by Alex Dolan
The plan was to strip the baby naked, insert her in the trap, and lower it back down to the ocean floor. Once it was submerged, Lake would cut the buoy free, so the boats wouldn’t haul it up with their daily catches. The lobstermen would consider it a lost relic of the trade. Eventually, lobsters would find their way into the trap. Captive and hungry, they would eat the food provided, their claws stripping the child down to nothing, even eating the soft bones until their exoskeletons bulged. If the trap was found at all, there wouldn’t be anything left of the girl. Fishermen already had a name for a lobster trap that was lost at the ocean bottom. They called it a death trap. After leaving a window open in the nursery, Lake would call the police in the morning and claim his daughter had been kidnapped.
In the courtroom, Lake claimed that it had taken him a while to work up the nerve to load his daughter into the trap. He hoped that the chill of the water might push his daughter into shock, and that she would die quickly. He even said the Sh’ma before lowering Katie into the Atlantic, which the prosecution naturally doubted, since Lake “had never been a religious man, proving so by marrying out of his faith.” Regardless, Lake had definitely hesitated, for had he not hesitated, he would not have been caught.
While the lobster trap sat on the bottom of the rowboat, tiny Katie Novis began crying. It was doubtful that the infant was cognizant that she was crying for her life, but Lake swore she was. She “shrieked like an eagle” into the night, and for this reason, another boat came upon them. According to Lake, it emerged from the fog like an apparition.
One of the fisherman on the boat testified:
I thought this guy was poaching from us. It was dark and foggy, so a couple of us were on the bow, shining flashlights into the boat to see what he was up to. We heard the baby, but we just thought he had taken the kid out on the boat with him. When we saw the kid naked in the trap, well, Jesus Christ, that was another story.
Lake was plucked from the boat, and beaten by the crew of the fishing vessel. He sustained several fractured ribs, a broken nose, a sprained ankle, and some internal bleeding. Lake was unconscious for several days in the hospital, in which time news had reached Cissy of what had transpired on the rowboat, and the charges that her husband faced. Some would argue that her suicide demonstrated the shame that came with being a co-conspirator. Those of a more romantic nature would argue that she knew her husband was going to prison for life, and she couldn’t live without him. Still others would argue that after months of postpartum depression, the dual tragedy of her daughter’s near-death and her husband’s near-crime sent her over the edge. Whatever the reason, she hanged herself while Lake was in his coma. He awoke to handcuffs and her death certificate.
Before she died, Cissy changed her will, leaving her money to her daughter. This might have been an act of contrition, or with Lake in prison, simply the most sensible allocation of her resources. The money passed to a trust. When Katie claimed the money on her eighteenth birthday, she vowed to leave Maine and never return.
• • •
Melinda soberly digested the story. She had no words of wisdom for Paire. All she said was, “You’re welcome here, but it’s not safe.”
Paire suggested, “There are other places to go. It’s a big country. We could always go someplace he wouldn’t find us.”
Melinda tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling while she considered whether to flee. She said, “I live in a fortress. I’d rather take my chances here.”
“You could call the police.” It took some amount of will for Paire to suggest this. If they involved law enforcement, they might eventually stumble across Paire’s connection to the Fern shootings. But she was willing to call them if it meant protecting Melinda from Kasson.
“The Kassons bribed the police to steal this painting out of their own storage locker. I wouldn’t trust them, would you?” Melinda had a point.
Paire mulled through ideas. Out of desperation, she asked, “If you gave him the painting, do you think he would leave you alone?” This sounded so ridiculous when aired aloud, she immediately burst out laughing.
In an involuntary release of nervous tension, Melinda joined her. Giggle tears dropped from the corners of her eyes. “Even if I could, I’m not sure I would. This comes down to two bloodlines, the Qis and the Kassons. Abel Kasson and I are the last of each line. If he wants to finish off my family, he’s going to have to work for it.”
Paire considered for the first time that she was the last of her line as well. That fact had mattered so little to her that she had changed her name without giving any thought to discontinuing the lineage.
Melinda thought aloud, “I could buy a gun.”
Paire convulsively shook her head. “Have you ever used one?”
“How hard can it be? Kids use them.”
Paire thought about how Lucia and Mayer had looked on the floor of the Fern. “You know how easily it could go wrong.”
Melinda let it go. “Brady Bill and all—I guess it would take too long anyway. No guns, then. You lost your club back at Kasson’s apartment. What was that thing?”
“A baton.” Paire began to worry that they had nothing with which to defend themselves. “Do you have anything else we could use? Pepper spray or a Taser?”
Melinda smirked. “I’ve got kitchen knives.”
Nodding to the birch board, Paire said, “We should at least hide it.” A thought struck her. “That’s our weapon.”
Chapter 22
The two women were asleep in separate rooms when Kasson came. Paire lay on the sofa near the dining table.
Something woke her—a movement in the air, creak of a door, or crackle of human joints. Maybe she so readily anticipated his arrival that her body was programmed to wake at intervals. She smelled talcum. Paire reached for a paring knife under her pillow, but Kasson was already on her in the dark. He pinned her to the sofa cushions.
Kasson sat on the couch with her. Seemingly, he had been watching her sleep. The moment she sprang upright, his thick, talcum-scented hand clamped over her mouth. He pressed his own knife to her throat.
Kasson whispered into her ear, “Promise not to scream, and I’ll let you breathe. Do you promise not to scream?”
She considered her options, and reluctantly nodded against the fingers.
“If you do scream, I’ll have to slice your neck open. Do you understand?”
Again, Paire nodded. She was petrified, and had no snappy, spit-in-your-face retort. Kasson lifted his palm off her lips, but kept the knife tip pressed into her ribs.
Her mind raced. They had prepared all afternoon, but now that he was here, she panicked. She had expected to hear him fumble with the locks, or break the glass. He’d slipped in without a noise, and caught her by surprise.
“Where’s Mel?” she managed to eke out.
Kasson said, “In her room.” Paire called out Melinda’s name in the dark. A muffled voice called back, squabbling Paire’s name with a gag in her mouth.
“Let me see her.”
“You’re in no position to make orders.”
“I’ll scream.”
“And I’ll cut you open.” Kasson looked around the room. “Come to think of it, scream all you want. In this place, who would care?”
After staring at her with some amusement, he squeezed her arm like a tourniquet, and towed her light frame off the couch. Paire’s legs were still asleep, and she stumbled as he dragged her into Melinda’s bedroom. Kasson walked with a limp.
None of the lights were on, but he shone the way with a small flashlight, eventually spotlighting Melinda in a tight halo. She lay on the mattress, alive but bound, her wrists and ankles trussed with zip ties. A band of duct tape wound over her mouth.
“Why didn’t you tie me up?” Paire asked.
His voice was so at ease, he might have been talking in his sleep. “Because you’re the weak one.”
Melinda kicked in vain to tear through the zip ties, and screamed hoarsely through he
r gag.
Kasson pulled Paire out of the room. “Show me where you have it.”
“We mailed it off to the MAAC.”
He slapped her hard and fast above the cheek. She’d forgotten how hard he hit, how much muscle was buried beneath his rolling skin. It took a few seconds for the pain to register, and when it did, her skin stung like a sunburn. “Don’t worry,” he said, “that won’t raise a bruise.”
“It was crated up and mailed off yesterday. I can show you the tracking slip.”
Kasson’s closed fist hammered into the girl’s ribs. The air burst out of her lungs. Paire coughed and her eyes bugged. Winded, she fell and balled up on her side.
Kasson let her catch her breath. All the planning, and it came down to this. Paire had no choice but to tell him. “It’s in the studio.”
She led Kasson to the painting, out of the living quarters and across the compound in the moonlight. Paire couldn’t see a light on in any of the adjoining buildings. She didn’t even know what time it was, just that it was late enough that everyone in the neighborhood was asleep. He had timed his assault perfectly.
Hardly breaking the silence of the evening, they scratched across the gravel to the metal door, and with his limp, the flashlight beam bounced all over. When she threw open the door, a skunk stripe of moonlight shone through the room onto the empress. The portrait leaned against the far wall, behind one of Melinda’s giant flower stalks.
“A vision in red,” he sighed.
His knife dug a little deeper into Paire’s ribs, but she didn’t dare vocalize the pain. Kasson nudged her forward, close enough to prove that the painting wasn’t a hoax. Once convinced, he withdrew the knife and was pulled toward the portrait, like they all were. He stepped in front of Paire—although not so far that he couldn’t reach behind and slash her—and fingered the edges.
“Greater things have been erased from history,” he said. “Julius Caesar burned down the Library of Alexandria.” Perhaps for the first time, Kasson spoke to Paire as a peer. They shared a moment of silence together, Kasson likely reflecting on the work in front of him while Paire considered the imminent violence to follow. “He was a great artist. It’s a shame,” he said.
Possibly owing to his fatigue and injuries, and maybe even the lateness of the hour, Kasson took another step toward the portrait of the Empress Xiao Zhe Yi. Close enough to touch it. Still near enough to Paire to lash out and catch her with the knife. A collector like Kasson knew better than to run his hands over the tempera, but he couldn’t resist. This thin coating of pigment was the closest thing to skin that he was going to get. Slowly, his massive body sank to his knees. He lowered the flashlight and knife to his thighs. Then, he leaned in and kissed the woman on the lips.
When he was finished, he cocked his arm and pounded his fist into the birch, smashing his hand against the empress’s face. His first blow bounced off the wood, but he kept pummeling, faster and faster, each time more forceful. The pigment smeared, streaked with blood from his hand. Until her face became unrecognizable. Until Paire heard the wood crack. Until the plank split in two.
Paire ran. Fast as Kasson was, he was on his knees, and he reacted too late to catch her with the swipe of his knife. He chased her, but now that he was slowed by the limp, Paire sprinted through the door and clanged it shut behind her.
Paire spun the steel wheel as tightly as possible. Kasson pounded on the other side, which, given the thickness of the door, sounded like distant taiko drums.
She had trapped Abel Kasson inside Melinda Qi’s giant kiln.
Back inside the living quarters, Paire cut Melinda free with a chef’s knife and stripped off the duct tape, careful not to pull too hard. Melinda shook and dry heaved from nerves.
Paire’s eyes watered from the stress, though she didn’t feel any sadness or terror. “He’s in the kiln.” As Melinda had instructed her, she pronounced it kill.
They’d both discussed this scenario. While this was Paire’s idea, Melinda had explained how it would work. Cremations took place at around 1,700 degrees, and the kiln heated up to 2,900 degrees. At that temperature, nothing would be left. Not even teeth.
Of course, it had all been theoretical. Now, as they stood outside the kiln, listening to Kasson’s arrhythmic percussion, Melinda double-checked with Paire. “Are you ready to do this?”
“It’s no more than they did to your family,” said Paire.
“Can you live with this?”
“I don’t see any other way,” Paire said. “Sometimes you need to purge everything to start over. And nothing purges like fire.”
Melinda lifted a tendril of the younger woman’s hair. “We’ll burn the painting too.”
“There’s not much left to burn.”
A stiff breeze whipped through the compound, and when it whistled through their ears, they couldn’t hear the banker’s muffled protests.
They hovered over the control panel.
“You remember how to work the controls?”
Paire tried to remember the sequence, what buttons to press and in what order. She turned the temperature gauge to the far right, until the needle pointed to 3,000. “Will this wake anyone up?”
“Not around here.”
Kasson must have heard them out here, even though they barely spoke above a whisper themselves. His meaty hand thumped on the door, and Paire made out an obscenity. The C-word.
“He’ll get louder when I turn it on,” Paire said.
“Only for a little while.”
Melinda rested her hand on Paire’s back, and would have assuredly felt the girl’s heart hammering away. “When you’re ready, push the button.”
Paire pushed a button the size and color of a clown nose. A motor spun to life. Inside, Kasson heard it, and sensed something was wrong. His pounding on the door grew feverish. Paire wondered if he knew what kind of room he now occupied. It would be black as a cave in there, and he might not be able to tell. To the layperson unaccustomed to such things, he might have assumed it was a storage room. Panic gripped him, but the real fear hadn’t set in yet.
“That’s it. You’ve done it.”
“How long will it take?”
“A little while. Maybe forty minutes to get to that temperature.”
“How long before it’s over?”
“Maybe a few hours. It will be over before the sun comes up.”
Paire shivered. “It’s getting cold.”
“We should go back inside. The machine will do all the work.”
“I don’t feel right about leaving. I think we should stay here.”
“You sure?”
“I want to make sure it’s done.”
Melinda went inside for just a few minutes, and retrieved a fleece blanket and two bottles of water. They sat on the gravel in silence, close enough to feel the heat from the kiln as if it were a campfire. Kasson slammed against the door even harder when the heat became intolerable. The pounding slowed down, each hit progressively weakening, until he stopped altogether. At some point, he shrieked at a pitch that Paire would have thought him incapable of, although it was quiet as a mouse’s eek through the door. As soft as a lobster in a boiling pot. She imagined he had caught on fire. The empress would be burning as well. Paire pictured the thick man engulfed in orange frames, his leathery skin slowly charring and wearing off the bones. She wasn’t unhappy when she imagined it, because it meant his suffering was close to an end. She wondered if he spent his final moments looking at the painting, content to be wedded to the woman in their tragic demise.
As the sun broke over Brooklyn’s warehouses, Paire stopped the motor, and the two women sat together, warmed gently by the stacks of sweltering brick. Paire took hold of Melinda’s hand for support, and eventually they went inside to sleep.
When the kiln cooled, Paire made sure she opened the door first. She was afraid that the body might not have completely burned, that Kasson’s corpse would be half charred, wearing a twisted death grin. But it was j
ust ashes in there, a small scatter of dust from flesh, bone, birch, and paint, which when swept up would approximate the size of a Cornish game hen. Melinda was right—not even teeth survived. The knife had melted.
They waited until that evening to discard the ashes, and did so in the Gowanus Canal, New York’s unofficial dumping ground for the illegally deceased.
Chapter 23
Across the dining table, Melinda said, “I have something to tell you.”
In 1979, it was reported that Qi Jianyu had left the United States and returned to China, where he lived for the remainder of his life as a professor at the University of Beijing. This report was substantiated through immigration documentation, a few stray photographs of the older Qi in what was unmistakably Tiananmen Square, and a written letter from the Chinese embassy confirming the artist’s return to his country of origin.
The documents had all been forged, and the photograph doctored. The ironclad piece of evidence, supplied by the embassy, was authentic but untrue. Various offices in the Chinese government were simply happy to report that the artist had returned to China, because of the positive public relations impact. When they couldn’t locate Qi Jianyu, they wouldn’t recant their statement, because they didn’t want to seem fallible, and twice embarrass the country by stating that its most famous modern artist at the time had, in fact, decided to stay in America. When pressed to back up their statement with proof, preferably a televised statement from the artist, they refused to comply. This was an American problem, and the official statement from the Chinese was that the location of one of its billion citizens did not warrant the full attention of the government.
As Melinda told Paire, the truth was that Qi remained in the United States until he died two years before. He lived anonymously in a flat in Chinatown just off Canal Street. Lost in seas of fellow Chinese, no one looked that hard for him. Once you stripped away the artwork, Qi was an unremarkable-looking man, dressed in generic chinos and golf shirts, his gray hair cropped to bangs in the front. Anglo-Americans didn’t give him a second glance.
