by Jason Pinter
“Why do you care?” he said. “We had to sleep in a crappy bed in a police station because you got arrested. And just a few days ago, we had to stay in a hotel after someone broke into our home. People with guns came to Megan’s school.”
“Am I still Megan?” her daughter asked. “Or am I Chloe again?”
Rachel felt her heart ascend into her throat. Tears welled up, but she fought them back.
“You are Megan, and you are Eric,” she said. “But you are my children first and foremost.”
“You told us these names were for our own protection,” Eric said. “So we’d be safe. You made us swear not to use the old ones ever again. That we could be in trouble if we did.”
“You’re right. I said that.”
“How are we safe now? How do you protect us by getting arrested?”
The dam burst. Rachel began to weep.
“Mommy?” Megan said. She, too, began to cry. “Mommy, are you OK?”
Rachel pulled the car into a strip mall. She put her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. How had it come to this?
“Mommy, please stop crying,” Megan said.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. She got out of the car and went around to the back seat. She opened the door and motioned Megan to move over. She did. Then Rachel got into the car, leaned over, and threw her arms around both her children.
It was uncomfortable and awkward, and Eric was not the kind of son who appreciated sudden hugs from his mother, but within seconds the three of them were embracing and sobbing.
“I love you both with all my heart, with everything I am,” Rachel said. “Something in me changed after your father died.”
“I know it did,” Eric said. “That’s why when I saw the basement, for the first time it actually kind of made sense.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel said.
“Where you go every night. You don’t think we know you go down there every night, but we do.”
Rachel looked at Megan. “You knew too?”
Megan nodded. “Sadie Scout has a supercool basement. Like ours.”
This caught Rachel by surprise. “You’re both much more clever than I gave you credit for.”
“Come on, Mom,” Eric said. “I mean you could crush soda cans with your biceps. You could kick my gym teacher’s ass. And he played football.”
Rachel laughed and wiped her eyes. “Don’t use the a-word in front of Megan.”
“What a-word?” Megan said. “Asses?”
Rachel was laughing too hard to be angry. When the laughter subsided, she said, “I couldn’t do anything to save your father. And it eats at me every day of my life. So when that woman, Constance Wright, died, it felt like nobody did anything to save her either. I thought I needed to do something, even if it was too late to save her.”
“You’re, like, a superhero,” Megan said. “Trying to bring the bad guys to justice.”
“I’m nothing like a superhero,” Rachel said. “Superheroes don’t let their children sleep in police stations.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Megan said. “I got to read about fishing lures. And this nice sir-gant named Inez talked to us. But the room smelled like feet.”
“Sergeant,” Rachel corrected. “Not sir-gant.”
“I don’t want you to go to jail again,” Megan said, those gorgeous blue eyes melting Rachel’s heart. They had their father’s eyes. His sense of humor too. He lived on through them, and it both pained Rachel and warmed her heart, because with every blink she was reminded of what she had—and what she’d lost.
“I’m not going back to jail, sweetheart,” Rachel said.
“Maybe not today,” Eric said. “But what about tomorrow?”
“I don’t plan on going tomorrow either,” Rachel said. “But I understand what you’re saying. I promise you both, right now, that you will always come first.”
Eric nodded. She knew he believed her, but he had grown accustomed to the world breaking promises.
Rachel gave Megan a kiss and squeezed Eric’s hand and went back to the front seat. She started the car and eased back onto the freeway. As she neared Megan’s school, her cell phone chirped from her purse. She ignored it for the time being. Kids first.
She got out of the car, gave Megan a big hug, and watched her daughter meet up with two other girls and jog inside, three small humans in cute puffy coats.
“You’re next,” Rachel said. “Sure you won’t be embarrassed having your mom drop you off at school?”
“Actually,” Eric said, “would you mind dropping me a couple blocks away so I can walk there without anyone seeing you?”
Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but Eric added, “Just kidding.”
“You’re a little jerk,” she said lovingly. He smiled, that easy, lazy grin. His father’s grin.
Rachel’s phone beeped again. When she stopped at a red light, she took her phone from her purse and checked the call log.
When she saw the caller ID, her heart began to hammer in her chest.
Oh no, she thought. Oh God.
Jim Franklin had called. Twice. He had not left a message. Jim Franklin had not called Rachel in over two years, and not since she had closed on the house.
There was only one reason why Jim Franklin would call her.
Something was very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 32
Three Years Ago
She stood on the northwest corner of East Main Street and Harwinton Avenue in Torrington wearing a long black raincoat.
It was not raining.
A gray backpack, filled to capacity, weighed on her shoulders. It would leave a mark the next day. The coat covered her from her neck to her ankles, and that was necessary.
Soon they would be leaving Torrington, and the East Coast, for good. They would start over. Begin their new lives. Jim Franklin had already set them up with a “No Questions Asked” broker in some nowhere midwestern city called Ashby. But before that, she had unfinished business with one Stanford Royce.
She had spent the last three months learning everything she could about Royce. Since the charges against him were dropped, he had been a model citizen. He knew the cops were looking for an excuse to either put him in irons or the hospital. So for once in his miserable life, Stanford Royce was obeying the law. At least as far as Rachel could tell.
He had shaved the goatee and dyed his black hair a brownish red, the color of cedar mulch. Stanford Royce could try to change his appearance. But Rachel knew his eyes. He could never change what lay behind those.
Royce had taken a job working as a car service and limousine dispatcher for a company called Door2Door, arriving at their office every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp and getting out the door at precisely 4:00 p.m., when his shift ended. Most days after work he went to happy hour at a pub called Herlihy’s two blocks south of the Door2Door offices. He always ordered between three and five pints of Yuengling and alternated between a plate of nachos or a cheddar burger with sweet potato fries.
He never got drunk, never picked a fight, and never talked to anyone except when ordering another round. Royce seemed desperate for companionship. When an unaccompanied woman approached the bar, he would eye her, pleading with her to start a conversation. If a woman took the stool next to him, he would stare into his drink. It amazed Rachel how confident he’d been assaulting her and Evie and how lost he was when trying to make actual human contact.
It was easy for her to observe him. The bar had floor-to-ceiling windows, and it was never crowded to the point where Royce got lost in the bustle.
After drinking his fill, Royce went home to a small bungalow off Litchfield Turnpike with a dirty-white frame and dark-red roof that was on the verge of collapse. The one-bedroom house had a small covered porch and dirt-smeared windows. An old Buick gathered rust in a dirt driveway. Royce never opened his window shades. Other than the mailman and gas meter reader, Rachel never saw a single person visit Royce.
That would change
tonight.
Her neighbor, a nice older widow named Claudette, was watching Sean and Chloe. Rachel had told Claudette she might be home late. Order in a pizza, let them watch some extra TV, anything to keep them happy and occupied. Claudette just seemed happy to be around children. She’d told Rachel to take her time. Probably assumed she was going out on a date.
Rachel watched Stanford Royce drain the last of his fourth beer. He raised his hand, like he was about to order a fifth, and Rachel cursed under her breath. Each beer took Royce approximately twenty-four minutes to finish. Another beer meant another half hour wandering the street, trying not to look suspicious.
But rather than ask for another beer, Royce clearly mouthed the word check.
Now came the hard part.
Royce paid his tab in cash and left the bar. When he stepped outside, he lit a cigarette with a matchbook and walked to the corner to wait for the M-94 bus. At this point, keeping an eye on Royce wasn’t quite as necessary. He never went anywhere but home after the bar.
After he got on the bus, Rachel walked to the same corner and waited. Twenty minutes later, another M-94 bus arrived. She got on and took a seat.
Soon the downtown district full of bars, restaurants, and office buildings fell away to low-slung, poorly made houses surrounded by weed-infested lawns and cars with rusted-out hubcap wheels. She got off the bus, still wearing the raincoat, and walked toward 2926 Willow Tree Lane.
As if to justify her own attire, a sprinkle of rain had begun to fall. A pang of fear rose in Rachel’s chest. She was wearing a synthetic blonde wig that covered her own brown hair but had not considered whether raindrops on synthetic material would look realistic. Would he get suspicious that her hair wasn’t frizzy due to the inclement weather? She shook the thought from her mind. It was too late, but now she was wishing she’d gone the extra mile and bought a wig made from human hair.
When she arrived at the house on Willow Tree Lane, Rachel quickly surveyed the area. The homes had been built close together, no more than thirty feet between neighbors. This meant silence would be imperative. Thankfully Royce kept his windows drawn. She could see light behind the shades. He was home, as expected.
She took her backpack off, laid it on the sidewalk, opened it, and took out a pair of plastic shoe covers. She had purposefully worn flats three sizes too large, stuffed with pantyhose to make them snug enough to walk in. The shoe coverings would prevent tracks, and even if she miscalculated, the larger size would still throw off forensics.
Prior to slipping the plastic covers on, she placed a perfectly cut strip of cardboard underneath the shoe sole to avoid leaving any markings. Then she secured the plastic with masking tape.
The rain was beginning to fall steadier, each droplet loud as a shotgun blast to Rachel. She’d have to be careful. She checked her wig, then took a large plastic bag from the backpack and stuffed the raincoat inside. Underneath the jacket she had been wearing a too-tight leather jacket, which she unzipped down to her breastbone. The top of a Lily of France leopard-print bra was visible beneath the jacket, the push-up bra doing wonders. It was almost too bad she’d have to incinerate it.
She took out a small makeup mirror and applied a large amount of blush and purple eye shadow and stuck on false eyelashes. Then she slid in blue-colored contact lenses. They irritated her eyes slightly, so she put a few drops of Systane Ultra in each eye then dabbed them with a tissue. She put two sticks of Carefree mint gum in her mouth and chewed until her breath was good and minty.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She was unrecognizable.
Everything else went into the same plastic bag as the raincoat. Before zipping the backpack up, she placed a small device into her pocket.
It was time.
Rachel walked quickly across the street. The weather worked to her advantage; none of Royce’s neighbors were outside. Her heart jackhammered as she climbed the three wood steps to his front door. They creaked, and she paused. A deep breath calmed her nerves.
Then she rang the doorbell.
Rachel took two steps back. She wanted Royce to see her in full. Cleavage, tight jacket, runny makeup, the works.
She waited. Nothing happened. Where was he?
She rang the doorbell again and unzipped her jacket just a little bit more.
Still nothing.
She couldn’t panic. But she could look desperate. It could even work to her advantage.
“Hello?” Rachel said, rapping on the door. She spoke in a voice an octave higher than her own and added a slight southern accent. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to use your phone somethin’ bad. It’s an emergency.”
A crusty voice came from inside.
“So what the hell do you want from me?”
It was Royce. Rachel thought fast.
“Sorry to bother you, Mister. I was seeing a man friend down the street, and, well, he don’t treat me too good. Pulled my hair and pushed me and kicked me out the house. My cell phone is still at his place, so I can’t get it cuz I don’t know what he’d do to me. Why do men have to be so mean? Are you mean, Mister?”
There was a pause, and then Royce replied, “I’m not mean.”
“Oh thank God,” Rachel said. And she meant it. She had him.
Rachel heard footsteps. She placed her hand in her pocket. The eyehole went dark. Rachel pushed her bust forward, pouted her lip.
She heard the door being unlocked. There were several locks. Royce was cautious. When you were as despised as Stanford Royce, you had to be.
The door opened with a gentle creak, revealing the apprehensive man inside. Royce’s eyes went wide when he saw Rachel’s body in full. She could see his tongue flick around inside his mouth.
“I promise I’ll be quick,” Rachel said. “Just need to call a cab.”
Royce nodded. Then he looked down at her feet.
“Why you wearing bags on your—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Rachel jabbed the Taser into his sternum.
Royce’s teeth chattered, and he made a hacking sound as he toppled backward onto the dirty green area rug inside his house. Rachel quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She dropped the backpack on the floor and got out a roll of heavy-duty electrical tape. She had four more rolls just in case. She tore off a nine-inch strip of tape, which she used to cover Royce’s mouth. Then she pulled a strip loose and bent down over him. She picked up his right hand, wound the tape around it, and then went for his left to secure them together.
She didn’t see the knife.
He must have had it tucked into his jeans. Her first thought was That was stupid of me not to check for a weapon. Her second was That stings.
Instinctively, Rachel’s hand went to her chest. There was a clean slice through her coat. She felt inside the jacket; her fingers came away coated with red.
Adrenaline began to course through her. He’d cut her. Deep.
Before she tended to herself, she needed to make sure he was no longer a threat. As Royce tried to sit up, Rachel jolted him again with the Taser. The knife fell from his grasp, and she picked it up. As he lay twitching, she wound the electrical tape around both his wrists, then did the same with his ankles. She wound several strips between his ankles and wrists, creating makeshift prison manacles.
She took another large plastic bag from the backpack and took off her jacket, leaving just a tank top and the bra. Blood was soaking through her top. She pulled off her tank top. The knife had opened a large red gash just below her rib cage. Blood streamed from it. Rachel wound the tape around her midsection several times, tightly, praying the wound would clot. It would require stitches.
Shit. How could she be so stupid?
She tossed her bloody garments into the plastic bag.
Royce was staring at her. His eyes were wide open, terrified. Rachel removed the wig from her head and placed it into the bag as well. He was trying to scream. The Tiger Eye bracelet clinked against the floor as he shivered.<
br />
“I don’t know if you remember me,” she said.
Royce shook his head from side to side.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Rachel looked down at the man whimpering at her feet. When she had begun preparing for this task, she’d worried that when it got to this point, she might hesitate. That she would be unable to go through with it. But at that moment, she felt no indecision.
“Now, Mr. Royce, I have a lot of work to do. You have about two minutes to make peace with whatever you’ve done in your life.”
She could see the glimmer from the steel reflected in Royce’s bulging eyes as she brought the blade to his chest.
CHAPTER 33
Louis Magursky refused to wear suits to the office. He had started working on construction sites when he was just fourteen, hauling copper piping and pushing wheelbarrows full of concrete mix onto jobs alongside men eighty pounds heavier than him with twenty more years’ experience. Louis had never considered himself a “suit,” one of those fat cats who sat in trailers puffing on cigars while everyone else did the grunt work. No, Louis was one of the boys.
So even when he took out a $28,000 loan against his row house in the Bronx to start Magursky Construction thirty years ago, which meant spending more time in boardrooms than on construction hoists, Louis had still shown up in loose stonewashed jeans and a flannel shirt, usually red, over a brand-new undershirt. Over the years, that outfit became his calling card. He came to loathe fancy black-tie dinners where he had to squeeze his stout form into a tuxedo, his wife constantly checking his clean white shirt to make sure it hadn’t been sullied by droplets of red wine and cocktail sauce.
Louis Magursky was a short, stocky man, five feet six inches tall and nearly the same width. His shoulders and arms had grown thick and strong due to years of hauling concrete. He had smooth, shiny cheeks and short black hair that was just beginning to recede. Louis walked into every room like he owned the building. And Louis Magursky took every slight personally, swore to carry grudges to the grave, which is why few people crossed him. He had the money and the means to make people’s lives very, very difficult.
