by Merry Jones
But, as Nick and I headed toward our bedroom, a voice called behind us.
“Mommy?” Molly stood in her doorway, chin quivering, rubbing her eyes. “I had a bad dream, Mommy. Somebody was in my room, and they wanted to steal me.”
Maybe she’d sensed Eli, I thought. Not for the first or last time, I talked to Molly about her nightmare and promised her that it was over and she was safe, but she couldn’t stop trembling. Finally, I tucked her back into her bed. Minutes later, climbing under the covers, dozing off, I snuggled up, body curled against body. Blanketed with love, I felt oddly safe, protected from muggers and murderers, and even from bad dreams. And I wondered only briefly how Nick was doing, down the hall, sleeping alone.
FORTY-EIGHT
WEDNESDAY MORNING BEGAN WITH a pulsing electronic shriek when Molly’s alarm went off at seven. She had an old- fashioned, beeping alarm, not a clock radio, and at first I thought it was the phone, then maybe the doorbell. I jumped out of bed, running in bleary-eyed circles, trying to identify the sound and kill it at the source. And, gradually, as my brain came awake, it occurred to me that I was in the wrong bedroom. Molly’s? And oh dear—I hadn’t gotten up to feed Luke; I must have slept through his early-morning cries. In a panic, leaving Molly to deal with the maddening beeps, I flew into the hall and ran to Luke’s room, found him lying in his crib, staring at his dinosaur mobile, playing absentmindedly with his feet. At first, his eyes gleamed, seemed happy to see me, but in seconds he seemed to remember that he was hungry. His calm face contorted, his mouth opened in accusatory rage, and he roared.
I picked him up, covering him with kisses. “What a big boy you are, Luke. Sleeping all the way through the night.” I cooed as I changed his diaper and put him to my breast. Molly joined us seconds later, wearing fresh underwear and socks, dragging a yellow hooded sweatshirt and matching pants, apparently her chosen outfit for the day.
“Mommy, you slept in my room.” She pulled her leg into her pants, pleased.
“How do you feel, Molls? Better?”
“Better? From what?” She pulled the sweatshirt over her head. “Mom, did you make my lunch yet?”
She seemed to have no memory of her scary dream.
“It’s in the fridge.”
“Oh, shoot. Is it peanut butter again? I’m sick of peanut butter.”
She was? For weeks, peanut butter was all she’d even consider taking for lunch.
“Since when?”
“Since forever. Do we have bologna?”
Bologna?
“Danielle gets bologna, and Lauren gets roast beef or sometimes turkey. I’m the only one with peanut butter.”
Molly went on, elaborating on her classmates’ luncheon fare, and gradually I began to understand. Apparently, her friends rarely ate the food their parents actually sent with them. They switched, and peanut butter had low trading value. Molly wanted bologna or maybe tuna, and wheat bread, not white, so that she could exchange for maybe chicken salad or pastrami. I wondered why she didn’t simply ask for chicken salad or pastrami but decided not to get involved in the black market for first-grade sandwiches. It was better not to know. Molly kept on chattering while Luke nursed until, downstairs, the doorbell rang and, instantly, Oliver started yapping.
“Mom. Somebody’s here—” Molly started for the door.
“Molly, stop.” She knew better. We lived in the city She wasn’t allowed to open the door by herself.
“But nobody’s up yet. And you can’t get it.”
The bell rang again, and Oliver was going nuts. Downstairs, nobody moved to answer. If Sam could sleep through his own snoring, he could certainly sleep through a doorbell. And Tony was probably in no shape to get up.
“Go wake up Nick.”
Molly sped down the hall, calling Nick’s name. He ought to be up by now anyway. Sure enough, he’d been in the shower. I heard Molly banging on the bathroom door, shouting, “Nick, somebody’s ringing the doorbell.”
He said something I couldn’t hear.
“No, she’s feeding Luke.”
Nick said something else, possibly that whoever it was would just have to wait.
“Should I go tell them?”
I’m sure he said no, because Molly ran back into Luke’s room, breathless and concerned. “Mom. He said he’ll go in a minute. But the people—”
Whoever they were, the people were impatient, even rude. The bell rang a third time, followed by fists pounding the door. Oliver was barking madly; I pictured him jumping, running in circles. Who the hell was out there? What nerve, to bang on our door, especially so early in the morning.
“It might be an emergency.” Molly’s eyes bulged, urgent.
But Nick was out of the bathroom; I heard his steps charging down the stairs, out of sync with the banging on the door. I heard his hesitation as he peeked through the peephole, viewing the visitors. I heard the unbolting of the lock and the opening of the door, and Nick’s voice. “What’s going on?”
Somebody, a man, barked an answer including the words “federal agents, FBI,” and “some questions.”
Downstairs, people entered the house as Nick protested the early intrusion. As Nick reminded the agent that he was a homicide detective, his voice was indignant but resigned, explaining that we weren’t up or dressed yet, that his wife—he used the word wife—was a nursing mother, and asking for a few minutes’ delay while he made sure the family was awake. The FBI agent was unimpressed, advised Nick to gather everyone together and cooperate with the investigation.
The next few minutes involved waking up Sam and Tony and grabbing some clothes. Luke finished nursing, and I managed to put him back in his crib long enough to brush my teeth and pull on some jeans. Molly clung to my side, asking questions. “Who are those people? What do they want?”
I tried to explain. The agents, I said, were there to find clues about the lady who’d been killed on the patio. Molly didn’t understand, though. “I know. But why are they here, Mom? Do they think somebody in our family killed her?”
“Of course not, Molls.” I tousled her hair, trying to seem un- fazed at the ease with which she discussed a murder. “It’s just their job to ask everybody questions.”
I popped a clip into my hair and joined Molly in the search for her sneakers. While Molly grabbed her book bag, I hunted, finding one sneaker under her bed. Oliver whimpered at Molly’s feet, and a sense of dread washed over me as I guessed what had most likely happened to the missing shoe. Sure enough, when we found it in the corner of Molly’s room beside her bookshelf, we saw that the toe had been chewed away. Demolished.
“Oliver,” I screamed. But Oliver, the perpetrator, had fled the scene.
Molly’s chin wobbled. “That’s the millionth pair of my shoes he’s eaten. I hate him. I really really hate him.”
I didn’t know what to say. At the moment, I wasn’t real fond of him, either. “He doesn’t mean it, Molls. He’s a puppy. He’s teething.”
“But now what am I supposed to wear? Those were my only shoes with yellow in them. I can’t go to school. I’m staying home.”
Wait, what? Molly had never been fashion conscious. She was only six years old and something of a tomboy. But suddenly, on that morning, she’d decided that her sneakers had to match her sweats.
I opened her closet, dug out an old pair of sneakers from the summer.
“Are you kidding?” She pouted, crossing her arms. “Those don’t go.”
“Of course they do, Molls. They’re blue. Blue goes great with yellow.”
“I hate Oliver.” She sniffled but accepted the shoes.
“Zoe?” Nick called from downstairs, sounded annoyed. “Are you almost ready?”
The FBI was waiting. But that was too bad. No one invited them, and I had to help Molly put together her ensemble.
“Well, I don’t really hate him. I just, you know, hate him.”
“I know.” I kissed her head and, hand in hand, we headed down the hall to get Luke. W
e were running late; the bus was due any second. Two agents stood in the hall, and Nick was in the kitchen, pacing. Without a word, I handed him the baby and pulled some bread and a package of sliced turkey out of the refrigerator. Molly stood in the doorway, staring openly at the agents.
“Molly, did you eat?” In the commotion, I’d forgotten about her breakfast.
She shook her head. “I don’t have time.”
“You have to eat.” In a flurry, worried that the FBI would think I was a bad mother for not feeding my child, I poured a glass of milk, handed it to her, reached into the fruit basket for a banana and told Nick to grab a cereal bar for her while I was slapping turkey and mayo onto the bread, retrieving the peanut butter sandwich from her lunch bag and replacing it with the turkey.
“I got turkey?”
“Yep. Want a pickle?” I felt the agents watching, resented their impatience. This was my home, my family, and I wasn’t going to skimp on Molly’s lunch just to suit them. I took my time wrapping the pickle even though I knew the bus would pull up any second. In fact, it was outside now, at the curb.
“Bye, Mom.” Molly had a milk mustache and a mouthful of banana. “Bye, Nick, bye, Luke. Bye, Uncle Tony and Uncle Sam—” she yelled. Eyeing the agents, she ran out the door, and I walked after her, waving at Pete, the driver, watching her scamper down the front steps and into the reassuring normalness of the big yellow bus.
FORTY-NINE
FOR OVER AN HOUR, we sat sequestered in the dining room, sipping coffee, not saying much while the FBI agents took turns questioning us in the living room. Nick was steaming, barely controlling himself. He’d made irate phone calls, complaining about the method, the lack of courtesy, the attitude and demeanor of the agents, but neither his rank nor his contacts made any impression. The agents went methodically about their business and spent a huge amount of time with poor Tony, undoubtedly interrogating him ad nauseam about his contact with the victim. When it was my turn, I was appalled at the mess Tony and Sam had left, couldn’t help apologizing as I began to straighten up.
“Nick’s brothers are crashing here.” I picked an afghan off the floor, folded it, noticing Oliver curled up behind the easy chair.
“Ms. Hayes.” One of them wore glasses. “I’m Agent Buford, and this is Agent Morris.”
I nodded.
“What can you tell us about what happened to Tony Stiles?”
To Tony? What? I thought they were here about their dead colleague. “He was mugged.”
Agent Buford seemed to be in charge. He seemed to doubt my answer. “What were the circumstances? Was he robbed?”
Wait. Why were they asking these questions? “I don’t know for sure. You’d have to ask Tony.”
“But I asked you.”
I said nothing about Tony. “I thought you were here about the dead FBI agent.”
The agent frowned. “Ms. Hayes, do you know the penalties for impeding a federal investigation?”
Wait, was the man threatening me? Instantly, I was on my feet, indignant. “Agent Buffart—”
“Buford.”
“—Are you implying that I’m lying? I don’t take that lightly. You are in my home, sir—”
“Relax, Ms. Hayes.” His tone was patronizing, amused. His partner, a lean bald guy, watched attentively from my wingback, his face bland and bored. “Sit down.”
I didn’t.
“Please.”
I glared, but I sat.
“Let’s start again. Tell us what you know about the mugging.”
I shrugged. “Tony was mugged. He was the victim of a crime.” I emphasized victim.
Buford’s voice remained calm, his eyes steady. “Go on.”
“That’s all. He was parking his brother’s car, alone in the middle of the night. I have no idea who did it or why.”
“Have you noticed any unusual objects in your home recently?”
What? “Of course. We have two guests—”
“Other than their belongings, I mean.”
So I didn’t have to tell him about Sam’s gun.
“No. What kind of unusual objects are you talking about?”
The agents exchanged a glance. “Possibly a small statue or vial. A cigar holder, maybe. Or a small package. Anything that could fit in, say—”
He paused and I waited to hear what word he’d use for asshole.
“—your fist.”
Fist? No, I shook my head. I’d seen nothing like that.
“Can you tell us anything else about the mugging then? Anything?”
Again, I shook my head no. I didn’t repeat the threats the muggers had made or the search they’d conducted in Sam’s car. And I didn’t mention Eli or his late-night ephemeral visit that same night. I wasn’t at all sure why I wasn’t more forthcoming. True, I resented the federal agents, their abrupt manner and bullying attitudes. But I sensed that my reticence was due to something deeper, something involving greater loyalties. Tony and Eli were Nick’s brothers, Luke’s uncles. Almost like blood. My instincts told me it was up to Nick and Tony to reveal what they thought best. So, for better or worse, I withheld information from federal investigators. I wasn’t sure what the consequences of that might be, but I said nothing, made not a peep beyond the most basic facts.
FIFTY
WHEN THE AGENTS LEFT, it was still early, just after nine. I wanted to ask Nick if I should have said more, but he was remote and uncommunicative, sitting in the dining room, his dazed brothers beside him. I changed Luke, fed him, attached him to my body with the sling, and then the group of us, including the wounded and still wobbly Tony, ventured out for brunch. We sat at a table at Famous Deli, and mostly didn’t talk. Mostly, we chewed in silence, each nursing his or her own thoughts, emotions and omelet. At one point, Sam made an announcement.
“I’m going to stop at my car on the way back.” Sam chewed. “See for myself what they did to it.”
“They didn’t do anything to it,” Tony insisted. “They just looked.”
“I had some stuff in there. I’m going to check it out. And you should get that ugly mug looked at.”
More silence.
“Tony, maybe you should see a doctor today.” It was just a suggestion. His hairline was purplish yellow, his nose swollen. I wanted to wince when I looked at him.
“No, uh-uh.”
“But what if—”
“Zoe. Forget it. I’m fine.”
Nobody picked up the cause, so I let it go.
We finished eating. Nick, brooding, hadn’t said a single word.
Even when he’d offered to hold Luke, he’d done it wordlessly, with a gesture. We were all exhausted and feeling bruised, and walking home, I cradled Luke’s baby sling with one hand, Nick’s fingers with the other, and thought about how tired I was. I would forget Anna and her list, forget returning phone calls, forget every task on my to-do list. I would put Luke in his little portable chair and sink into a bubble bath, and then I would collapse in bed for a long, uninterrupted nap.
As we walked up the steps to the house, Tony was obviously sore. Holding his ribs, he leaned on the railing, catching his breath. Nick stopped to help him, so Luke and I went in alone.
And I was the first to see the upended furniture, emptied cabinets, hall closet contents tossed onto the floor. While we were out, somebody had come in and torn the house apart.
Without a word, I carried Luke into the living room, found his little chair, belted him in and gave him a teething ring. Behind me, Tony and Nick came in and, grasping what had happened, went ballistic. Nick rushed from room to room, cursing, occasionally calling my name. I didn’t answer, though. I kept my eyes ahead, my feet moving resolutely upstairs to start my bath.
FIFTY-ONE
I HAD MY BATH, but sadly, my nap was not to be. I lit candles in the bathroom and turned off the lights. I soaked for a while beside soft flickers, closing my eyes, letting steam and soapy bubbles work their magic. I emptied my brain, concentrating on heat, letting my m
uscles give in, relaxing them one at a time, inhaling the vanilla scent of melting wax. After a while, shards of memories came to the surface of my mind, and I didn’t fight them. I allowed them to drift by like flotsam on a river. I saw Bryce Edmond’s smashed skull. Agent Harris’ gaping wounds. Bonnie Osterman’s squat, hungry figure. Tony’s battered frame, stumbling through the front door. The FBI agents intruding and probing. And Eli. Beautiful Eli. Secretive Eli, sneaking through the shadows, in and out of bedrooms. I pictured him, a stranger creeping in the lamplight, holding baby Luke.
Suddenly, my eyes popped open. With absolute clarity, I was sure I knew the truth: It was Eli. Eli was the center of it all, had to be. Eli was the reason Tony had been mugged—the muggers had mistaken them. And Eli had visited us only in the middle of the night—why? Just to see Luke and take his picture? Doubtful. Obviously, Eli had other reasons. Such as finding something that Agent Harris left here or, maybe, leaving something here for safekeeping, or—who knew? But I was certain of one thing: Eli was involved with this mess, and Nick and his brothers knew or suspected it. I was certain that, just like me, they hadn’t mentioned Eli to the FBI. He might be a spy or an assassin. But, more important, Eli was blood.
When my skin had withered like a prune, I pulled the plug and got out of the tub, considering loyalties. What if Eli was actually involved in the agent’s murder? How far would Eli’s family go to protect him? Would Nick, a homicide detective, cover for him? Would he conceal evidence? Risk his career, not to mention his freedom? I wasn’t positive, but I thought, yes, he probably would. Rather than have his brother arrested for murder or worse, Nick would probably hide evidence. Wrapped in a towel, I wondered about my own role. Was I abetting a criminal? What was right or wrong here? What were my responsibilities and obligations? I was confused, uncertain about what I knew, much less sure of what I should do.
