knickknacks, old textbooks, a gray sweater I notice has a moth hole. “If he’s in my year, he could be in there.” My voice echoes in the closet. “Maybe the other guys too,” I mumble, not relishing the idea of scouring the faces in there for my other rapists. I shove aside the box and tear the tape off another. More crap. An old field hockey trophy. An out-of-style jeans jacket that smells like pot. More books, tanned at the edges. I’m about to tackle the last box when I see the corner poking out of a stack on the floor. Dark, maroon (crimson, really) with a wrinkled, faded binding. With some effort, I yank it out, slam the closet door shut and sit back down. “Got it.”
“Oh joy.” Eli spoons some more ravioli on his plate. My plate is still half-full.
I start flipping through the black-and-white pages of the face book, unsticking a few. “Cary…Cary… Where are you, my friend?” I start through the grainy photos, scanning through the Gs when his picture leaps out at me. The same face in the video. But this time he’s not closing his eyes, frowning while coming and thrusting. He’s not pushing my legs as far open as they will go.
I stab my index finger into his stupid, smiling face.
I found you, Cary Graham. And I’m going to wipe that smile off your face.
Chapter Twenty-Three
James
There is a point when it happens every time.
The rhythm melds my body into a machine, my bones, tendons, muscles all working together. Not a perfect machine, but close, with batteries that get recharged daily and a heart muscle that lasts for eighty years or more, notwithstanding a coding malfunction (e.g., cancer) or a disruptive outside force (e.g., slamming into a wall of water at a hundred miles an hour).
The swimming was Jamal’s idea too. For stress-relief, he said. But it’s more than that for me. In the pool, I am at peace. I don’t have to worry about how other people see me, or if I’m offending someone or acting weird. It’s easy to be normal in the pool.
I do freestyle only. I learned the other strokes when I was a kid. But it was torture back then, I remember. My father looming above me like some D&D ogre, yelling at the side of the pool. The cold water, the echoing noise, the shimmer of the waves on the ceiling in a bewildering array of values you could never draw a vector through.
But at some point, it changed.
I don’t know how, but it did. That happens sometimes, and I don’t even notice it. Jamal calls it acclimatization, which makes sense from a neuronal standpoint. But I think it could be just growing up.
The other good thing about swimming is how people look at me differently now. Cooper told me that. “Dude, you been lifting weights?” he asked about six months after I started. My shoulders got bigger, my leg muscles more defined. My perfect machine became mine. I can’t tell if Dahlia sees me that way or not though. I think she might. I thought so, when we were sitting together on the subway. But I could be wrong.
I thought about her idea of a code for the project and decided she’s right.
We should have a code. And I need a code too. If I’m helping her so she’ll be my girlfriend, that’s not right. And it probably won’t work. And if I’m doing it for Ramona, it won’t bring her back. It won’t erase that night, my mother calling me in college with tears in her voice. It won’t change the fact that my father won’t even say her name.
And there’s my circular thinking again.
So I focus on swimming, letting my mind go empty, my arm arching through the air, my hand slicing the water at the right angle. The right amount of water slipping through my fingers. I touch the rough concrete wall and take a deep breath. Thirty-eight.
Plunging into the water again, I shoot my arm out and swim mindlessly, in a dream state, for laps and laps and laps.
When I get out of the pool, my muscles are soft and relaxed. The hot shower feels great, washing off the chlorine smell (though I don’t mind the smell anymore). After these swims, I know sleep will be no problem, that I won’t be up for hours trying to solve problems that are unsolvable.
A guy smiles at me from across the bench. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, then busy myself with my locker. I’m not trying to be mean, but the last time a guy struck up a conversation in here and said he liked my tattoo, I thought we were trying to be friends, but it turns out he wanted to kiss me. I’m fine with biological diversity and different people being attracted to different people, but I happen to be heterosexual, and he was a little put off when I explained all that to him.
I get dressed quickly, and the guy finally leaves.
Reaching for my phone in my hoodie pocket, I see a text on the screen. Automatically I smile when I see it’s from Dahlia.
Found rapist #1. Not Terry BLANK. Cary Graham.
#1—Graham
#2—Roberts
I text her back. Two down. Two to go.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dahlia
I’m so slammed at work the next day, I barely have time to think about Cary Graham at all. The first couple of hours, I’m rounding up medical records from various hospitals for different clients—one hip surgery gone awry, one cataract surgery gone awry, and one canine surgery gone awry. No idea why Connor accepted that one, but he said it’s a friend of a friend who’s torn up about the whole thing and he’s going for emotional suffering.
Sylvia runs in late from an appointment, and I hold up her Starbucks venti triple triple. Her eyes widen in delight. “What’s this for?”
“Davenport. You saved my ass.”
“Aw,” she says, taking it from my hand. “That was sweet.” She peels off her coat and starts straightening out her desk.
Turning back to my computer, I look up Paul Snyder’s number. He’s our PI, our go-to guy for sniffing out disability fakers, and I need him for another medical case, this one a back surgery gone awry.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says, answering the phone.
“Hey, Snyder.” I have no idea why I let him get away with calling me that. But he’s sixty and sees me as a daughter, I think. And he does good work.
“Okay, gimme the story,” he says.
“The name is Terence Malone,” I say and explain how T
erence is on worker’s comp for back pain but as per the ex–Mrs. Malone (who isn’t exactly a disinterested party) still manages to attend his weekly bowling league.
“Got it.” I hear him cap his pen. “Just him? Any others?”
An idea hits me then. Probably not a good idea, but one that lingers in my head for a couple extra seconds nonetheless. “Maybe one more person.”
“Maybe?” he asks with a note of intrigue.
I tinker with the corner of a sheet of paper, flicking it back and forth, deciding. “It’s more of a personal thing you know, versus a work thing.”
A long pause follows this. “Go on.” Though his tone is more hesitant now.
“Forget it,” I mutter. “You know what? It’s not a big deal. Let’s just hit our stealth bowler.”
But he doesn’t hang up. “Why don’t you tell me about it, gorgeous? I might not be able to help. But maybe I can.”
I flick the paper faster, so much that Sylvia glances over at me. “It’s like this.” I turn to the corner, lowering my voice. “There’s a guy who did something to me. Something bad. A while ago.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m trying to get some information on him.”
I hear scribbling on the other end of the phone. “Something bad?” he asks. “Are we talking broke up with you or something?”
“No,” I say. “Bad bad.” I pause. “The worst you could do to a woman and not kill her.” My finger is madly flicking the paper and I stop it. “Do you understand me?”
His breath is heavy in the phone. “Yes, I understand you, gorgeous. Give me the name.”
• • •
By the end of the workday, I’ve found out a bit about Cary Graham.
Like any other monstrous sociopath, he lives among us. A Google search spilled out all his vital information in about 0.8 seconds. Though he’s nowhere near Blake Roberts’s stratus, he’s doing just fine. After graduation, he joined Dunbolt Investment Banking and is currently enrolled in Harvard Business School at night. So, we’re both night students, he’s just making twenty-fold what I do. He’s not in the White Pages though, so I don’t get a home address. It’s a start, anyway, though James probably turned up more information in 0.6 seconds. So we’ve got two out of four. The last two rapists weren’t in the face book, unfortunately. And I’ve just started making my way through the Hawk Club list that James discovered.
I have faith we’ll get Rapist #3, but I’m not so sure about #4, the guy filming. He’s the only dark horse out there. All the video shows is a glimpse of his forehead with a Red Sox cap with some kind of stain on the bill. And a stained Red Sox cap in Boston is not much of a clue.
The sound of whistling emerges down the hall, some jaunty show tune, and I turn around to see Snyder bebopping my way. He looks like an old mobster of sorts, had he decided to join the other side of the law, with greased-back gray hair and a bit of a potbelly. But his ratty button-down and a lop-sided tie announces him as one of us. He drops a beat-up briefcase on the floor. “Hey there, gorgeous.” He nods over to Sylvia too. “Sylvia, my dear.”
“Hey, Snyder,” she returns, not looking up from her screen.
He perches himself on the corner of my desk, folding his arms over his gut. “You want the goods or what?”
“I do.” I rifle through my satchel and yank out a notebook from my night class. “Give it to me.”
“The kid’s got a pretty good gig,” Snyder says, flipping open his own little notebook. “Makes a lot of money from this Dunbolt thing. Investment banking.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s got a girlfriend. Tina Delgado. Hispanic girl. Very pretty. Don’t know what she’s doing with that schmuck.”
“Okay.” I write this down, though it doesn’t seem terribly pertinent.
“Nice little apartment on Chase Avenue—49 Chase Avenue, to be exact. Key code 8-8-8-8. Which is plain stupid, if you ask me.”
“Wait,” I say. “Key code to what?”
“The apartment,” he says. “The garage box.”
“Oh.” This tidbit, I am definitely writing down. “How’d you figure that out?”
“She keyed it in,” he says. “The Delgado girl.”
“And you could see her?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ever hear of binoculars, gorgeous?”
“Right,” I say, drawing the word out with recognition at my own dim-wittedness.
“Anyway,” he says, adjusting himself on the edge of the desk. “They seem pretty serious. Window-shopping for wedding rings on Thursday night.”
I cross my arms. “You can find out a lot with binoculars.”
“Actually, that one was Instagram,” he says with a chuckle. “I do have the internet, you know.” He leans a hand on my desk. “Oh, and another thing. She’s pregnant.”
“How’d you…?” I ask, but answer myself. “Instagram.”
“Oh yeah,” he says. “About a million pictures of the smallest baby bump ever.”
Sylvia picks up her purse and heads off with a little wave. “Girl’s room,” she mouths. I nod back at her, then put my pen on the desk. “Sounds like he’s got the perfect little life then.”
“Perhaps. But with one tiny little wrinkle,” Snyder says, leaning toward me with a grin.
“Oh yeah?” My pen is alight again.
He lowers his voice. “He’s a cokehead.”
I lean back in my chair, a smile growing on my face. “A cokehead. That is a serious wrinkle.”
“It certainly is.”
“You didn’t get that one off Instagram.”
“No, I did not,” he concurs. “But I did see him leave work to snort in his car three times this afternoon.”
“Cokehead,” I muse, with pleasure. Field research at its finest. We certainly found a weak spot for this particular hawk. I can’t wait to tell James.
“I still gotta figure out his dealer, but that shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll trail him tomorrow.” He stands up from the desk and performs a loud, groaning stretch. “I just wanted to give you the good news.”
I stand up too. “Thank you, Snyder. So much.”
“My pleasure.” He drops his notebook into his briefcase and picks it up.
“So, what do I owe you?” I ask, reaching for my purse.
“On the house, gorgeous.”
“No, really. You…you don’t need to do that.”
“Next time, I’ll charge you. This time, it was my pleasure.” He gives me his old mobster grin. “Helping to nail some bastard is just a perk of the job.”
• • •
“Coke?” Eli asks over the phone. “How very old-school of him.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty behind the times on that one. Anyone who’s anyone knows fentanyl is where it’s at.” Walking to the subway station from work, I pull my hat over my ears against the chill.
“So what are you gonna do with that little nugget?” he asks.
“Not sure.” Stale heat rises up from a sidewalk grate. “I have to think about it.” As I walk on, I hear laughter and yelling sound out over the phone.
“Hey, gotta go,” he says. “Bunch of people just walked in.”
“See ya.” Hanging up, I get to the stairs of the station, my mind looping through all possible modes of revenge. As I walk down, a text rings in my purse, and I grab my phone next to my Beretta.
Send anonymous tip to the police text line? It’s James. I have to chuckle that he’s obsessing over this too.
Police might fall for it. But wouldn’t go to prison, I answer.
No?
No. He’s white. Would end up in rehab.
The dot-waiting message stays on my phone while I wait for the train. What if we make him a dealer?
I think about this one. That might actually work. He would have to get some ti
me for that.
I’m about to answer, when a voice interrupts me.
“Dahlia?”
I look over to see a figure with green, stringy hair coming my way from the bench by the wall. “Natasha,” I say, as we give a mini-hug. “This isn’t your usual spot.” This may not be entirely coincidental. I did give her forty bucks last time.
“Changing things up a bit,” she says. She’s still got her pregnant sign. And with her pudgy belly, she could pass. She clears her throat, possibly a cue for me to give her money, and we wait awkwardly for the train that never comes when you want it to. I reach into my purse for a ten this time, when suddenly the train is barreling down the tunnel, the light soaring toward us. I’m about to hand her the money, when an idea strikes.
“Hey.” I pull her over by the elbow to the bench. “I have an odd question for you.”
“Yeah?” she asks, sitting down, peering into my purse.
I wait for the stragglers to board the train, then look around to make sure no one else is around. “Would you be able to get me cocaine?”
For an instant, she looks at me like I’ve gone mad, then quickly assembles her professional face. “Maybe,” she says. “For the right price.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Five Years Ago
I decide.
Pills.
That would be the easiest.
It’s amazing how much one can think about this, especially when one stops doing homework or much of anything else.
Sometimes Daisy or Quinn manages to drag me out of bed for class. When my mom left, they convinced me to come to English class. It’s a required class, and we’re all taking it. I don’t want to fail.
It was a labor. I had to get out of bed. I had to shower. I had to put on clothes. I had to do my best not to cry. They helped me with every step. We walked slowly to the class. My book bag was too heavy and they carried my books. It’s usually a pleasant, fifteen-minute walk. It took us forty-five minutes and I rested on a couple of benches. By the time we finally got to class, we were late.
