by Chris Mooney
A sick fear mixed with excitement rushed through her veins as she gripped him by his Celtics jacket and hoisted him up into a sitting position. She wasn’t worried about him hitting her again. She had duct-taped his hands behind his back and tied his ankles together before dragging him across the kitchen hall to the garage.
Thick strips of duct tape covered his mouth. She yanked the tape down across his lips, taking skin and hair.
Ben’s eyes clamped shut. He gritted his teeth, hissing back a scream. She stared at him, taking in his features again: the dishevelled black hair matted against his sweaty, tanned face; his broken nose; big ears sticking out from the sides of his head; perfect white teeth.
Caps, she thought, and then stared at his neck. The first time she had seen him, that night in her home, he’d had what she called ‘rooster neck’, a wrinkled curtain of flesh dangling underneath his chin. It was gone now, and the skin along his face was smooth and tight, not a wrinkle anywhere. He’s had a facelift. And his eyes… I could’ve sworn they were brown.
Ben opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and rheumy. After he had hit her back at the house, a good solid right cross that had nearly knocked her off her feet, she had wrestled him to the kitchen floor and slammed his head twice against the broken shards of glass.
Ben rested the back of his head against the opened boot lid. Moths batted against the lid’s single bulb.
‘How long have you been following me?’ he croaked.
Hearing his voice released the vice-like grip on her heart. For the first time in years, she felt as if she could breathe.
‘You going to answer my question?’
‘Today,’ she said. ‘This… morning.’
‘Where?’
‘Drugstore.’
‘Drugstore… drugstore… The one in Wellesley Center?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been watching me all day?’
She nodded. He’d left the drugstore and climbed into the passenger seat of a black BMW with tinted windows. She tailed the car on the highway as Ben and his partner drove to Charlestown. An hour later, when the BMW pulled into the narrow driveway of a small corner home, she watched, from the minivan’s rear-view mirror, Ben and the driver step out of the car. The driver was a few inches taller than Ben, maybe six two, and had grey curly hair and a dark tan. He wore white shorts and a bright floral Hawaiian shirt that couldn’t hide his enormous stomach.
She found a parking spot at the far end of the street and watched the house for the rest of the morning and afternoon. She left the minivan once to run across the street to the drugstore to buy a couple of energy bars, a bottle of water and a box of latex gloves.
At half past eight the BMW pulled out of the driveway. It stopped once, in front of some shitty tenement in Dorchester to pick up the white man in the suit, and then the three of them drove straight to the house in Belham.
‘You followed me all day and not once did I see you,’ Ben said. He shook his head. ‘I must be getting soft in my old age. What’s your name, hon?’
‘Say… it.’
‘If I knew your name, don’t you think I’d tell you?’
He blinked several times, then squinted as he tried to focus on her face. Fine white scars from the multiple corrective surgeries covered her jaw line, cheek and forehead. The side effects from the steroids and seizure medication gave her face a puffy, bloated look that no amount of dieting or exercise could diminish.
‘Five… ah… years,’ she said. ‘Five years… ago, you… ah… ah… came, ah…’
‘What’s with your voice? You retarded or something?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is it? Some sort of birth defect?’
Jamie couldn’t get the words out. She knew what she wanted to say: Five years ago, you came into my house and shot me in the head. You shot my two children while your two partners were downstairs torturing my husband. Her problem was actual speech. The .32 slug that had entered through her lower jaw, shattering her cheekbone and severing the optic nerves of her left eye, had lodged itself in the front lobe – Broca’s area, the neurologists had told her, the brain’s central processing system for language and speech. While she could understand language just fine, could form and process complex sentences easily inside her head, the brain damage had saddled her with expressive aphasia, this maddening, incurable condition that limited her speech to no more than four words at a time, mostly nouns and verbs delivered in a slow, telegraphic manner. On a good day.
‘Shot,’ she said.
‘Someone shot you in the face?’
‘You… ah… did.’
Ben staring like he didn’t recognize her. Like he didn’t remember.
‘You… ah… shot me… and… ah… my children. Carter and… ah… ah… Michael. Your… ah… two partners… ah… murdered… my… ah… husband. Dan… Dan Russo.’
‘Can’t say I know anyone by that name.’
‘He… ah… ah… a contractor. Wellesley.’
‘That his company name? Wellesley?’
A slight grin on Ben’s face, having fun with this.
‘Lived… ah… in… ah… Wellesley. You’re… ah… two… ah… partners, they… ah… ah… killed him. Rope. Tied it and… ah… ah… neck. Strangled him. Waste disposal… my house. Wellesley. Five… ah… years… ah… five years… ago.’
‘I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.’
No. No, she didn’t.
This morning, after she had dropped off her prescription, she had turned around and seen, at the far end of the aisle, a man looking over shelves stocked with pain relievers. This man had the same thin, almost feminine lips as the man who had forced his way into her home. The organizer, the man she knew only as Ben.
No… No, it can’t be him, she had thought. Why would Ben come back to Wellesley after all this time? Ben and his two partners, the ski-masked men who had murdered Dan in the kitchen, had disappeared from the face of the earth five years ago. Those men were never found and never would be.
And Ben, she remembered quite clearly, had had a blond crew cut threaded with grey. The man standing in the aisle wore a dark blue baseball cap over long black hair that curled around the ears. Ben had had pale skin. This man had a dark tan and was dressed like someone who spent his days lounging on a boat Sperry Top-Sider shoes, khaki shorts and a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging in the V of a white untucked Oxford shirt. He wore a thick gold wedding band and a gold Rolex Yacht-Master watch. Ben hadn’t worn a wedding ring.
Jamie remembered watching as the man reached for something on the top shelf. On the wrist of his right hand and stretching across his palm was a thick rubbery white scar shaped like a mutant starfish.
Ben had had the exact same scar. She had seen it when he wrapped the duct tape across her mouth. She hadn’t seen the two men who had entered the house. Later, she’d heard one of them call upstairs: ‘Let’s go, Ben.’
‘Partners,’ Jamie said, reaching inside her windbreaker for the Magnum. ‘I want… ah… their names.’
Ben hawked a gob of bloody phlegm over the side of the car, then leaned back against the boot lid. Nothing lived behind those eyes. Just two glassy lifeless balls polished to a bright shine. Soulless.
‘Partners,’ she said. ‘Names.’
He didn’t answer.
She pressed the muzzle against his forehead, blood pumping through her limbs.
Ben didn’t flinch.
‘I… I… will… ah…
‘Oh, I definitely think you’ll kill me. You shot your way inside the house, shot me in the thigh – and you did one hell of a job taking down my friend. You’re a regular Calamity Jane, blazing new frontiers.’ His voice was surprisingly calm. ‘Nobody learns to shoot like that unless they’re a cop. You still on the force, sweetheart? I’m assuming you are, since you go around carrying that big gun you’ve got.’
She didn’t answer. She had retired from her patrolman days after Carter was bo
rn. After Dan had died, she carried the Magnum with her everywhere. For protection.
‘Why… ah… woman and… ah… boy… ah –’
‘Are you asking me what I was doing inside the house?’
She nodded.
‘That’s confidential information,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Man… ah… ah… who drove… ah… you, was… ah… he… ah –’
‘Take a look at this from my point of view. I have something you need – the missing pieces of the puzzle, you could say. I give it to you and you blow my brains out and you, what, leave my body in the boot? Is that the plan?’
Jamie didn’t answer. When she had indulged in this fantasy, she’d always imagined Ben begging for his life. She’d imagined him crying and screaming. Sometimes she’d imagined him pious and remorseful, reduced to a blubbering, child-like state where he confessed all of his sins. But now, in real life, out in the hot, dark woods buzzing with mosquitoes, Ben was acting as if having a gun pressed to his head was normal. As if he’d been in this exact situation before and knew how to play it.
‘I’m gonna let you in on a secret,’ Ben said. ‘I’m a cop.’
13
‘Cop,’ Jamie repeated.
Ben grinned, flashing his bloody teeth. ‘Glad to see that bullet I put in your head didn’t impair your hearing.’
A sensation like slicing razor blades ran up her spine, reached the base of her skull and then made its way through the scarred meat of her brain. Brought her back to the place she had lived every day since the shootings – a space of perpetual darkness where the air felt like concrete blocks stacked against her skin, her bones threatening to crack with each breath.
‘Badge,’ she said.
‘I’m more of the undercover variety, so I don’t carry one. Bad for business.’
Her heart banged away inside her chest.
Ben licked his swollen, bloody lips. ‘I don’t expect you to take my word for it, so here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you a number to call, and this person will explain the facts of life to you. You got a phone?’
She had left it inside the minivan. Driving to Belham, she had called Michael to tell him she was still at the hospital and wouldn’t be home until late; she asked him to give Carter a bath. She’d tossed the phone on the passenger seat and forgotten about it until now, her focus on tailing the BMW without being spotted.
‘A simple yes or no will do,’ Ben said.
‘My… ah… husband.’
‘Danny.’ Ben saying it as if they had been the closest of friends.
‘Why… you… ah… did you –’
‘The person you’re about to call will explain everything. Let me know when you’re ready to start dialling. If you don’t have a phone, you can borrow mine. It’s in my right-front pocket.’
Jamie didn’t move – was suddenly afraid to move. Something about the way Ben had shifted the tables on her, dictating what he wanted her to do in that calm voice of his, kept her feet planted.
‘Tell… me.’
‘The number is six one seven, two –’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Husband. Why?’
‘You’ve got to speak to my man. He can –’
‘No. You… ah… ah… explain.’
‘I understand you’re pissed and want your questions answered right now. Don’t begrudge you that in the least. I mean, you’ve prayed for this moment for a long time and want it to go your way.’
Ben closed his eyes for a moment, then took in a deep breath. In her mind’s eye she could see the locked door at the end of the hall – the dead room. She had replaced the beige carpet and repainted the walls. It looked and smelled new, but each time she went in she thought she could still smell blood. She remembered Michael screaming behind the duct tape covering his mouth. Ben had covered their eyes with duct tape, but she had tipped over her chair and, while she was struggling on the floor, the tape had slid down; she saw Ben take out a gun and fire at Michael but there was only a dry click and Michael looked at her and her first thought – and it shamed her to admit this – her first thought had been to protect Carter, he was younger, more vulnerable. She remembered Ben putting on a pair of bifocals and studying the gun and then saying, ‘Goddamn chamber’s empty. Imagine that.’
She remembered everything. Every moment, every sound and scream.
‘Here’s our dilemma,’ Ben said, opening his eyes. ‘I can’t think too well on account of the blood loss and the fact that you slammed my noggin against the floor. What I’m saying is I’m a little fuzzy on the details. You want your questions answered, then I suggest you start dialling now because I think I’m going to pass out.’
‘Partners,’ she said. ‘Names.’
‘You need to talk to my supervisor. I swear, with God as my witness, he’ll tell you everything you need to know.’
Please, Mrs Russo, please don’t scream or run.
Ben saying those words as he stood inside her kitchen holding Carter. Her eighteen-month-old son’s tiny fingers wrapped around the Colt’s barrel, trying to put it in his mouth.
Just do what I say, Mrs Russo, and I swear, with God as my witness, we won’t hurt you or the kids. We just want to have a little talk with Danny when he gets home, okay?
Jamie slammed Ben’s face against the side of the boot. He fell sideways, fresh blood pouring from his nose.
‘Christ, you mean business, don’t you?’ he said after he finished gagging.
‘Names,’ Jamie said.
‘Make the phone call.’
No. It was a trap. What was the person he wanted her to call going to do? Trace the call? A cop could do that with a warrant. Did the phone have some sort of GPS unit in it that could locate him? Anyone could do that with the right software and equipment – as long as the phone was turned on. Was it turned on right now?
She reached into his pocket and removed the mobile. It was something called a Palm Treo. It was turned on; a tiny green light blinked, sending out a signal. She took out the battery and stuffed everything inside her jacket pocket.
A new expression on Ben’s face now: anger.
‘Make the call,’ Ben said again. ‘That’s the only way this is going to work.’
Her eyes grew hot and tears spilled down her cheeks. In her mind she saw Carter sitting in the bathtub, saw the two hard, round, white scars the size of half dollars on his back left by the exit wounds.
Jamie placed the Magnum’s muzzle against Ben’s kneecap and fired.
Ben howled in pain, the sound tearing something free from inside her chest. Something that cooled her blood and made her limbs shake.
‘NAMES.’
Ben couldn’t answer. He was screaming, the tendons in his neck bulging underneath the skin like rope as he flopped around inside the boot.
She tucked the Magnum back inside the holster, then grabbed him by the jacket. Ben tried to fight her, struggling with his bound wrists and ankles, but he was too weak, in too much pain. She threw him on the ground.
‘N-N-N-NAMES.’
His mouth quivered, spitting up blood. He didn’t answer.
She looked at his knee, then slammed her foot down on the shredded pulp of skin and fractured bones.
Ben howled again, his face turning a deep, dark red – the same shade Dan’s face had been when she found his head resting inside the kitchen sink.
Ben made a weird gurgling sound. As if he were drowning. She grabbed him underneath the arms, lifted him up and dragged him across the damp ground. His body jerked and he vomited blood.
She threw his legs over the edge of the cliff, then pulled him up into a sitting position. She pushed his head forward so he could see the oily slick of water shimmering in the moonlight far below.
‘N-n-n-n-n-names,’ she sputtered against his bloody ear. ‘P-p-p-partner… n-n-names.’
Ben sucked in air. Vomited.
‘Tell me. Tell or… ah… ah…’
He didn’t answer.
&nb
sp; She shook him. ‘Off ledge… throw you… water…’
Ben wouldn’t answer.
‘Drown… in… ah… drown. Water. You’ll drown.’
Ben refused to speak. She let go of him and reached for the Magnum, prepared to shoot his other knee, to shoot him into pieces until he spoke.
His body slumped against the ground. Ben didn’t cough or move – oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, no. She dropped to her knees and pressed her fingers against his slick, bloody neck.
There, a faint pulse.
‘N-N-N-Names!’
Jamie shook him. He stared up at her, his head bobbing from side to side.
She slapped him across the face.
He groaned. His lips quivered.
‘TELL… AH… TELL ME.’
Ben didn’t answer but his lips kept moving. Blood trickled out of his ears. He was bleeding out. Dying. The answers she needed were caged somewhere inside his skull and she wouldn’t know them unless Ben woke up. He had to wake up.
She pressed her mouth against his, the slick, bloody mess sliding against her lips, and screamed air into his lungs until she was dizzy. She pulled her mouth away, gagging, then pumped his chest with her fists the way she’d been taught – three sharp pumps. Ben didn’t move or make a sound. She screamed air down into his lungs again. Ben lay still. Jamie pounded his chest with her fists and he didn’t move and she kept hitting him and screaming for him to wake up even though she knew it was too late.
14
Jamie scrubbed the blood from her face and her scraped and swollen hands using napkins and a half-full bottle of water she’d found in a McDonald’s bag tossed on the back floor of the Honda.
She checked her face in the side mirror. The left side was swollen but clean. She couldn’t do anything about the blood on her clothes and sneakers until she got home.
You better pray to God you don’t get pulled over.
She tossed the bloody napkins inside the boot. Ben stared up at her with a puzzled expression. Why so sad, hon? Did you really think I was going to tell you what you needed to know? You were going to kill me anyway, so what was in it for me?
