The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

by Laura Lippman (ed) (epub)

  —I did.

  —You did? That’s excellent. That’s—ah, Jesus, everyone’s gonna think I left because I got pissed off it wasn’t me. And Nish would have said—I’m sorry—I mean—I only had the one drink.

  —You look ghastly. You want to go see a doctor?

  —I’m fine. Let me make you some tea. I could do some eggs too.

  She nodded.

  Once in the kitchen and out of Paulette’s sight, Patrick scowled. He felt like his blood had gone gelatinous. —You did the right thing, leavin Nish. It’s none of my business. I’m just glad you didn’t hang around for months on end, like some women do. At least he wasn’t beatin ya.

  —What did the police say about your break-in?

  Patrick thought about what he’d just said; he thought about the blanket. —I never went to the police after.

  Buttoning the jacket, Paulette walked into the kitchen. —For the love of God, Patrick, someone broke in and stole your gear!

  —So I lost a bush hammer and some stone out of it. Thief’s a wannabe mason, I spose. He left the upstairs alone, though. I figured he knew no one’s livin there. Drugs, girl, guaranteed.

  —And you don’t think the Constab should know that maybe some arsehole drug dealer’s got a spiked hammer?

  —Cops won’t listen to the likes of me.

  She rolled her eyes. —The likes of you?

  —That little punk who ambushes the pedo in my novel, beats the livin shit outta him: scattered bit autobiographical.

  She accepted a mug of tea. —I figured that.

  —Young offender’s record out of it.

  —Patrick, think it through. That record’s sealed, and you’re almost forty.

  —This is Newfoundland, Paulette: the only secrets we got are the ones everybody knows. Besides, I’m after tellin the story, now, aren’t I?

  —Paranoid much?

  He dropped sugar in his tea. —Pragmatic.

  Maybe an hour later, head down to avoid the drizzle and fog, Paulette left the old house where Patrick rented his basement apartment. She noticed the flimsiness of his door, a late addition to the house obscured by a concrete stairwell: an easy break-in.

  Parked around the corner, at the far end of a private lane between houses, Nish watched her. —Walk of shame, right down to the goddamned jacket.

  He let her go a good two blocks before driving to catch up.

  Rain started; Paulette groaned. The jacket. A pickup truck pulled over.

  Nish’s truck.

  The passenger-side window descended, and Nish leaned over, smiling his peaceful smile. The dark circles beneath his eyes crinkled. —You’re gonna get soaked. You want to come back to the house and call a cab from there? Just to the porch?

  A rainy Sunday morning, empty streets, drawn curtains: the entire neighborhood bore down on Paulette, like the presence of someone hungover, someone whom she feared to disturb. She patted her dress, knowing even as she did so that she’d left her damn phone in that damn clutch back at The Rooms—putting it down when she saw Patrick stagger—left it on the cushioned bench under the painting of the eighteenth-century soldier whose red coat frayed into a hundred threads.

  A half-hour walk. I say no, he can follow me, find out where I’m living.

  She’d slept so badly, thrilled about the award, angry about not being able to celebrate, worried about Patrick.

  —All right.

  Nish said nothing as they drove, and Paulette just looked out her window.

  At the house, Nish held the door for her and then hurried to the kitchen, as if not wanting to eavesdrop. He didn’t know she didn’t have her phone, and she almost called out to him. I don’t need his damn permission to use the phone. This was my house too. She zipped off her boots—Nish hated dirt on the carpets—and tiptoed to the living room.

  For the love of God, Nish.

  He’d piled a month’s worth of mail, newspapers, and magazines around the sofa. She caught an odor she’d not known since living in the crowded foster home: old piles of dirty laundry. She looked for the phone book, unable to recall a single taxi company’s number as other memories plagued her: Nish buying her roses on their first date when she said she’d never gotten flowers; Nish praising her writing in a workshop; Nish carrying her into the bedroom; Nish proposing to her the night he won the Giller; Nish telling her off for leaving his side at a party; Nish punching her belly and dragging her to the living room floor, where he kicked her and—

  Not rape. Bad as it got, she couldn’t call it rape. The kicks had been more or less by accident too; she’d been rolling on the floor, snotting and begging. The punching? A problem, yes, but then she’d pissed him off somehow.

  Tea things clinked. Nish bore a tray. —Could we talk? I just want to talk.

  Neck stiff and kinked, eyes raw and swollen: she’d been crying, and her face slid on her own tears and sweat, on plastic. She wanted to vomit. Patrick must have picked up a virus, and—

  Clammy plastic stuck to her bare legs, her upper chest, her face. Pain: breasts, shoulders, wrists, ankles, labia, vagina. The weight of her hands bore down on the small of her back.

  Paulette, you stupid cunt!

  She’d feared a little setup like this for months, telling herself she was overreacting, because no matter how he looked at her, spoke to her, or even how he struck her, Nish would never try to keep her. The futon down in his study, his finished office in the basement, his precious little windowless sound-insulated room all cut off from the world so he might create in peace, handy bathroom nearby—had to be the futon, had to be the study. Nish sometimes explained things to Paulette in the study. She did not enjoy her visits. Hands behind, ankles together: whatever he’d tied her with felt sharp and hard. She rolled onto her side, pressing her strained shoulder. She rolled back, trying to look around. Nish had removed his desk. He’d sealed the futon in plastic and tacked some more plastic sheeting on the walls, leaving the sound foam bare. Words uttered in Nish’s study became sterile and solitary; the sound foam sucked the room dry of echo. Paulette groaned. Then she shouted the only word that mattered.

  —Nish!

  Tightening a cable tie around the wires of his computer, desk now set up near the bathroom, Nish smirked. His knees cracked as he walked to the study door and unlocked it.

  Breathing hard, Paulette looked at Nish’s feet. She needed to hear his voice, gauge his mood, before daring to meet his eye.

  He wore dark socks, perhaps from last night. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  Finally he spoke. —I might hit two thousand words today.

  Paulette knew the tone well: reasonably calm but delicate—volatile. The wrong word, just the wrong intonation, would anger him. —That’s great.

  —Of course, the trick is to make it two thousand good words.

  —Always. Nish, honey, I wonder if you could let me up.

  —In a little while. I’ve done some renovatin, keepin busy.

  —I noticed. Could you get me a glass of water?

  —Sure.

  Outside, he keyed the lock shut.

  She listened to his tread on the stairs. Up in the kitchen he ran water, then cracked the old-fashioned ice tray, the one with the aluminum handle. Beneath his weight the ceiling creaked, reminding Paulette of a frightening day in the foster home. The older boys had invited her to play hide-and-seek with them in the basement, beneath the kitchen, while their foster mother made supper. That ceiling had creaked so loudly that Paulette feared the entire house would collapse. The boys had laughed first, but then they agreed, taunting her. Any moment now the ceiling would give out, and it would all come tumbling down and bury them. Maybe an arm would stick out of the rubble, maybe a head. Any moment.

  Nish returned, carrying ice water and a box cutter. He put the glass on the floor, sat next to Paulette, and sawed through the plastic ties. As he dragged her up to her feet and escorted her to the bathroom, she felt pain in her right ankle. When did I twist that? She th
ought about Nish’s eyes and the spray bottle of tile cleaner beneath the sink. She thought about the bruises, old and new, on her thighs. She thought about the keeping of secrets. Pants and long sleeves for the next few weeks, girl. Today is going to leave marks.

  Paulette stumbled. Nish caught her. Arm around her waist, he guided her back to the futon. —Better?

  She nodded.

  He kissed the top of her head, and sighed. —Why?

  —I’m sorry. I can see I hurt you. I’m so sorry.

  —You’re sleepin with him, aren’t ya?

  —Nish—no, honey, no.

  —No? Whose house were you comin out of this mornin? Whose goddamned fancy jacket were you wearin, hey, and with whose goddamned credit card in it?

  First-person, girl, first-person, don’t make him think you’re blaming him. —I know, I know, it looks bad, but I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. But I’m here now, so you can just give him back his stuff, okay? Can you do that for me, Nish? Please?

  —Here, you’re thirsty.

  She gulped water. The glass slipped from her numb hands; Nish managed to catch it.

  —Oh my God, Nish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  —It’s okay. You want help with the rest of it?

  —No, no. I’m fine.

  —So it really doesn’t leave any taste? I was gonna give it to you last night and bring you home then, but young fellah Paddy got in the way. As usual.

  Paulette closed her eyes. Havoc—cable ties, locked doors, some drug or another, but something else, quite strong all by itself: dread.

  Nish took another cable tie from his pocket and wrenched it around her wrists.

  —You’re hurting me.

  —Jesus, Paulette—you’re overreactin.

  —You’re tying my hands!

  —In front this time. What, you need me to remind you what hurt means?

  —Nish—

  —Because it sounds like you’ve forgotten.

  —No! No, I haven’t forgotten.

  He eased her onto her back. —Then settle down.

  Damp from a shower, bathrobe on, Nish crossed his arms and nearly filled the front doorway. —O’Mara. What the fuck do you want?

  —Have you seen Paulette?

  —Paulette no longer lives here, but I think you knew that.

  Patrick winced. —Yeah, that’s none of my business.

  —Goddamned right, it’s not. So again: what the fuck do you want?

  —I think Paulette’s got my credit card by mistake. I want to check with her before I go through the hassle of reportin it stolen. I’ve been tryna reach her for hours, but her cell must be turned off. Her landlady hasn’t seen her since yesterday, and you weren’t answerin your phone—

  Landlady. You know where she’s livin. —Couldn’t you satisfy her?

  —Well, I didn’t expect her to stoop to a mercy fuck, but you are lookin pretty smug there. Hey, if that’s all you can get—

  —Looks like you paid her with your plastic. Used to that, are ya?

  —Flannigan—ya fuckin drama queen. Do you know where she is?

  Nish slammed the door.

  Constabulary headquarters, designed in the architectural shadow of brutalism, felt like a dark brick bunker. Inside, bright and copious lights gave people a sickly cast. On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the lights shone on a duty sergeant and a nervous visitor, a man slipping his hands in and out of his pockets.

  The sergeant rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the pads of his fingers. —You want to contact your bank about a stolen credit card, Mr. O’Mara.

  —It’s not stolen. It’s missin. And I’m afraid the woman who’s got it might be too.

  The sergeant flipped his notepad to a fresh page. —Hang on. I’m getting over a stomach flu. Bastard of a bug on the go.

  Patrick nodded. —Had it yesterday.

  —Her name is Paulette Tiller, and she was over to your apartment last night? And she left this morning?

  —Walked home.

  —But just this morning?

  —I know, I know, but she always takes my calls. This—this is gettin complicated—her husband—

  —What’s his name?

  —Nish Flannigan.

  The sergeant added “domestic” next to the names. —Nish from Ignatius. I had an uncle called Nish.

  Patrick wanted to leap across the desk and shake him.

  The sergeant pretended to give Patrick another lazy glance, noting his features and body language, his anxiety, his voice. —Is there a history here?

  —I dunno what to be thinkin. She’s frightened to death of him, but I never noticed it till this mornin. If she’s that scared, why didn’t she just leave earlier?

  —It’s never as simple as just leaving, Mr. O’Mara.

  —Yes, it is! You just walk out the door.

  —Do it.

  —Wha?

  The sergeant pointed to the main entrance. —Walk out.

  —I can’t. We’re in the middle of a conversation, and besides, you’d come after me. You’re a cop.

  —Yet you’re perfectly free to just leave.

  Slouching in his chair, Patrick tried to figure it out.

  —How long ago did Ms. Tiller separate from Mr. Flannigan?

  —Maybe a month ago.

  —Dangerous time.

  Patrick nodded, though he didn’t understand. He also didn’t expect the hard look and the question he got next.

  —Mr. O’Mara, why is this complicated?

  Nish squinted at the Constabulary officer on his doorstep. —Don’t you wait forty-eight hours or somethin? Who’s after reportin her missin? Paddy O’Mara, I suppose.

  —Mr. Flannigan?

  Nish sighed. —She left me, all right? Four weeks and three days ago.

  —I’m sorry to hear that. When did you see her last?

  —Last night. Socially, at the Torngat party, but we didn’t speak. She spent most of the night talkin to O’Mara. They even left together. He was over here earlier, throwin that in my face. You know that little shagger’s been up on assault charges, right?

  Considering possible conflicts between words and meanings, the officer passed Nish a card. —Call me at this number if you hear from her.

  Think it through, Nish.

  He tugged medical gloves onto his sweaty hands, thinking it through quite clearly, thank you. He’d have to risk a drive to the bog, that patch up the shore Paulette liked so much, because his carpentry just wasn’t up to building anything like a false wall. Nor was he about to dig up the backyard, not with his creaking knees. Know your weaknesses, he’d always told his students, and work around them. He wrenched open the bedroom closet door and dug beneath a pile of laundry, some of it clean, most of it not. His fingers brushed the smooth handle, the spiked head, of Patrick O’Mara’s bush hammer. Nish had quite enjoyed burgling Patrick’s apartment—in broad fuckin daylight, no less, easy as droppin by for a cup of tea—easy and thrilling, like writing fiction used to be. Nish even liked saying the silly verb aloud, conjugating it: I burgle, you burgle, he she it burgles. Wearing medical gloves that afternoon too, Nish had examined several of the stoneworking tools, recalling Patrick’s explanations. The bush hammer—yeah, I know, I always laugh too—the bush hammer’s got these spike things in the head, so when you beat metal or stone with it, you get this distressed look. Right beautiful, sometimes. The stone pick, though, that’s the one that scares people, all curved and long and comin to a point: right vicious-lookin. Wicked.

  Wicked. Like Paulette, holding the buoy.

  Nish imagined discussing this scenario in a workshop. So your protag’s made up his mind. What does he choose? Not the pick. It’s too easy. He swung the bush hammer, finding its range, testing its weight. Then he noticed a particularly sweet detail, good for the bog: a name etched in the handle, letters burned black.

  O’MARA.

  He laughed.

  He dropped the hammer on his foot.

  Paulette jerked
awake. Nish was yelling—in another room, good, but yelling. Her sweat cooled quickly, and her swollen hands throbbed. How many more lessons before this little stunt ended? So much weight, splitting her open—Come on, Nish, give your balls a chance to fill up—because he would own her. Break her too. Sure. You were free to break what you owned. Paulette understood that.

  Nish unlocked the door and limped into the study. Paulette recognized Patrick’s bush hammer. She recognized many things in that moment, as fight-or-flight bowed to dread. Big conversation in a little room: she’d not get to say much. She’d not get to finish the next book. She’d not get to apologize to Patrick about the jacket. She’d not have to worry about long sleeves and pants.

  Nish studied her, curled up on the futon, tied fists protecting her face. Speech rapid and pressed, she bargained: never talk to Patrick again, break her lease, move back in, never so much as look at another man—

  She took the first blow on her shoulder. Screamed. The second blow, skull, finished it.

  Shut her up, at least.

  Nish pried the hammer free of Paulette’s head: much less blood than he’d expected. He started rolling up the plastic.

  Jesus, Paulette, either you’re gettin heavy or I’m gettin old.

  I feel like the proper fuckin stalker here.

  By sunset Patrick had called Paulette’s cell eight more times. The Constab had contacted him again, a different officer, this one hinting through wayward questions about violent pasts. Would Mr. O’Mara feel angry, hypothetically, if Ms. Tiller returned to her husband, angry enough to do something about it? Patrick had killed that conversation with a request that anything else the police wished to say to him beyond We found her, Mr. O’Mara, thank you for your help could be said in front of a goddamned lawyer.

  He stared up through his kitchen window; trees darkened as the light failed.