by Brad Parks
Amy was shaking her head.
Dansby smiled. “I always did like that guy.”
“Point is, he’s not going to let us lose this warrant,” Amy said.
“All right. So I can tell Rotary everything is on track for a conviction?”
Amy thought about reasonable doubt. And rain dances.
“Absolutely,” she said. “It’s as good as done.”
FORTY-TWO
Wednesday night was another torture session disguised as slumber, with my thoughts jumping from one awful subject to the next.
Alex—and who had him, and what they were doing with him, and whether he was being loved and cared for—was, as usual, first and foremost.
But what Judge Robbins had threatened me with was certainly in there as well.
Barely sleeping Wednesday night made the swelling in my ankles worse all day Thursday. By the time I made the drive home from Waffle House that evening, it had moved up to my knees.
For my pain and suffering, I had made $81.77, thanks to a tour bus full of unusually heavy tippers that came through around lunchtime.
Before turning up my driveway, I checked my mailbox and, once again, did not find any note from my parents; just a credit-card bill and some junk mail.
I was inside the house when I opened the bill. Then I gasped. I don’t put much on the card under normal circumstances, and had been especially careful lately, given my dire financial situation.
That’s why I immediately knew the number was all wrong. It was at least $700 more than I expected, which was $700 I couldn’t afford if I was going to succeed in scraping together a mortgage payment for April.
With a spurt of panic, I delved into the statement itself. The first charge I didn’t recognize was from a gas station in Pennsylvania. Then there were more charges from hotels, fast food restaurants, and gas stations in New Jersey, a state I had most certainly not been in.
But obviously, Ben had been.
From March 10 through 12, my estranged husband had stayed at a hotel in Camden. On March 13 and 14, he moved up to Elizabeth. From there, I couldn’t say. March 14 was the last day of the billing cycle.
Camden made sense, being that it was just across the river from Philadelphia. He might have just been looking for a cheaper place while he made arrangements to begin at Temple with Professor Kremer.
But if that was true, what was he doing in Elizabeth? I pulled out my phone to check and, sure enough, it was an hour-and-a-half drive north of the Philadelphia area. Was there another college or university in that area?
There were actually several. Within a short drive, there was Kean University, Seton Hall, Rutgers-Newark, and many others. I could have called him to find out, except I really didn’t want to talk to the man. All I would have ended up doing was screaming at him.
So I did the next best thing: I called the credit-card company, explained the situation, and got them to shut down the account. Passive-aggressive? Sure. Satisfying? Absolutely.
When I was done, I went up to the nursery. It was time to pump. Mr. Snuggs was there, waiting for me. I looked into his glassy little eyes.
“You would never run up a credit card bill on me, would you?” I asked him.
Mr. Snuggs had no response.
“So where am I going to get seven hundred freaking dollars?”
Mr. Snuggs said nothing.
Then my phone rang. It was Marcus.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, what are you up to?”
“Talking to a teddy bear, wondering if I’m losing my mind.”
“You want me to come over? Maybe bring some Thai? Kelly has to work late again so it’d just be us.”
“That sounds so good but . . . Honestly, I’m just completely wiped out. I barely slept at all last night.”
“I understand,” he said. “Is everything okay? You sound down. Did something happen today?”
The bill I had tossed aside was at my feet. I looked down at it. I’m sure Marcus had $700. If I asked him for a loan, he’d say yes. He wouldn’t hesitate.
But I couldn’t. I already owed him too much.
“No, just tired,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “You know if you need anything, all you have to do is ask, right?”
It was like he could read my mind. But I guess that’s what best friends do.
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Marcus. You’re awesome.”
“All right,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
“Have a good night.”
“You too.”
I looked at Mr. Snuggs one last time. He had fallen on his side, so I righted him, then gave him an affectionate pat before hooking myself to the machine and letting it go to work.
FORTY-THREE
Richard Coduri’s money was getting low. So was his coke stash.
He had abandoned all attempts at rationing himself. The only thing that slowed him down at all was a persistent nosebleed. He was now snorting as much blood as he was cocaine.
The party was coming to an end.
Unless he could find a way to keep it going.
With that in mind, he had called the man again, saying he wanted more money. The man refused. Coduri was pissed, but what could he do?
Then he got that subpoena, which had been served on him at Room 307 at the Howard Johnson. How the cops even knew he was there, he didn’t know.
That prompted another phone call to the man. He left a message this time. And maybe there had been more of a threat involved. He hadn’t quite said, Hey, it’s Slash. I’ve been subpoenaed. Give me more money, or else I’ll tell everyone what I did for you.
Well, maybe he had said something like that.
The man had called back, furious, saying that wasn’t the deal, saying Coduri had been compensated lavishly for what he had done. The man reminded Coduri he would go to jail if everything came out. He also reminded Coduri that he didn’t actually know the man’s name, so what was he going to tell the authorities? That some guy had paid him to plant drugs in the woman’s house? What would that accomplish?
Coduri said he didn’t care. He said he liked prison.
That was a bluff, of course. No way Coduri was going back behind bars.
But the man didn’t know that. He had made all kinds of angry noises, told Coduri never to call him again, all that. Whatever. Coduri knew the guy would fold. In a game of chicken, the winner is always the person with less to lose.
So Coduri smiled when he saw the number pop up on his phone. It was late Thursday night, maybe early Friday morning, and Coduri was impossibly high.
His bluff had worked. He was about to be rich again. He’d make it last this time.
“Hey, it’s Slash.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” the man said.
“Yeah? What you been thinking?”
“I’ll give you money. But you have to do another job for me.”
“Like last time?”
“Yeah. Basically. Different person, of course.”
“But the same pay?”
“Yeah.”
Coduri’s smile grew wide enough that what few teeth he had remaining were now showing.
“All right,” he said. “Who do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” the man said. “You still at the Howard Johnson? Room 307?”
“Yeah.”
“See you there in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
• • •
It was more like thirty by the time Coduri heard the knock on his door.
He took a quick glimpse through the peephole. The man had a hat pulled low and sunglasses on. Just like the last time.
But this time he was also wearing a jacket with its collar pulle
d up. It was a jacket with a lot of pockets. His hands were in two of the pockets, and one seemed to have a bulge in it. Coduri didn’t like the look of it.
He slid the chain silently off its track. Then, in one quick motion, he opened the door, grabbed the man by the front of his jacket, and threw him into the room. He hurtled across the room, stumbling, using the dresser to break his fall.
The man turned, but Coduri was already on him, patting down the jacket. No way this guy was getting the drop on Slash.
“Would you cut it out?” the man said as Coduri groped him.
His pockets were empty. The bulge had been nothing but air.
“Just making sure you’re not armed,” Coduri said, stepping away as the man readjusted his clothing, tugging his hat down low again.
“I’m not. Jesus, how coked-out are you?”
“Whatever. What’s the plan? Where’s my money? Where’s my stuff?”
“Relax. I had to hide it,” the man said. “My wife has been snooping around the house lately.”
“Okay.”
“We need to go for a walk,” the man said.
“Where?”
“I’ll show you. Come on.”
Coduri fell in behind the guy, who moved at a quick pace, his head down. They passed by dark houses and closed storefronts. Every time Coduri tried to ask a question, the man told him to shut up and keep walking.
Eventually, they reached the iron gates at the corner of Thornrose Cemetery. The man continued past them, then hopped over the low stone wall just beyond.
Coduri came to a stop.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“It’s just up this way.”
“I ain’t going in there.”
“You are if you want to get paid.”
“What are you talking about?” Coduri said.
“I hid everything in my family’s crypt. It was the only place I knew it would be safe. I’ve got the key.”
Coduri didn’t move. He knew there was nothing inherently dangerous about a cemetery, but it was still creepy.
“What are you? Afraid of some old tombstones?” the man goaded him. “You want the stuff or not?”
“Yeah. Whatever,” Coduri said, and fell in behind the man as they walked at an angle up the hill.
“It’s just over that way,” the man said.
They walked deeper into the cemetery. There wasn’t much more than a sliver of a moon. They were now away from the glow of the streetlights. The man had removed his sunglasses.
Coduri didn’t like the feeling of any of this. He might have turned around, but he knew he’d like the feeling of cocaine withdrawal even less.
The party had to keep going.
“Here we are,” the man said at last.
He had stopped beneath a large limestone mausoleum with a monument out front. Coduri could make out the name ECHOLS etched onto it.
So that was this guy’s name? Echols?
The man had scaled up some steps, then bent down to pick something up.
“Just getting my flashlight,” he said. “This key is really finicky. You mind holding this for me?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
The man turned the flashlight toward him, shining it in Coduri’s face, momentarily blinding him. Coduri winced at the light, squinting and shielding his eyes.
Which is why he never saw the baseball bat coming. Not even when it connected with a sickening crack on the side of his head.
Coduri staggered but did not fall. With all the cocaine in his system, it would take a lot more than a one-handed swing to stop him.
He lunged at the man, still blind from the light. Coduri was aiming for eyeballs, hoping to gouge them out. He missed, landing nothing more than a superficial scratch on the man’s neck.
By then, the man had put down the flashlight. He was using both hands now.
The next swing put Coduri down. The swing after that put him out.
FORTY-FOUR
I slept like a corpse that night.
The morning was another story. When I first rolled over and saw the clock—6:28—I told myself I should get out of bed and start being productive, maybe do some yoga before work.
Then I fell right back to sleep.
During that second stint, I had a recurrence of the dream that had become the ugly weed of my subconscious. No matter how many times I thought I had pulled it out by the root, it always came back, usually twice as large.
It was the dream where I heard the whisper of the man who raped me. As it had been in real life, I never actually saw the man’s features. He was only a shape, looming over me in the dark, talking to me in that whisper that seemed to come out of the ether—like it was everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time.
There were parts of the dream that changed, like where it happened. Sometimes it would be my parents’ house in Northumberland; or at one of the foster homes where I had spent time; or, more rarely, at the ground-floor apartment where the attack had taken place.
But the whisper. That was always the same. I would never forget it.
As was typical, the entirety of the dream took place in the moments right before he attacked me. He was crossing the room, clamping his hand on my mouth, the leather of his glove against my lips. The dream never progressed to the actual rape. It was all about the anticipation of the horrible event.
By the time I opened my eyes, it was 10:47 and I was drenched in sweat. My shift started at eleven. Waffle House was only five minutes away, so I could still make it. There just wouldn’t be time for a shower. I hoped the customers didn’t notice I still smelled like fear.
As I drove to work, I tried to think about Alex. Sometimes it hurt too much to do that, but this time I was able to settle on a pleasant memory, one from when I was still pregnant with him.
It was during my second trimester. I had been experiencing the miracle that was Alex squirming and moving for some time, of course. But his little flutters—which to me seemed big enough for the whole world to feel—were too faint for Ben to detect. Every time I forced him to put his hand on my belly, he would give me this forbearing smile, then eventually admit he wasn’t getting anything.
Then one Sunday morning when neither of us had to be anywhere, we were enjoying lying in bed. Alex was being particularly active and he was finally growing big enough to really pack a wallop. So I made Ben put his hand on my stomach.
Not three seconds later, Alex shifted positions. Ben actually yelped and pulled away, he was so startled. He said it felt like a snake had slithered along his hand. For a while after that, we called Alex “the snake,” one of at least a half dozen nicknames we had for him.
From then on, Ben was constantly asking me if Alex was awake and moving. If I said yes, Ben would talk to Alex, telling him he wanted a high-five.
Sometimes I pretended like I was losing patience and asked him if bro time could wait until after I showered or went to the bathroom or whatever. But mostly I loved it. For the entire final trimester, I finally felt like we were actually sharing a pregnancy that up until then had been mine alone.
As I pulled into Waffle House, I was enjoying the memory so much I didn’t particularly pay attention to the three Augusta County Sheriff’s cars in the parking lot. It wasn’t unusual to see them there. We were right by the highway that served as the main artery for the county, one exit away from their headquarters.
Then I got out of my car, and the next thing I knew there were six guys, dressed in black tactical gear, approaching me from all angles. Several of them had their hands on their gun belts.
“Melanie Barrick, put your hands on your vehicle,” one of them barked.
I was so confused, I didn’t immediately do anything. I just stood there in my greasy uniform, wondering what it was now. The guy in the lead closed the gap between us so quic
kly I couldn’t back up fast enough to get away from him. He grabbed me by the wrists and slammed my hands against the hood of my car, then mashed the rest of me so I bent at the waist.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
He ran his hands quickly down my torso, then up my legs, giving me a sickened shiver. Then he straightened me, pinned my arms behind me, and fastened them there.
As he shoved me toward the car, I finally got enough sense about me to ask, “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t reply.
“Would you stop?” I pleaded pointlessly. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
That’s when he finally said: “You are under the arrest for the murder of Richard Coduri.”
FORTY-FIVE
Minutes before she had to go into District Court Friday morning, one of the deputies at the courthouse had told Amy Kaye the news.
A body—with its skull bashed to pieces—had been found in Thornrose Cemetery, a few feet from the monument to Confederate general John Echols.
The deputy didn’t know anything else. But midway through the morning session, when the judge recessed for a break, Amy checked her messages. That’s when she learned the victim had been identified as Richard Coduri.
Amy had tried to call Jason Powers at that point. He would know that Coduri had been the Coke Mom informant. But he might not know Melanie Barrick had been given Coduri’s name just two days earlier.
There was no answer on Powers’s cell, so Amy took the unusual step of calling his home. His wife said he had been out late patrolling—like usual—and was sleeping in, but that he would call as soon as he awoke.
Amy went back into court, worried that this important time, those precious first hours after the commission of a crime, were slipping away without anyone realizing what was going on.
She needn’t have. The Staunton City Police had used Coduri as an informant too. Once the police department and the Sheriff’s Office discovered their common interest in Coduri, they decided to join forces in the investigation of his death. While Amy was in front of a judge, bringing to justice people who had failed to get their cars inspected in a timely manner, the combined resources of those two agencies were being put to work.
