18 Seconds

by George D. Shuman

  “And you want to find out if Andrew Markey saw the same man before he died?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  O’Shaughnessy looked out over the outer office at the men working behind their desks; Sergeant McGuire was speaking into the phone.

  “My department would never allow it.”

  “You don’t need to ask them, Lieu. Just get her into the morgue for a few minutes. That and tell me where I can show my sketch around the boardwalk. Maybe there’s a connection here. Maybe my shooter is your abductor?”

  “I know I raised the issue, but really, Detective, isn’t that stretching it?”

  “You tell me. It won’t cost a dime. We’re in, we’re out, we either find out Andrew Markey was pushed down the steps or he wasn’t. It’s that simple. No one would have to know Sherry was involved.”

  O’Shaughnessy opened her desk drawer and shook out a cigarette. Then she took a match and lit it, blowing smoke at the ceiling.

  “You’re reading my mind,” she said dryly.

  “I know how people react to this stuff, Lieu. I’m a cop, too. I just want to find Susan Paxton’s killer.”

  She stared at the wall. “When do you want to come—unofficially?”

  “Would Friday night be inconvenient? We could go to the morgue on Saturday, and Sunday I could show the sketch around town.”

  “Can you share a one-bedroom? There’s a sleeper sofa in the living room.”

  “You don’t have to trouble—”

  “My contribution,” she interrupted. “Besides, you’ll never find a summer weekend vacancy on such late notice.”

  “We can share an apartment just fine.”

  “Good,” she said, looking up at the ceiling and thinking she was straying far from the beaten path. “Miss Moore stays away from everyone. I don’t want anyone talking to her but me, and that’s inflexible. In fact it’ll be like you said. No one is to know she’s in town.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  “One more thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re liable to get some weather this weekend. The Carolinas are taking a beating, and if this storm holds the coast it’s not going to be pretty.”

  “We’re not coming to vacation, Lieu.”

  “All right, then, Friday night. I’ll give you my address and cell phone number.”

  O’Shaughnessy could manage the morgue easily enough; Gus had his own set of keys to the place. She would ask him for them. The condo had been sitting empty since her mother’s death the previous year; it was going to be musty and need an airing out, but the linens were clean.

  Sykes drove west toward the sound and then left on Desmond Drive. The call had been for a dog down in the cul-de-sac. The homes were expensive here, a couple hundred thousand to a million each; he liked to sit outside on sunny afternoons and watch the wives and daughters carry packages in from their Mercedeses in their little tennis skirts.

  All those years in prison he had sat in a cage while these people went about their lives: barbecuing in their backyards, drinking wine and fucking their neighbors, cheating on their taxes and gouging the poor. How many times had he thought of them, smelling the good leather of their Mercedes-Benzes, sunbathing by their pools with The Wall Street Journal, while he was surrounded by steel?

  They could never repay him for that. Not in a year, not in a million years.

  A dog was lying in the cul-de-sac, motionless. The parkway was just on the other side of the trees. Most likely it had gotten hit and was crawling toward its home when it collapsed.

  No one else was around when he made a U-turn and pulled in front of it, blocking it from view of the houses.

  It was a Rottweiler and a large one; its face was black and caramel, its muzzle was covered with blood. One of its ears was split and both of its back legs appeared to be broken.

  He got out, pulled on leather gloves, scratched his neck with one, and lowered the tailgate to pull the tarp back. Then he crouched and grabbed one of the animal’s back legs. When he did, it lunged and clamped its jaws on the heel of his boot. Sykes kicked at its mouth with his other leg, but the dog bore down even harder, teeth buried in the leather. Sykes fell to the ground and rolled until he managed to get a hand around to his stun gun, firing it into the dog’s shoulder. The animal’s jaws went slack and Sykes dragged himself away from it. After a minute he got to his feet and walked shakily to the truck, reaching into the bed for a tire iron. When he returned, he beat the dog’s head until he heard the skull crack. After a minute of hard breathing he threw the bloody iron in the back of the truck and kicked the dog in the belly for good measure. Then he grabbed its legs and dragged it onto the lift, pulling the lever that hoisted it onto the bed.

  He wasn’t injured; the dog’s teeth never got through the boot. It had current rabies tags that he threw into the incinerator with the dog when he burned it.

  That night he bought a six-pack and found a turnaround on the Garden State Parkway where no one would bother him.

  It had hit him a little harder than he would have thought to discover that his old nemesis, Chief Lynch, had died of a heart attack while he was in prison. All those years hating a man who wasn’t even alive anymore. He’d felt cheated, as if the bastard had come out of the grave and taken something else away from him.

  But then he’d learned that Lynch’s daughter was the city’s new chief of detectives, Lieutenant Kelly O’Shaughnessy. O’Shaughnessy, the same name that was on the condominium mailbox listed to Lois Lynch. It had been her parents’. She owned it now and she also had an address on Third Avenue, just a city block away. Sykes knew how he was going to get his revenge.

  20

  THURSDAY NIGHT, JUNE 2

  GLASSBORO, NEW JERSEY

  Nicky was as drunk as Marcia had ever seen him, staggering wildly from his car and screaming obscenities at his bag of beers, which had ripped open, cans tumbling over the lawn.

  “Come here, bitch!” he yelled. “Come here and bring me some lovin’!”

  Not tonight, she prayed. No bruises tonight, Nicky.

  She gathered his beers in the folds of her skirt and talked him into the living room, where she helped him out of his clothes, which were rank from sweat. Whatever he had been doing with his brothers tonight, it wasn’t all drinking.

  She kept thinking about the news broadcast she’d seen on television while she was doing her ironing. The police were looking for a gang stealing farm equipment in the area. It would be just like him, she thought. Beat her up all these years, then get himself locked up so she could get evicted and starve.

  It wasn’t long before he fell asleep on the couch. Marcia tiptoed into the kitchen and took a long last look at the two twenties on the counter. It seemed wrong to leave him anything. He never thought twice about drinking up his overtime and holiday pay. He never gave her anything extra that came in. Never let her buy anything for herself.

  She picked up one of the twenties and walked out the door.

  Something emboldened her as she crossed the yard. Maybe it was just the knowledge of the new lock and the front-end loader in the barn. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a smart-ass if she mentioned that news bulletin to him.

  She reached the road and her shoes scuffed across the gravel berm. There was a moon, a beautiful heavy moon, and the air was sweet. Ding, their old dog, jumped at the kitchen door and started barking. She turned back with a look of horror, knowing the dog was making twice as much racket inside.

  Whatever her initial instincts, and one of them was definitely to run, she stood there, feet frozen in place and waiting to see if Nicky would come to the door.

  He did.

  The door swung open and Ding dashed across the lawn, squirming happily at her feet, looking up at her with his big head against her thigh.

  “Where you going?” Nicky growled. He was stark naked and standing just outside the door.

  “You know where I’m going,” she said softly, soothingly. “Tonight’s the night I
go to meet Connie. Remember?”

  “You’re sneaking off, you little bitch?”

  “I’m not sneaking anywhere, Nicky. You know we talked about this. We talked about it a long time ago. I left your money right there on the counter.”

  “This,” he yelled, making a face and shaking the twenty-dollar bill. “Is this why you didn’t say good-bye?”

  “I did say good-bye, honey,” she said. “You were just sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. I said good-bye. I kissed you on the cheek.”

  He stared at her, weaving back and forth and clutching the crumpled twenty in his hand. “You said you was going to leave me fifty, bitch.” He slurred his words badly. “You ain’t leaving me this.” He crumpled the bill in his fist.

  “I never said fifty dollars, Nicky. I said I’d give you whatever I got. But you know I had to use some of the money on your groceries and beer. I thought you’d know that. I made you a meat loaf and bought you your favorite beer, Nicky. It’s in the refrigerator.”

  He took a step forward, then stopped. “Come here,” he said, pointing at the ground in front of him. A chill went down Marcia’s spine.

  “I’m going to be late, Nicky,” she said. “Don’t you want to go to bed now?”

  “Come here,” he said. The tone was dangerously familiar.

  She started toward him slowly, wondering if he was going to strike her now or when he found the new bikini and nail polish in her bag. He would beat her until he couldn’t beat her anymore and then he would destroy them.

  “Come on, Nicky,” she said. “You have the beer and food and some money to go out with.”

  She was close to him now, walking nearer all the time, and when she was within reach, he tore the denim purse from her shoulder and dumped its contents out on the ground. She watched as twenty-eight dollars floated to the grass and he stooped to pick them up. Then he looked at the overnight bag. A cruel grin came over his face.

  “I’ll do without it, Nicky,” she said. “You need it more than me.” She half laughed, half cried. “What do I need money for?”

  She wiped the tears away quickly. Nicky didn’t like tears.

  Drunk, distracted, or feeling sick, he turned and staggered with his forty-eight dollars to the door.

  She knelt and raked up the things on the lawn with her fingers, shoving them in her purse with the grass and dirt, and then she ran and didn’t stop running until she was at Connie’s house, where she found the keys under the floor mat of her car.

  She was still trembling twenty miles later when she reached the intersection of Route 55, but every new mile brought composure, and by the time she reached Dennisville, she was actually starting to feel good. She had freedom, even if it was only for a few days. She had time to think.

  She lowered the driver’s-side window and felt the cool air lifting her hair like someone’s caressing fingers. She was here and he was there and that was what really mattered. “Woo hoo!” she yelled into the rearview mirror, seeing the first evidence of sand along the edges of the road.

  The thought of lying on a beach tomorrow was almost more than she could bear. She hadn’t been away from Nicky for more than a few hours since their wedding night and then it was only to go to work so there would be more money for him to buy beer with.

  She hoped that Connie was wide awake and ready to go, but even if she wasn’t, Marcia intended to go to the boardwalk. She might not have money to spend, but she wasn’t going to waste a moment sleeping. She would be there in just under an hour. One hour!

  When she was near Goshen she saw a police car blocking the road and beyond it a spiral of smoke rising from a dark heap of metal. She couldn’t tell which way the cars had been heading, but it was apparent that no one got out alive.

  The policeman’s flare indicated that she should turn her car around and go back the way she came. She had concerns about getting lost, but the look on the man’s face didn’t invite conversation. She could guess what it must have looked like inside that wreck and thought it prudent not to ask him for directions.

  She looped the small car, then pulled over and looked at the map Connie had left her. The last turnoff she saw to the east was south of Dennisville on a dirt road. It wasn’t on the map, but it would take her nearer the coast; she guessed it connected with some other road that would get her to the Garden State Parkway, which would take her directly into Wildwood.

  She checked her gas gauge and found the needle touching the shaded area above empty. She’d passed plenty of stations after she left her house, but Nicky had taken all of her money. Still, she was relatively certain she had enough in the tank to make it seventy more miles.

  Bugs slapped her windshield and possums darted in front of the car. She came to the farm road and turned east, her headlights illuminating miles of slouching telephone lines. Fields and farms eventually gave way to forest.

  The treetops soon swallowed the moon and the temperature dropped several degrees. She felt goose bumps rising on her arms as she entered the Pine Barrens. She held the speedometer at forty, always alert for deer or a car coming toward her, but there were no deer and no cars and no signs of a town or telephone if she needed it.

  Connie wouldn’t start to worry about her until after midnight and even then she wouldn’t actually be alarmed; both of them knew there was the possibility that Nicky wouldn’t let her out of the house. Marcia wished that she’d made firmer arrangements with Connie, that she could have at least let her know she was on her way, just to be safe. But Connie’s mother hadn’t bothered to turn on the phone in the beach house this year.

  The stars continued to shine and every now and then the moon made an appearance between the trees. Thirty minutes later, when the needle was solidly in the red, she drove under a four-lane overpass and knew it had to be the Garden State Parkway. She found a parallel road, and another ten miles of mistakes brought her to an on-ramp taking her south.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  The needle on the gas gauge was as low as it could go. Five more miles, she kept thinking. Just five more miles, please. There was a city’s pink glow on the horizon, probably Wildwood’s.

  But the gas finally gave out and the engine cut to silence; she let the car drift into a wide spot off the berm.

  Marcia killed her headlights and smacked the wheel with her hand, putting her head against the headrest. “Shit.”

  The parkway was dark, and there was little traffic this time of night. There had been no exits for several miles, so the only way to go was forward.

  She considered her options. She could either get out and start walking or stay with the car until someone came along to help her. The latter made more sense, especially these days. People didn’t like picking up other people at night, not the way they used to. She checked her watch and waited. It was almost ten.

  Five long minutes passed and headlights appeared. She put her flashers on and got out waving her arms.

  The vehicle’s headlights were in her eyes, but she could see that it was a pickup truck with an emergency beacon on top. Oh, thank God!

  Probably the highway department, she thought. Surely they would have a can of gasoline with them.

  “Oh, thank you,” she yelled as she ran up to the driver’s door. “I must be close to Wildwood,” she said excitedly.

  “Three miles.” The man nodded.

  Her eyes were still trying to adjust to the darkness; she could tell he was an older man, sixty or more. She could also smell that he’d been drinking. “Do you have any gas with you?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Right there in the back.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Then he opened his door and got out. The truck didn’t smell very good. Like he was hauling something dead. She watched him go around the back to the passenger side, where he started fooling with the tarp that was covering the bed. He looked a little unsteady on his feet and it reminded her of Nicky. God, she thought. Is that all they do at work? Drink beer?

>   “Help me with this a minute, lady,” he said. “I can’t hold the tarp up and shine the light at the same time.”

  Sykes knew he didn’t have much time. Another car would be coming along at any minute.

  She came around back and leaned over the rail where he was pretending to look under the tarp. The smell was so bad under it, she nearly gagged.

  “In the cab under the seat is my flashlight. Grab it for me, will you?”

  Marcia opened the passenger door and leaned in to look under the seat. Something touched her back and a surge of electricity shot through her body like a million hot needles, shutting down her muscles and blinding her eyes as if they had been seared by the sun. She thought she could feel her body twitching, but in fact she was immobilized and the surge continued as hands went around her waist and lifted her into the cab. He slammed the door behind her and ran to get behind the wheel. Then he jammed the truck into gear and popped the clutch, lurching onto the highway. The whole thing had taken under two minutes.

  He took the next exit off the parkway. The jolt tossed her head forward into the dash, where the radio microphone was cradled, and split her forehead open above one eyebrow.

  He pulled her back against the seat as blood trickled down her nose, and cursed.

  Marcia felt the burning behind her eyes and the torturous prickling throughout her body. Then she remembered she was in the truck and the truck was leaving the road, turning onto dirt where it entered the swamps.

  The truck stopped in thick trees covered with vines. They were next to a fence; Marcia could make out a yellow diamond biohazard sign just before he shut off the lights.

  Sykes got out and came around to her side, opened the door, and put her over his shoulder. He carried her through a cutout in the wire. She could see by the moon that they were in a junkyard. He stopped twice and laid her on the ground to catch his breath, but eventually they came to a section of old buses and he propped her on the steps of one, climbed in behind her, and dragged her to the rear with hands hooked under her arms.