by Merry Jones
As I pulled out of the parking spot, the first drops hit the windshield. In a matter of seconds the skies opened up; we were inundated by torrents of rain. Molly seemed mesmerized, staring at the wipers rushing to clear the glass. And as I drove through the blinding deluge I felt myself relax, as if the dams had broken and now the water was free to cleanse the city of its recent crime wave, washing away the last of its lingering stains.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
THE RAIN WAS SO HEAVY, THOUGH, THAT I HAD TO STOP DRIVING. At the intersection of Eighth and Market I veered into a bus zone along the curb. We sat quietly watching the rain, hearing it pound the roof of the car. Lightning whitened the streets for a moment and Molly counted three beats until thunder cracked.
“It’s three miles away, Mom,” she said.
“What is?”
“The lightning. You count after it flashes and as high as you get until the thunder is how many miles away the lightning is. Emily said so.”
Well, then I guess it had to be true. under a streetlight, I watched Molly’s face reflect the streaming rain. Her eyes were so open, full of energy, her features still soft and undeveloped. Again I was smitten with her self-assured, centered presence. Who was this small girl who called me Mom? Who would she become?
“Mom, what if you knew something you weren’t supposed to?”
“Like what?”
“Like something important, but nobody would believe you.” Oh dear. “Is this about the woman in the blue car? Because it isn’t that we didn’t believe she was following you—” “No. It’s not about her.” “Then what? Tell me.”
She squinted, thinking for a moment. Then she turned to face me. “I know who shot Nick, Mom.”
I opened my mouth, but didn’t know what to say.
“It was the Gordo—it had to be.”
Oh, the Gordo. Molly was still afraid of him. And she didn’t know about Tony. “Molls, no, it wasn’t.” I took her hand. “The police know who shot Nick. It was Tony. The man from the boathouse.”
“Tony?” under the streetlight, her face looked as if it were being washed with giant tears. “I don’t think so, Mom. The Gordo wanted to shoot Tony—”
“The Gordo had a gun?”
Molly nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell that to Officer Olsen?”
She looked worried and fragile. “Was I supposed to?”
Oh dear. Molly was just six, didn’t see things from an adult perspective. But clearly she believed what she was saying. “So wait. Tell me again. When the Gordo came looking for Tony, he was carrying a gun?”
“Yup.”
“What did he look like again?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t see his face, Mom. I was up in the racks.”
“So what did you see?”
“Well, I saw him from on top.” Molly’s face flashed white, reflecting a lightning strike.
I was having trouble following her. “Did he see you?”
“Mom. Think about it. I was hiding.” Thunderclaps rattled the car, two beats after the lightning. “Mom, but wait—what if he did see me? Is the Gordo going to come after me?”
“No, of course not.” Lord, I hoped not. “He didn’t see you, and anyway, he doesn’t even know who you are.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Liar. “So what do you remember about him?” “I already told you. He was scary.”
Good. That helped. “Scary, how?” I thought it would help her to talk about it; I didn’t really expect details from a six-year-old. “He was all hairy, and he had a ponytail except the top of his head was bald.” She cringed, remembering. “And he had big muscle arms with tattoos all over and lots of jewelry. Earrings and bracelets.”
“Tattoos?” Hairy body. Balding and tattooed. Hadn’t I seen someone like that at Humberton? I wasn’t sure. Still, it was good information. usable. More detailed than what she’d told the police.
“I think the Gordo shot Nick, Mom.”
“I told you, Molls. Tony shot Nick. The Gordo was in the boat-house with you when Nick got shot. No matter how scary he looked, even the Gordo couldn’t be two places at once. It was Tony.”
Molly bit her lip, thinking.
I reminded myself that Tony had admitted the shooting; nobody named Gordo had anything to do with it. But then who was the Gordo? And where? Was he part of the cartel? I didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want to accept that even a single slave trader might still be around. Or the remote chance that he might have seen Molly.
“It’s good you told me, Molly. But don’t worry anymore. The Gordo’s gone, and Tony is, too.”
“Are you sure? How do you know for sure?”
“The police took Tony away.” I wanted to protect her, so I omitted the part about Tony being dead. I saw him again, lifeless beside Harry in the front of the van, remembered the look in Harry’s eyes. And now I had an idea who’d killed them. The Gordo was no doubt strong enough to strangle them. Suddenly the streets looked darker and more menacing.
“How about we go home?” I reached for the steering wheel, determined to make it home no matter how dense the rain.
Molly was quiet for a while. “Mom.” She sounded urgent. “I had an idea. Do you think Officer Olsen would come to my graduation party?”
I smiled, glad for the length of her attention span. “Maybe. If you have a party.” I turned onto Fourth Street, splashing through hidden potholes, maneuvering through the storm.
“Listen who else I want to invite. Serena and Hari. And Emily and Nicholas . . .”
Molly planned her party all the way home. I squinted through driving rain at the blue car following too closely. I told myself that the driver was not the woman Molly had seen at school. Not everyone was plotting against us. Some things were merely coincidences. They had to be.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
IT WAS STILL RAINING THE NEXT EVENING WHEN THE GLAZIER Finally came to replace the cutout windowpane in my office. While he worked, Molly and I sat in the kitchen making a grocery list. We were seriously low on food, particularly because I’d thrown out everything in the refrigerator after the break-in. When the phone rang Molly was trying to decide what kind of cereal she wanted. Nothing with cinnamon. Maybe something Sponge Bob or Shrek.
“Zoe.” Nick’s voice was thin, reedy. “Come get me.” “In a few days, Nick. Be patient.” The doctor had said it would be a while until his release. “But we’ll stop by this afternoon.” “It’s Nick?” Molly brightened.
“No, come now. I’m out of here. Bring a pair of jeans and a sport shirt. Not a T; one with buttons.” “What? Now? You’re not serious.”
“Mom . . . can I talk?” Molly hung on me, grabbing for the phone.
“Yes, now. I’m serious.” “Mom, let me talk—”
“But”—I pushed Molly’s hands away—”the doctors told me you’d need to stay until—”
“I reasoned with them. I explained that I’d heal better at home where I can actually get some sleep. The nurses here wake you up every three minutes to mess with you, and all day people come by to visit. I haven’t slept since I got here. And the food frankly sucks. I want to go home and rest uninterrupted. And eat real food. I want pizza, not liquefied brussels sprouts.”
“So they’re releasing you?” I still couldn’t believe it.
“Nick’s coming home?” Molly squealed, tugging on my arm. Jubilant.
“I’ve already showered. I’m ready. Just bring my stuff.”
I hung up and began racing around, looking for Nick’s flip-flops, underwear, cutoff jeans. Molly helped, choosing a bold blue short-sleeved shirt with bright green and orange stripes, singing, “Nick is coming home” over and over to a tune that vaguely resembled “Jingle Bells.”
By the time the glazier had finished and brought me his bill, the sun was setting and we were ready to go. I thanked him, handed him a check, and we all walked out together into the pelting rain.
“You know, ma’am,” he said.
“You might want me to come back and fit some iron bars over that window. It’s so close to the ground. You don’t want another break-in.”
I thanked him and told him I’d get back to him about it. Then I took Molly’s hand and together we bolted through the puddles and raindrops and hopped into the car. unbelievably, unexpectedly, Nick was coming home.
SEVENTY-NINE
THE BLUE OF HIS EYES WAS FLAT AND DULL, HIS SKIN ASHEN, face unshaved, but he sat up on the bed as soon as we came in, determined to leave. He greeted us shakily, hugged us carefully, then asked Molly to wait outside the curtained area so I could help him into his clothes. Awkwardly I knelt to hold his pants while he struggled to lift each leg and slide it in. I wrapped his shirt around his back, understanding why he’d said no T-shirt; he still couldn’t lift his arms high enough to slip them into the sleeves. I dressed Nick, saw the muscles of his back and shoulders hanging shapeless and limp, watched him tremble with exertion just buttoning his shirt, and I realized again how close to death he’d come. But he’s going to be all right, I told myself. It would take time, but he’d get his strength back again.
Finally, he was clothed. Ready to go. The daily gaggle of cops had come to visit, and when they saw that Nick was being released, they wanted to party. They offered to escort us out, even to take Nick home, to join us for coffee and Danish at home. Nick thanked them, but a little too curtly sent them on their way. He wanted to be left alone. So, leaving all his flowers and candy with the nursing staff, thanking them profusely, as soon as the orderly brought the wheelchair we were on our way. Molly skipped alongside Nick’s chair to the elevator, and at the ground floor the orderly helped us to the car, an umbrella over Nick.
The air had cooled with the storm, but the steady rain showed no sign of letting up. The evening was dark, brooding, as if reflecting my thoughts. As glad as I was that Nick was coming home, I was equally concerned that he wasn’t ready. He said nothing as we drove; just sitting up seemed to drain all his energy. Molly chattered at first; then, realizing that Nick wasn’t responding, she sat in the backseat silently. I watched her in the rearview mirror, somberly studying the back of his head.
When we got to the house, I double-parked and ran through the downpour to unlock the door. Molly scampered inside, and I went back for Nick. He leaned on me heavily as I helped him out of the car, and we progressed slowly from the street to the sidewalk, up the steps, into the house. We were dripping wet, and Nick seemed barely able to stand.
The house still smelled faintly of ammonia, but the odor wasn’t as pungent as before, didn’t sear our nostrils, and it was masked by other scents, like brewing coffee and the summer storm. Molly stood beside Nick, still watching him, holding his hand.
“It’s good to be home.” Nick kissed me on the forehead and tousled Molly’s curls.
“Where should we plant you?” I asked. “The sofa?”
“I just want to go to bed. Would you ladies mind tucking me in for a nap?”
Nick panted as we led him upstairs. He peeled off his wet shirt and fell into bed, asleep almost before I pulled the comforter over him. Outside, horns blared fiercely. I glanced out the window and saw Nick’s Volvo blocking traffic. Damn. I’d forgotten that I’d double-parked.
Molly stood at the bedroom door, looking worried.
“I’ll be right back, Molls,” I said, and touching her cheek, I hurried outside to move the car.
EIGHTY
IT TOOK FOREVER TO FIND A PARKING SPOT, AND WHEN I FINALLY found one, it was almost three blocks away. When I came in, I was drenched.
“Molly?” I called quietly, not wanting to awaken Nick. Although, I realized, probably snare drums wouldn’t awaken him. “I’m back.”
I stopped to pick up the mail that had piled up all week beneath the slot. I glanced at bills and ads, plopped them onto the kitchen counter and, drying my hair with a dish towel, I began to check my phone messages.
“Mom?” Molly called from upstairs.
“Come on down, Molls. Let Nick rest.”
It had been days since I’d opened a bill or answered a call, and now that Nick was home, I was determined to get back to normal, to be responsible for my life again. Deleting a dozen calls from telemarketers, I listened to messages from friends wanting to hear from me, wanting to know if we were all right. Karen and Davin-der had called. Ileana had called four times. And Gretchen. And Victor. Victor? I played his message over again.
“This is Victor Delaney, your neighbor from across the street.” As if I wouldn’t know who Victor Delaney was. “I wonder if you could call me at your earliest convenience.” He gave his phone number, then repeated it. How odd. I wondered what had happened; Victor almost never made direct contact. He never went outside, hid behind his window shades, cracked his door open only to admit grocery deliveries. Whenever Molly and I left tins of cookies on his front step, he thanked us by e-mail. I couldn’t remember Victor ever actually calling before. It had to be important; I’d better call him back.
Lightning flared and thunder shook the house almost immediately; according to Molly, the storm must be centered right over us. Half expecting her to come flying down the stairs in terror, I dialed Victor’s number. But Molly didn’t appear; she must be braver than I thought. Another lightning flash cast blue light through the rain-drenched kitchen windows. I waited for my call to connect, listening to the pounding of the storm and watching the lights flicker, hoping the electricity wouldn’t go out.
That’s when I noticed that my coffeepot was on. And that it was full. I stared at it, frozen, holding the phone. The coffeepot couldn’t be on, I decided. Couldn’t be full. I hadn’t eaten breakfast at home in the last two days, hadn’t made coffee in at least as many. Besides, if I had turned it on, I would have also turned it off. Wouldn’t I?
I gaped at the brewing coffee, remembering the break-in, the broken mug, the spilled coffee on my kitchen floor. Nick asking, “Was it black or with cream?” Because he’d suspected who’d spilled it, how she liked her coffee—
Heather? Oh, God. She was here? In the house?
“Molly . . . Nick?” I ran up the steps, the phone still in my hand. “Molly, where are you?” My mouth was dry, my throat like sandpaper. Oh, God. Had Heather found them? Were they okay? “Answer me—”
I sped to her room, panting, sweating. “Molly—where are you?” Clutching the cordless phone like a weapon, watching shadows, I recalled the decapitated photos, the jagged scissor cuts, and I flew through the door, ready to swing.
Molly sat on her bed, watching the door. “I’m in here,” she said. Her voice sounded small. Maybe tired. Maybe she hadn’t answered until now because she’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard me. Maybe she was fine.
Stepping in, I turned on a lamp. Molly was a mess, still in her wet T-shirt and shorts. Her damp curls were matted, her eyes wide. Thank God. She was all right. Thunder rattled outside.
“Molls.” I spoke softly. “Come have a bubble bath. Let me just check on Nick.”
She didn’t move. She just watched me. And I noticed that she seemed to stare at the wall behind me.
“Come on, Molls. Let’s go.”
“Mom . . .” Molly began. But she didn’t go on. Her eyes didn’t leave the doorway, even as I started across the room to get her, and, too late, I realized why.
EIGHTY-ONE
I’D WALKED RIGHT PAST HER. HEATHER STOOD AGAINST THE WALL, beside the door; I’d been so focused on Molly that I hadn’t seen anything else. Not Heather. Not her gun.
“Mom!” Molly dashed for me and I caught her, wrapped her in my arms. Instinct kicked in; I felt no fear. Only outrage.
“I know who you are, Heather. I’m not afraid of you. Leave us alone. Get out of my house.”
“Mom.” words spilled from Molly’s mouth. “When you left, she got in and started tying up Nick. I ran out but she chased me—”
Nick. “Is Nick okay?”
“She tied him up. I don’t know. I ran away.” She
looked guilty
“I’ll go check.” Ignoring Heather, I started out of the room.
“I don’t think so.” The bullet whizzed past my head before I even heard the shot. I stopped cold and turned slowly. Heather studied me, her gun aimed at my chest. “So you know who I am. Interesting. I want to hear about that.”
Heather was tall, about twenty pounds heavier than she should have been, in jeans that were too tight. Her features were symmetrical, even pretty, but her skin was pasty, washed out. Locks of damp mousy hair had come loose, falling from her ponytail. She smiled, revealing a gap between her front teeth.
She pointed the way with the gun. “Let’s go downstairs. I need coffee. We’ll chat.”
Molly clung to me so tightly I couldn’t move. “Heather,” I said. “There’s a child here. How about you lose the gun?”
Molly dug her face into my belly; her arms strangled my hips.
“No, I don’t think so. But I’ll take the phone, thank you.”
I hadn’t realized I was still holding it. I handed it to her, and her lips curled unpleasantly, more a grimace than a smile. “Let’s go. Now.”
Apparently Molly and I didn’t move fast enough; the crack of gunfire convinced us to hurry. There were two bullet holes now in Molly’s bedroom wall, right above my head. Molly and I walked, two bodies curled into one four-legged creature, into the hall and toward the stairs.
I looked back, saw Heather’s gun aimed at us, its barrel a hollow, indifferent eye leveled at my back. Or maybe at Molly’s head. Would she actually shoot us? What had we done? I knew why she’d stalked Nick; she believed he’d murdered her sister, his wife—and she wanted revenge. She’d already gone to jail once for assaulting him. But what did that have to do with us? We hadn’t even known her sister.
