by Merry Jones
At some point, I realized I wasn’t using actual words anymore. I was merely making noise. Waving my arms, screaming.
FIFTY-THREE
THE COPS ALREADY KNEW ME. FOR THE THIRD TIME IN A WEEK, I’d summoned them to a violent crime scene. Officer Olsen was there, and I told him about Nick, Coach Everett, the man in the launch. Wrapped in blankets, gauze around my head, I refused to go the hospital, even though Officer Olsen advised it and the EMT said I’d need stitches. But no, I wouldn’t go, wouldn’t move until rescuers had reached the island and brought Nick off on a stretcher. I stayed where I was until I saw for myself that Nick was still alive. He was limp and unconscious, covered with bloodstains and bandages. But my boulder, it turned out, may have helped; he hadn’t bled to death. I pestered the EMTs, asking questions they couldn’t answer. Would he be all right? Had he lost too much blood? Would he survive surgery? Could he hear me if I talked to him?
Only when the ambulance had taken off with sirens blaring did I agree to leave the scene. And even then, I wouldn’t go get stitches; I had to go get Molly.
Officer Olsen sighed, eyeing me, and offered me a ride. He called ahead to Susan’s to say we were on the way, and hesitated, when he hung up, to tell me that Tim had said Susan wasn’t home yet. Neither she nor Molly was there.
I must have looked deathly, face smeared with blood, head bandaged, body scratched and bruised, hair disheveled, sports bra torn and soaked. Officer Olsen hadn’t wanted to upset me further. But I was on my feet, not waiting for him to help. By the time he’d finished his sentence, I was already telling him to try Molly on my cell phone as I was climbing into his car.
FIFTY-FOUR
I RUSHED INTO HUMBERTON CALLING MOLLY’S NAME. MY VOICE
reverberated under the hollow dome of Humberton’s foyer, rattling the walls, the chandelier. And, when she didn’t answer immediately, my bones.
Officer Olsen followed me down into the boat bays. “Molly?” I shouted. “Molly, come out.”
Head throbbing, holding on to beams for balance, craning my neck, I scanned the shadowy racks for the form of a little girl, finding only long gleaming boats. And two empty spaces, one for Nick’s single; the other for the shell I’d left at the Canoe Club.
“Molly? Molls? Susan? Where are you?” My teeth chattered, even in the heat, and trembling, I scoured the bays, examined the spaces between racks. I told myself that Molly was fine, just hiding. Any second, she’d pop out, smiling at her game. But she didn’t.
“Ma’am, are you sure she’s down here?” Officer Olsen looked doubtful. “Wouldn’t she be waiting upstairs where it’s more comfortable?”
Yes. Of course. Molly wouldn’t still be in the racks; Susan would have taken her upstairs to the lounge. They’d probably fallen asleep on one of the oversized leather sofas. Slowly, shivering, I followed Officer Olsen to the stairs. I told myself to calm down; wherever they were, Molly and Susan were safe. Nothing could have happened to them at Humberton Barge. But in a corner of my brain, Nick’s question bellowed: “Did you or Susan lose a Humberton hat?”
A Humberton hat had been found floating among the bodies. Was a Humberton member involved with the slave smugglers? Could that member have accosted Susan as she arrived in the night? No. Ridiculous. Besides, what would a slave smuggler want with Molly, a little six-year-old girl? Oh, God, what an awful question. I couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to.
Officer Olsen began climbing the boat-bay steps, but I hesitated, looking around one last time, and noticed that the doors to the dock were still open. I’d forgotten to shut them when I went out after Nick. Gazing outside at the water, I saw, at the water’s edge, the dim shapes of two figures, huddling together.
“Molly?” My throat was raw as, running to the doors, I called her name. “Molly . . . Molly.” Thank God.
“Mom?” The figures jumped to their feet, and the small one came flying, arms outstretched. “Mom . . . you’re back! How’d you get here? We were waiting for you—where’s Nick?” She looked over my shoulder into the boathouse. “Did you find him?”
I hugged her tight, avoiding having to answer.
Susan was right behind her, looking confused. “How did you get in without us seeing you? Where’s your boat?”
I wasn’t ready to answer her either. “Dammit, Susan,” I breathed. “What are you doing here? I called your house and Tim said you hadn’t come home, and I was scared to death. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t you hear us shouting your names?”
“No. I guess we couldn’t hear you from out there.”
She was right. Of course they couldn’t. But I was still mad. “But what were you doing out there?”
“We told you. Watching. Waiting for you to get back.”
“But you agreed you’d take Molly home. To your house.”
“She wouldn’t go. Zoe, she was worried to leave without you. And, frankly, so was I. So we were waiting on the dock—”
“You’ve been here all this time?”
“For a while, why?”
“Did you see anybody dock? A launch?”
“Mom, guess what.” Molly pulled on my arm. I ignored her, repeated my question.
“One went by maybe ten minutes ago. It docked down at Vesper or maybe Malta.” Susan pointed toward the other boathouses. “Did you see who was in it?”
“Zoe, no. It’s dark out.” Susan shook her head. “Why? Was I supposed to?”
“Mom, listen. Guess what.” Molly grabbed my hand, jabbering. “The Gordo was here. I saw him.”
I blinked at her, then at Susan, still annoyed, not ready for the change of subject.
Susan nodded. “She’s been talking about the Gordo ever since I got here.”
“Because he was here. Looking for Tony.”
The Gordo? It took a second for me to cool off and remember. The Gordo had been the imaginary creature Molly had been talking about just before we found Agent Ellis. Oh, Lord. What was Molly talking about? She must have imagined him again, must have been more afraid to stay alone than I’d realized. Damn. Well, who could blame the girl? First her mom finds bodies in the river, then there’s a break-in at her home. Now, she’s left all alone to hide in a dark boathouse in the middle of the night. No wonder Molly was imagining monsters. I felt dizzy. Nick was in the hospital fighting for his life. My head had been slapped and slammed; my body was raw with scratches and angry bites. I hurt from head to toe, inside and out. And now I was finding out that my daughter was plagued by terrors, might even be delusional. I lifted her hand with both of mine and kissed her gritty fingers.
“You’re okay, now, Molls.”
“Anyway, Molly refused to leave until you got back,” Susan defended herself. “And frankly, I was glad. I wanted to stay to make sure everything was okay. So? What happened?” She was frowning at the gauze wad on my head.
“Mom, why isn’t Nick with you?” Molly looked pale. “Did you find him?”
“I did, Molls. I found him.” I pulled her close, inhaling the scent of warm, overtired child.
But Molly pushed me away, grimacing. “Eeww, Mom. You’re all wet. You flipped again, didn’t you? That’s why your boat’s not here? And that’s why the policeman had to drive you back? I knew it—I knew you’d flip. What happened? Did you bump into more bodies?”
“No, Molls—”
“But you hurt your head.” She eyed me. “Mom, why are you just in your sports bra? Where’s your T-shirt?”
I didn’t have the energy to explain, but it didn’t matter because Molly wasn’t listening; she was too busy talking. Her pitch rose as her questions came faster and faster. “Why were you gone so long? Where’s Nick? If you found him, why isn’t he here?”
I pictured Nick on the stretcher, limp and blood-soaked, tubes in his arms, oxygen mask over his face. I was speechless, drained, and I closed my eyes, refusing tears.
But Molly grabbed my arm, persistent, demanding answers. “Mom, tell me.” Her eyes were as somber as
her tone. “What happened to your head? And where’s Nick?”
FIFTY-FIVE
MOLLY ALMOST NEVER CRIED, BUT WHEN SHE FOUND OUT THAT
Nick had been hurt and was in the hospital, her chin wobbled and tears flowed. Susan wanted to know details, but I didn’t want Molly to hear them, and besides, had no energy to give them. While Officer Olsen waited we sat together, the three of us on a leather sofa in the lounge, and I explained briefly that doctors were taking care of Nick and that we’d visit him soon. I told Molly that I’d cut my head while I was looking for Nick, that I needed a few stitches, and that she would stay at Susan’s while I got them.
“Stitches?” Molly was mystified. “Like with a needle and thread?”
I nodded, feeling queasy.
“They’re going to sew up your head? Like the way you sewed my yellow shorts?” “Just like that.”
She frowned. “Do you get to choose the color thread? Can you get purple?”
“Molly,” Susan interrupted, “why don’t we get going? When Emily wakes up, we can make waffles.”
Molly drew a few shaky deep breaths and stoically stood to go.
But as she did, Officer Olsen stepped over and stooped beside her. “Can I ask you a question before you go?” he said. “I heard you talking before. Tell me about the Gordo.”
She was quiet for a moment, assessing him. She glanced at me for permission, and I nodded. Even if he was a creature of her imagination, it might do her some good to talk about him. “The Gordo’s scary. And real mean.” Her voice was small, and she looked away.
I stroked her cheek, studied her guileless face, her golden curls. Molly looked delicate, but she was strong-willed and mischievous, generally not fearful. She’d seemed fine when I left her, hadn’t protested or seemed the least uneasy about staying alone for a few minutes. Now she was telling a cop that she’d been terrified. Next, she’d tell him I made her hide up in the racks. Great. In a minute, Officer Olsen would be calling Child Protective Services. I closed my eyes, feeling faint.
“Scary and mean. How do you know that, Molly?”
I relaxed. Officer Olsen didn’t seem concerned about my parenting, only in what Molly had thought she’d seen.
“Because I could tell.” She answered with furrowed brows and deadly seriousness.
Officer Olsen waited for Molly to go on. When she didn’t, he came up with another question. “What’s the Gordo look like?”
Molly bit her lip. “Like . . . maybe a gorilla.”
No surprise. Probably he was a shadow in the dark.
“Is the Gordo a man?”
Molly paused, thinking. “I’m not sure. I mean, he’s hairy like a man, but he’s got a long ponytail and bracelets and earrings and necklaces like a girl.”
That was a lot of detail for an imaginary creature. I held on to her hand, began to feel cold.
“Have you ever seen the Gordo before tonight?”
“uh-uh, but I’ve heard about him.”
“You heard about him? From whom?”
Molly shrugged. “Some people. Grown-ups.”
“Do you know their names?”
She looked at me. “You know, Mom. You heard them, too. Tony.”
Tony? Talking about the Gordo? What was Molly saying? Talking about? “When, Molls?”
But Officer Olsen pressed her to continue. “Tony. And who else?”
“My mom’s coach.”
“You mean Coach Everett?” Susan blurted.
Tony and Coach Everett? I remembered them talking—arguing on the dock. About money. I’d been looking for Molly, and interrupted, asking Tony if he’d seen her.
Molly went on. “They were on the dock. Tony goes, ‘The Gordo is coming.’ Then he goes, ‘It’s not just me. It’s you, too.’ And the coach got mad and said, the Gordo wasn’t his problem, but Tony goes, ‘Yes, it is.” And he said the F word.”
Susan and I looked at each other, mute.
“And that’s all you heard?” Officer Olsen asked.
“Yes, but tonight, after my mom left? The Gordo came here, just like Tony said he would. He came looking for them. I heard him come in the door. He went, ‘Tony? It’s the Gordo.’“ Molly imitated a raspy voice. “ ‘Tony? Yo, Tony. You up there? Come on out. I just wanna talk.’ Then the floor creaked and he was banging on the door. Then he came downstairs to the boat bays and came down the steps and looked around, so I hid until he left, even after the outside door slammed, and I kept hiding until Susan got here.”
We were all quiet, rapt.
I pulled her close and stroked her forehead. “You’re safe now, Molls. No more Gordo. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
I looked at Susan, then at Officer Olsen, wondering what they thought of her story. I recalled the exchange between Tony and the coach on the dock the other evening. I remembered the coach wanting money, but not any mention of a Gordo. True, Molly had been there longer and had heard more. Maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe something she’d heard had sounded like “Gordo.” But what? Nothing sounded like Gordo. The Bordeaux? The porthole? Thug oar dough? I had no idea.
Officer Olsen gently put his hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Well, Molly. In my opinion, you’re very brave. And, on behalf of the police force, I want to thank you. You’ve done your duty and alerted us. Because of you, the police will be on the lookout for the Gordo. So you don’t have to be scared anymore. Okay?”
Molly looked singularly unconvinced. Officer Olsen seemed to have dismissed her fears as the products of a child’s overactive imagination.
But I hadn’t. I’d changed my mind. I’d become convinced that, to the best of her abilities, Molly was telling the truth. I watched Molly and Susan drive off as the sun began to rise, certain that someone had been at the boathouse that night, looking for Tony. And that the Gordo—whether or not that was his actual name— was real.
FIFTY-SIX
WHEN MOLLY LEFT, SO DID MY ENERGY.SUDDENLY I HAD NO strength, no balance. As we started out of the boathouse, I staggered and swayed, and if Officer Olsen hadn’t caught me, I’d have collapsed right there. Planting me in the foyer at the bottom of the steps, he called for an ambulance and went outside to wave it down.
Woozy, I leaned my head against the wall and let my eyelids drop, thinking about Nick. About our fight. If not for that, we’d both be home asleep. Cuddled up. And engaged to be married. Oh, God, why couldn’t I have kept quiet about his e-mail? Why had I even read it to begin with? If only I’d simply have trusted him, I wouldn’t know about Kiddo2 aka Heather, wouldn’t have wondered again about his past. I’d have been blissfully ignorant and he wouldn’t have been out rowing, much less left to die on Peters Island, his blood seeping from a bullet hole.
I hugged myself, feeling chilled, then realized that a shadow had passed over me. I opened my eyes to see Tony leaning against the railing on the steps above me. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing but a towel, and he didn’t seem to notice me sitting beneath him. Slowly, cautiously, he proceeded down the steps.
“Yo.” He peered into the foyer. “Somebody down there?” Spotting me propped against the wall, he jumped. His eyes popped, jaw dropped. I must have been a sight, blood smeared all over, gauze on my forehead, damp hair clumped, hanging in my face.
But he didn’t ask what had happened; he simply cursed. “Fuck me,” he said. Then he said it again.
He continued down the stairs, holding on to his towel. Tony seemed paler, jumpier, more gaunt than he had been even a few hours ago, and the circles under his bloodshot eyes were deeper. Maybe he was on drugs. Maybe Coach Everett had found his stash and that’s what their fight had been about. Maybe Coach wanted Tony to pay him to get his drugs back. Maybe the Gordo was Tony’s dealer.
Tony came to stand beside me, his hair dripping wet, probably fresh from the shower. He was nude except for his towel; a thick stripe of black curls poked out of the terry cloth and ran up his belly. Why was he standing so close? Hadn’t he heard of personal space? My head th
undered with pain and worry about Nick. Couldn’t Tony just go away? He stared down at me with haunted rodent eyes, as if I were a slice of moldy cheese. Too weak to stand, too exhausted to talk, I looked away, began to study scuff marks on the hardwood floor.
“Okay. Okay. So now what? What’s the deal?” Tony bent over me, whispering. His red eyes narrowed. “You win. I give up. So tell me the deal.”
I’d won? What deal? “Officer Olsen brought me.” For some reason, it seemed important to mention the police presence. To let Tony know I wasn’t alone.
Tony couldn’t stand still. He circled the foyer, breathing shal-lowly, quickly, looking through the window at the policeman in the street.
“So, okay. What do you want?” he asked. Was he talking to me? I wasn’t sure. His free hand ran through his wet hair, his fingers carving tracks. “You tell me. What now?”
“What now?”
“Yeah. What now?” He rotated, forming questions. “What’s with the cop? What’s the deal?”
I didn’t have the strength to answer him, didn’t know how.
Sirens blared outside and Tony watched the window, cursing, until the front door bust open and EMTs rushed in with a stretcher and gear. Strangers began working on my body, flashing lights into my eyes, probing, questioning, pressing, jabbing.
When Officer Olsen came in, Tony had almost disappeared up the steps. But not quite. Officer Olsen called him back down, then took his time, circling Tony, assessing him in his towel. I heard him ask Tony’s name, then use it repeatedly, taunting him with every sentence. “So, you live here, Tony? Where were you earlier tonight, Tony?” He walked up to Tony and stood face-to-face, stood belly-to-belly.
