“Kristen—”
“Shut up! I’m sick of you. You’re no better than the doctors. You don’t know me. You don’t know shit.”
“It’s okay to be angry, Kristen. You can hate your doctors. You can hate me. Just don’t hate yourself—”
The girl’s eyes flashed. “Is that why you chased me into the elevator? You’re afraid I’m going to kill myself?”
Jessie nodded. Under the circumstances, honesty seemed like her only alternative. “I am afraid. Yes.”
“Well, don’t be.” Kristen slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor in the corner of the elevator. Jessie, not wanting to look down at her, crouched until their eyes met at the same level. Kristen’s had dried. The tear tracks were fading against her red cheeks. “I’m done hurting myself.”
Jessie released a sigh of relief. “I’m glad.”
“The only person I want to hurt is Frank Ramsey.”
“Kristen—”
Her jaw set. “I’m going to kill him.”
The words stung. Jessie assumed that given Ramsey’s acquittal, Kristen’s doctors would be sure to watch her extra closely, and she could not imagine it would be easy for her to break out of the institution, arm herself, and hunt down Ramsey. And maybe the revenge fantasy itself was therapeutic, a step toward recovery. But it still hurt to see this innocent teenager’s face twist with hatred and rage. She touched the girl’s shoulder gently. “That’s not the answer, Kristen.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same, if you were in my place?” the girl spat out.
Jessie closed her eyes, shook her head. “No. I would learn to accept it, move on with my life.”
Kristen laughed. “I don’t believe you.”
Jessie was not sure if she believed herself.
59
Elliot could not go back to the office. He walked home in a daze, barely feeling the wind that bit him through his coat and scarf. He did not notice a homeless man warming himself over a steam grate until the man shouted at him for almost stepping on his hand. He walked past a convenience store, and came close to colliding with two men stepping out of the exit. He felt like a ghost.
Mere hours ago, he had felt like the reincarnation of Clarence Darrow. His job, which for a few hours had seemed like the greatest job a man could ever hope for, now seemed hopeless in every way. Money, job satisfaction—these things seemed as far from his reach as ever.
Part of him wanted to quit. Walk home and never show up at the DA’s office again. Apply for a job in some other industry. Investment banking, maybe. Move to New York City, start over. He had not yet completely morphed into a clone of Uncle Warren. He still had time. He was young.
My God. I’m a bigger burnout than Jack Ackerman.
Fuck that.
He’d lost a case. Big deal. Considering his level of experience, it was amazing he’d done as well as he had. And there was no denying that he had enjoyed the feeling that consumed him when he faced the jurors and delivered his closing, a feeling that he not only could do this job, but that he had been born to do it.
He was walking faster now, weaving between groups of pedestrians, skirting food trucks and bus stops. A sudden impulse stopped him in his tracks. He felt an urge to turn around, return to the DA’s office. Spend the remainder of the day among the only other people in Philadelphia who could understand how he felt right now. Jessie Black, Warren Williams, Jesus Rivera.
Prosecutors.
But he was only a few blocks from home. His body’s complaints about the cold finally penetrated the din in his mind. He wore no hat, and his ears and nose burned. Tugging his scarf higher to protect his face, he hurried onward. He could commiserate with Jessie and Warren—and maybe even Rivera—another day. They weren’t going anywhere. Today, he would spend a quiet afternoon and evening at home. Turn up the heat. Make himself a mug of hot chocolate. Read a novel. Call Amber.
He did not need to call her. She was waiting for him in his studio apartment when he unlocked the door. She looked as beautiful as always, but she also looked unhappy, maybe even frightened. Seeing her that way momentarily shocked him out of his own self-pitying funk.
“Are you alright, honey?”
She looked at him and shook her head. He saw that her mascara had smeared. Had she been crying? He dropped his briefcase and crossed the room. Hugged her without taking off his coat. After a few seconds, she pulled out of his embrace, shivering. “You’re cold.”
He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it on the bedspread. “Sorry. I came home early because—”
“I know.” She pointed at the TV in the corner of the room. “It was on the news. I’m really sorry, Elliot.”
“That’s not why you’re crying, is it?” He smiled. “It’s just a trial.” Despite his earlier depression, he realized with some surprise that he actually felt this way. “There will be others.”
“That’s not why I’m upset.” She sniffled. The way she rubbed her nose was almost childlike. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
A pit opened in his stomach. He was suddenly sure she was going to dump him. In a moment of vertigo, he practically dropped into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She was the best girlfriend he’d ever had—the only girlfriend he’d had since his sophomore year in college. If she ended their relationship, he’d be drinking whiskey instead of hot chocolate tonight. That was one thing he knew for certain.
Then he saw the suitcase.
It was on the floor next to the bed. He had not noticed it before because his attention had been riveted to Amber. The suitcase was his.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to get out of here. Now. Stay at a hotel, somewhere safe until—”
“Amber, what are you talking about?” His eyes shifted to the TV and he tried to make a connection between the trial and her sudden panic. “If you’re worried that Frank Ramsey is going to come after me, you can relax. That only happens in the movies.”
She picked up his phone and started dialing. He listened to her request a taxi. Barely had time to hop off the bed, grab the phone from her, and cancel the request.
“What the hell are you doing?” She snatched the phone from him and began to punch in the number again.
“Amber, wait. Talk to me.”
Reluctantly, she put down the phone. “I’d rather explain later, when we’re safe.”
“We are safe.”
“I’m an exotic dancer.”
After the way this conversation had begun, he had not thought she could say anything that would surprise him. “Wait a second. What?”
“A stripper, Elliot. I dance at Heartbreakers, a club on—”
He shook his head. He knew what Heartbreakers was. Although he had never patronized the establishment himself, several of his law school friends had celebrated there after exams. It was a full-nudity strip bar in a seedy neighborhood. “I thought you were a model.”
Looking exasperated, she cast her eyes about the room as if for help. “I lied to you, okay?”
“You didn’t need to. I wouldn’t have held it against you.”
“I lied to you about other things, too. Remember when you barged in on me at the gym and accused me of being a spy for Ramsey’s lawyers?”
The pit in his stomach yawned wider. “Amber—”
“I had no choice. There are bad people involved in this, Elliot. Killers. And now that Ramsey’s been acquitted, they might come here. They’ll probably come here. To tie up loose ends.”
He felt like his brain was overdosing on new information. “Killers? Besides Ramsey?”
“Who do you think killed Rachel Pugh?”
“I don’t know. Are you telling me that you do?” Now he was the one who took the phone and began pushing the buttons.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jessie.” He turned his back to her, punching in the rest of Jessie’s mobile number. “She’ll know what to do.”
“Call her later, Elliot.
We need to get out of here.”
The doorknob rattled. Before he could finish dialing, Elliot’s hands went numb and he fumbled the phone. It hit the carpet and rolled under the bed.
“Shit.” Amber walked aimlessly around the tiny apartment, looking around, eyes wide. “Shit. Shit.”
Keep your head. Ridiculous as her story seemed, her panic was infectious. And if they both panicked now, and there really was a killer in the hallway outside, they were dead for sure. He took a breath, scanned the room. There was nowhere to hide. His studio apartment consisted of one room, a kitchenette, and a bathroom.
He hurried to the window and grabbed the string that raised the mini-blinds. He yanked it and the blinds zipped upward. The window was old, the glass slightly warped, set in a chipped wooden frame. A latch on top locked the window. Through the glass, he could see a metal fire escape. He’d never bothered opening the window before, and now, after twisting the latch and trying to slide the window up, he realized that even unlocked, it would not budge.
“Open it!” Amber was right behind him. Her rapid breaths stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.
He hushed her. Across the room, the doorknob stopped rattling. Now he heard a soft, metallic clicking. He had seen enough heist movies and TV shows to imagine the lock picks being inserted into the lock.
He pushed hard against the window. His breath caught in his lungs. His biceps bulged and burned. The window did not move. “I’m not strong enough.”
She put her hands beside his and added her own strength. After a moment of strained effort, there was a soft crack and he felt the window give slightly before jamming again. “Keep ... pushing.” Even in this situation, the press of her body against his—and the puff of air as she spoke in his ear—made him tingle. He renewed his effort.
Behind them, the apartment’s door swung open. Amber struggled even harder against the window, but Elliot released his grip and turned to face the intruder.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. He had short-cropped hair and a goatee. The expression on his face was grim but determined.
“What are you staring at?” the man said.
Elliot blinked, looked away. Staring at the floor, he said, “What do you want?” He was willing to do just about anything, at that moment, if it would keep Amber and him alive.
He kept his gaze on the floor as the man came closer. Although he had only looked at the man’s face for a matter of seconds, Elliot found that he could remember every detail vividly. He wondered what Kate Moscow would say if presented with the results of this experiment.
Amber stopped struggling with the window. Elliot felt her presence at his side. Somehow he knew that, unlike him, she was staring the intruder in the face.
Then she stepped in front of him, shielding him from the intruder.
“Get out of the way, Amber.” The man’s tone was exasperated but familiar, like a man irritated by his wife. A ridiculous flush of jealousy brought a blush to Elliot’s cheeks.
“Let him go,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything.”
The man laughed. “I think he knows enough now.”
“Woody—”
He slapped her. The sound echoed in the silent apartment like a plank of wood cracked in half. Amber stumbled backward. Her heels crushed Elliot’s toes and her hair—smelling faintly of coconut—brushed against his face.
Tears slid from her face but she maintained eye contact with the intruder—Woody. “I hope your brother dies and rots in hell.”
Woody raised his hand to strike her again. Elliot pushed her out of the way. He watched his own hand as if it were a stranger’s. His fist connected with Woody’s nose. He felt bones shatter against his knuckles.
“Fuck!” Woody danced backward, clutching his nose. Blood gleamed in his goatee as it gushed down his face. The top of his shirt turned dark red. He let go of his nose with one hand and tried to stop the blood from pattering on the carpet. He seemed more horrified by the red spots appearing near his shoes than by the pain. “Shit! No!”
Elliot looked at Amber. “Run.”
She sprinted for the door. Woody was faster. He grabbed her hair as she passed him, yanked her backward. She lost her balance and fell. After a sickening ripping sound, a handful of blonde strands dangled from his fist.
Lying on the ground, Amber began to scream.
Woody did not hesitate for a second. He kicked her in the head. Her face pivoted violently to the side. Then he brought his heel down hard on her neck and Elliot heard a crack. After that, she was silent.
“You made this harder for yourself, lawyer.” His broken nose muffled his voice, forcing Elliot to strain to understand the garbled words. He looked down at Amber. She no longer appeared to be breathing, but blood leaked from her left ear. Dead people didn’t bleed, so she must still be alive. He stared at the growing stain on the carpet, anchored his hope to it. Woody followed his gaze, but this mess did not seem to concern him.
Of course not. Only his own blood concerns him. The bastard’s worried about DNA evidence.
“Don’t worry, lawyer. I’ll finish her when I’m done with you.”
Then he came at Elliot.
60
Even though a backlog of new cases required Jessie’s attention, Warren had not protested when she left work early. He knew how much the Ramsey case meant to her—knew how much Kristen Dillard meant to her—and, Jessie supposed, he also knew she would be back soon enough. When it came to her job, Jessie was predictable.
It was dark by the time she walked into her apartment and tossed her keys on the table by the door. She went to the bedroom, changed into flannel pajamas, and then walked back to the kitchen. Memories of Jack’s attempt to cook her dinner threatened to rise to the surface of her mind. She turned on the TV in the living room to drown out the rogue thoughts. The TV would stay on until she fell asleep on the couch. She knew from bitter experience that if she attempted to fall asleep in bed like a normal person, her mind would ambush her in the silence of her apartment, replaying moments from the trial until she screamed for mercy.
She dug a Domino’s menu from a drawer in the kitchen and ordered a large pepperoni pizza, then settled onto the couch. A comedy quickly lured her attention from the failures of the day.
Then her cell phone rang.
She looked at the display and was surprised to see Jack’s name. She had assumed that Ramsey’s acquittal would have spelled the end of his charade. She put the phone to her ear. “Jack.”
“Jessie.” He sounded happy, the bastard. “I thought you might need some cheering up.”
“And you’re just the man to do it, right?”
“It’s sort of one of my specialties.”
She couldn’t believe his nerve. She reached for the remote and muted the TV. Silent images of shenanigans in a Vegas casino continued to play on the screen, casting light and shadow against the walls of the apartment. “Jack, why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
She heard his sharp intake of breath, then a few seconds of silence. “I know you’re upset, Jess, but you don’t have to take out your anger on me.”
“Sorry.” Any effort to temper the vitriol in her voice would have been hopeless. “It’s sort of one of my specialties.”
“Jessie—”
“Don’t you have a party to attend, Jack?”
“A party?”
“In Goldhammer’s hotel suite. I’m sure the fat bastard’s ordered a whole case of champagne for the occasion. You can all toast to Frank Ramsey’s future victims.”
“Jessie, whatever you think you know, you don’t.” The humor had left his voice. Somehow hearing him speak this way—earnest and intense—stung her more than all of his fake joviality. This was the Jack Ackerman she had really fallen for, the man behind the comedian’s mask. “Don’t leave your apartment. I’m coming over now.”
According to her watch, it was only six o’clock. She usually did not
leave her office until eight at the earliest. “How do you know I’m in my apartment, Jack?”
He started to say something before his voice faltered. “Jessie, just sit tight, okay? I’m coming over. I need to do this in person.”
He ended the call, but not before she heard another voice, faint but audible, on his side of the line. It was a voice, up until now, that she had only heard in two places—the courtroom, and her nightmares.
She turned away from the TV, to the window next to the couch. Outside, the street looked empty and peaceful. She stared at the cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the curbs, glowing under the street-lamps. She peered at the shadowed doorways of the neighboring buildings. The fact that she did not see anyone brought her little comfort.
The voice she had heard on the phone had been Ramsey’s.
She closed the curtains and turned off the lights in the living room and kitchenette on her way to the bedroom. All thoughts of TV and pizza had fled her mind. She wasn’t sure how much time she had. For all she knew, Jack and Ramsey had made their call from the hallway right outside her door. She changed out of her pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a blue University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers without bothering to untie the laces first. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached the shelf at the top of the closet and carefully brought down a shoe box.
The box’s contents shifted heavily as she carried it to the bed. Inside, wrapped in a handkerchief, was her Glock 9-mm. She lifted the pistol out of the box, ejected its empty magazine and quickly loaded it with bullets from the shoe box. She cursed as one of the bullets slipped from her fingers—she had begun to sweat—but with renewed concentration she managed to finish loading the magazine without fumbling any more. When it was full, she rammed the magazine into place.
Burnout Page 28
