by David Hosp
‘Does he keep his car here normally?’
I shrug. ‘Sometimes, probably.’
Killkenny and I walk slowly up the broad wooden stairs that lead to the front door, looking around for any sign of trouble. ‘It’s quiet,’ I say.
‘You expected him to be having a party?’
‘Doc may have been wrong.’
‘Maybe, but we’re here.’ Killkenny reaches out and tries the doorknob. It’s locked.
‘Do we ring the bell?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not unless there’s someone else who’s supposed to be here.’
‘He lives alone, as far as I know.’
‘Then we won’t be bothering anyone.’ He pulls out his gun, wraps it in a corner of his jacket and taps one of the small windowpanes near the doorknob. I’m amazed at how quietly he manages to take out the glass; he’s clearly done this before. He reaches in and turns the knob from the inside and opens the door.
‘You wanna go first?’ he asks.
‘You’ve got the gun.’
He nods and steps through the doorway.
The place is decorated like one of the places featured in design magazines, with lots of natural colors and sisal rugs. The art on the walls is high-end, oils and watercolors of ships and beach scenes. It’s clear that the place was done by a professional; Gunta would have neither the time nor the style to achieve the effect. In truth, it feels like it’s someone else’s house – like the leverage he’s taken from the value of his company holdings has been sufficient for him to slip on another identity. It’s like someone’s idea of who he should be, rather than his idea of who he actually is.
We walk into the living room, and I marvel at the view. It’s an open space with a giant stone fireplace. The far wall is dominated by oversized windows and French doors that lead out onto the back side of the sweeping porch, with views of the ocean to the east and the Boston skyline to the north.
‘Nice,’ Killkenny comments quietly.
‘Wealth has its advantages.’
‘You think you’ll get a place like this after the company goes public?’
It’s the first I’ve thought about the company’s future since this whole ordeal began. I really have no idea what will happen now. ‘Not my style’ is all I say.
‘We should split up, clear the place floor by floor,’ Killkenny suggests. ‘It’ll take less time, and be harder for him to get by us if he’s here.’
‘Says the man with the gun.’
Killkennywalks over to the fireplace and picks up the heavy iron poker, comes over and hands it to me. ‘Now you’re armed.’
I feel its weight and swing it a couple of times. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You take the north side of the house.’
I head to the south side of the house, which is dominated by the professional kitchen and pantry. It seems safer than the other side, where I could see a library and den where there are more places to hide. I move around the kitchen, admiring the granite countertops, the high-end appliances and oversized double sink. I hold my breath as I swing open the pantry door, the iron poker at the ready, but all that’s in there is a heavy stock of supplies.
I head back out to the living room, and Killkenny joins me a moment later. ‘Anything?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, I’ve got him in my pocket,’ I say sarcastically.
‘Upstairs,’ Killkenny says, ignoring me.
The house is large enough that it takes us several minutes to clear the second floor – a warren of five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. I check in closets and under beds, but find nothing. Every time I go into a bathroom I am convinced that François will jump out of the shower stall, or leap out of the toilet, but everything is in order, all of the rooms spotless. I wonder how much the maid charges to clean the place, and figure it’s a pretty good deal. It’s a big house, but I can’t imagine Gunta makes much of a mess. He doesn’t seem like the type to throw big parties.
Killkenny and I regroup at the stairway. He motions toward the last flight, up to the third floor. ‘Last possibility,’ he whispers.
He goes up first, and I follow. It’s clear that the third floor was an attic prior to recent renovations. The ceiling is comparatively low, and the floor plan looks as though it was open, before walls were thrown up to divide the space into thirds. The center section, into which the staircase rises, is an open carpeted area with a large flat-screen television on the far wall. There is a pool table that looks as though it’s never been used, and a couch in front of the television that looks as though it has never been sat in. The walls on the north and south sides of the room have doors that are closed, and Killkenny motions to indicate that he’s taking the section to the south. I nod and move to the other end of the room.
I put my ear up to one of the doors, trying to sense any motion on the other side. It’s pointless, I realize; even here on the unused third floor, the doors are solid wood that no sound can penetrate.
I take a deep breath and swing the door open, holding the fire poker above my head. It turns out, though, that the door is to a small empty closet. I breathe again, chastising myself silently for acting like a scared little kid. Moving over to the other door, I open it slowly, the iron poker still in my hand at the ready, though not raised as high. The open door reveals a bedroom that is large by normal standards, but small compared to those on the second floor. There is a bathroom at one end, and a single glass door leading out to a small balcony at the other. The view from up here is even more spectacular. On the third floor I am probably forty feet up, and the house is close enough to the edge of the cliff that it seems as though it is a 200-foot fall straight from the balcony to the water below. I’m rethinking whether I’d want a place like this, if the company still manages to go public. It’s awfully nice.
I check the bathroom first, pulling the curtain on the nautical shower stall and poking my head into a small linen closet. There’s nothing there, so I walk over and look out onto the deck. No one.
I turn and start to head back out into the common area. ‘I’ve got nothing here,’ I call to Killkenny, no longer worried about raising an alarm. ‘If he was ever here, he’s gone now.’ Before I get to the bedroom door I notice a half closet next to the bed, and grab the doorknob just to make sure, though I have no thought that there is anyone hiding there.
As I pull the door open there is a blood-curdling scream from within, and the door swings open, hitting me in the face and knocking me backward. I’m rubbing my jaw as I look up and see Michael François coming toward me, his face twisted in rage. The fire poker is suddenly heavy in my hand, and I’m too slow in raising it. It’s just above my shoulder when François hits me on a full run, his shoulder driving into my already bruised ribs, knocking the wind from me. I try to call out, but I can’t breathe.
He continues driving me backward, and my feet struggle to keep pace and prevent me from sprawling on the floor. A moment later my back collides with the door leading out to the balcony, shattering the glass and sending us tumbling to the exterior decking. I catch a glimpse of his face, and it’s truly a terrible sight; any semblance of sanity has deserted him. I am still clutching the fire poker and I’m swinging it wildly, trying to connect with him, but he has me by the shirt, his chest to mine, and I’m too close to generate any power. I’m still gasping, trying to get my breath, as he pulls me up so that we are standing. I try one swing, but I have no strength, and he ducks it easily. He screams again and runs at me, knocking me backward once more. This time my back collides with the railing at the edge of the deck, and I flip over, landing on the narrow sliver of roof just under the balcony. It’s steep and I start to slide immediately. I flail out, grabbing onto the railing to keep from going over the edge.
‘Help!’ I scream, as my feet dangle from the edge of the roof. I’m frantically swinging my legs up, trying to gain a foothold, without success. My head is just above the decking for the balcony, and I see Killkenny in the doorway, his gun drawn.
‘Don’t
move!’ he hollers at François. François screams at him and Killkenny raises the gun, aiming it as his chest. ‘Don’t!’
François screams again, but he doesn’t move.
‘Help!’ I call out.
‘Hold on, Nick,’ Killkenny says. ‘Hold on!’ He motions François over to the wall. ‘Hands up against the house!’ François looks at him, and it seems that he’s debating whether to comply. ‘Now, asshole!’
I’m still dangling, and my ribs are on fire. My hands are sweating in the heat, and I can feel my grip slipping. I look over my shoulder and see the sea below me. I know that there is a thin stretch of grass between the house and the cliff, so if I fall, I won’t go all the way to the bottom. Still, the chances that I’ll survive the three-story fall are not very good. ‘Paul!’ I call. ‘I’m slipping!’
‘I’m coming,’ he shouts, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He is pointing his gun at François, and the two of them are at a stand-off. Killkenny begins moving slowly toward him. ‘You still there, Nick?’
‘Yeah,’ I answer. ‘I can hold on.’ As I say the words, though, the railing pulls free at the top from the house and slams down against the roof, dropping me another two feet, so that everything from my waist down is dangling freely over the edge now. ‘Fuck! Paul!’ I shout. It’s useless, I realize, as my fingers begin the final slip. I look over my shoulder again to see whether there is a bush or some other spot that might increase my odds of survival. Unfortunately, all I see is a flagstone terrace beneath me. ‘Oh, shit!’ I shout as my fingers snap open and I feel myself begin to fall. My fear of heights returns, like a full-throated roar in my ears, and I close my eyes, accepting my fate.
I feel a sharp slap against my wrist, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m no longer falling. I open my eyes and see a hand holding onto my wrist, keeping me from slipping. Killkenny is lying on the balcony, one hand holding me, the other grasping the side of the balcony from which the railing has pulled free. I’m so surprised I’m not dead that I just dangle there for a moment, until he screams at me, ‘Climb up, for chrissakes!’
‘On what?’
‘Use the railing!’
‘You think it’ll hold?’
‘It’ll hold better than I can!’
I throw my other hand up and grab the broken railing. Using it as a ladder, I slowly crawl my way back up onto the balcony. By the time I make it up I’m gasping for breath, as is Killkenny. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ he replies, huffing away.
I look up and don’t see François. ‘Where did he go?’ As I say the words, we both hear the car on the other side of the house roar into life. ‘Fuck! He’s getting away!’ I yell.
‘You’d rather still be on the side of the house?’ Killkenny sounds annoyed, and I suppose I can’t blame him.
‘We’ve got to stop him!’ I persist.
‘Nice gratitude.’ He pulls out his phone, dials. ‘Hull Police,’ he says after a moment. After another pause he says, ‘This is Detective Paul Killkenny, BPD. I’m down at the end of Hull investigating a series of murders. The primary suspect just fled in a black Mercedes M-Class sedan. He has to be heading off the spit; can you set up cars on 228 and South Road?’ Another pause. ‘Great, thanks.’ He puts the phone back in his pocket. ‘There’re only two roads out of Hull. He’s not making it out.’ He leans over and looks down off the balcony, mentally measuring the fall. He whistles. ‘Long way down. You okay?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘No sweat.’
‘I mean it. Thanks. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be a pancake.’ The reality of the danger sweeps over me for a moment and I shudder.
‘Yeah, you would be.’ He stands. ‘Let’s go get this asshole.’
An hour later we’re leaning against the car at the mainland end of Hull, near a stretch of restaurants by the state beach. One of Hull’s finest is pulled up next to us. ‘He hasn’t passed here or on South Road,’ the cop tells us. ‘We’ve got all our guys out there looking for the car, but he may have ditched it.’
‘You think?’ Killkenny says.
‘How’s he getting back off the stretch?’ I wonder aloud.
‘Won’t take much,’ the cop says. ‘Boost another car, we won’t know to stop him.’
‘He could take the bus, for that matter,’ Killkenny says.
‘Where would he go now?’ the cop asks.
Killkenny and I look at each other. ‘We have no idea,’ Killkenny says. ‘This was our best shot.’
‘He’s gotta turn up somewhere,’ I say. ‘He’s got a taste for it now, he’s not about to stop.’
Killkenny nods. ‘Now we’ve just got to wait for the next body.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Killkenny drops me back at my Corolla, which is sitting in front of the police station in Boston, its windows still smashed out. There’s a light rain starting, and I realize I’m going to have to have them replaced sooner rather than later. At least it’s summer, and it’s warm enough that I’m not freezing my nuts off, but the rain is going to soak into the seats, and mildew will sprout. I’ve had enough crappy cars to know that once the mildew sets in, you can never get it out.
I need to go home; I haven’t seen Ma in a day and a half, and even though she’s been looking better, I can tell it’s not that her health has actually improved – it’s a product of her attitude. The cancer hasn’t given up; in all likelihood it’s just regrouping for a massive offensive. I should check on her before I do anything else, but there’s something I have to do before that.
I drive out through Cambridge and into Sommerville, park in front of the old painted lady of a house and just stare at it for a little while, trying to figure out what to say to her. Nothing comes to mind, but I figure I can’t sit there for the rest of the day.
It’s still raining when I get out of the car. Not hard; just a mist coating everything with a sheen. I walk up the stairs and stand on the porch, ring the bell. The door is answered by the same woman who answered the first time Killkenny and I showed up. She looks at me with an expression that falls somewhere between annoyance and amusement. ‘Kenny!’ she calls before I have the chance to say anything. ‘He’s here again!’ She stands in the door, evaluating me as she waits.
‘Hi,’ I say, only because I feel awkward. Kendra doesn’t respond, just stands there eyeballing me.
‘Thanks, Janie,’ I hear Kendra say, and the girl pulls away from the door. Kendra moves into the doorway. She’s wearing a red silk robe with an Asian design on it. Her hair is undone, but in a way that seems natural and full. ‘You’re back,’ she says.
‘I thought I’d check on you.’
‘I take it the hunting didn’t go so well?’ She seems curious, but not quite concerned.
‘We found him at Gunta’s house.’
‘Good.’
‘Not really. He got away.’
‘Not good.’ She looks at me more closely and sees the bruises on my face, reaches up to touch them. As she does, I pull back and wince at the pain in my ribs. She reaches out and feels the bandages wrapped around my torso. ‘You’re hurt.’ I can’t think of anything to say. ‘Are you stopping by the houses of all the girls who are in danger?’ she asks. I’m not sure what the right answer is, so I keep my mouth shut. I suddenly realize how tired I am. ‘Why don’t you come in,’ she says. ‘Just for a minute.’
I follow her through the door and head toward the living room that we spoke in before, but she touches my arm. ‘Not there.’ She leads me down a hallway to a small apartment in the back on the first floor. Two large rooms and a bathroom, decorated in a simple modern style at odds with the elaborate Victorian feel of the rest of the place. The outer room has a kitchenette, a dining table and a sitting area with clean white furniture. ‘This is my private space,’ she says. ‘The rest of it I rent out.’
I peer into the bedroom. It has a bed and a dresser, and a mirror in one corner. The walls are white with a few stylish black-and-w
hite photographs on the wall. ‘So that’s where the magic happens,’ I say. It comes out without thinking, and I’m sorry I’ve said it, though it was exactly what I was thinking. I look at her, and for a moment I think I can see a flash of pain, but she covers it quickly.
‘No,’ she says.
‘I didn’t mean . . . ’
‘I have a room upstairs.’ I move away from the bedroom door, feeling that I’ve transgressed. She motions me to the couch. ‘Please, sit down.’ I obey. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
I consider it. ‘No.’
She sits on the couch next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her. The feeling is enough to make me dizzy. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’ My voice comes out as a whisper.
She shakes her head. ‘You knew I was okay. Why are you here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do.’ She reaches out and touches the back of my neck, running her fingertips through the swirls of soft hair, massaging gently. It’s like she’s slowly pulling the pain out of my body from the base of my skull – like she has the power to take all of my troubles away. I close my eyes for a moment, and I’m back in the LifeScene. I can see her face against the white sheets, that look of ecstasy and trust, her eyes wide, the shards of gold and diamond sparkling in giant pools of blue. I turn toward her, and I can feel her breath on my cheek, warm and heavy and full of life. ‘It’s okay,’ she says.
I open my eyes and look at her. The eyes aren’t quite the same. They’re blue, and beautiful, but they don’t sparkle quite the way I remember. And yet she is still pulling the pain from me, making me whole. ‘I have to go,’ I say. I’m not even sure why, but I know it’s true. If I stay, I may never leave.
She nods. ‘It’s okay,’ she repeats. It’s hard to believe that identical words spoken seconds apart could have such different meanings. She takes her hand away from my neck and stands. ‘I have to get some rest anyway,’ she says.
