The woman who murdered my daughter was living in luxury out on Shore Drive, guarded by the FBI. I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I closed the file and handed it back to Caskie.
“I’ll keep the picture,” I said. “The rest is all yours.”
He snatched the folder away from me.
“You mean it?
“Of course. You’ll never hear from me again ... unless, of course, Papillardi is convicted and she isn’t indicted. Then you’ll hear from me. Believe me, you’ll hear from me.”
I had put on a performance of Barrymore caliber. And Caskie bought it. He smiled like a death row prisoner who’d just got a last- minute reprieve.
“Don’t worry about that, Santos. As soon as Papillardi’s case is through, we’re on her. Don’t you worry about that.” He turned at the door and gave me another of his thumps-up gestures. “You can take that to the bank.”
And then he was gone.
For a while I stood there in the living room and stared at the picture of Regina Ciullo. Then I took it into Jessica’s room and tacked it over the head of the latest outline on the wall. Then I stabbed the figure so hard, so fast, and so many times I had a football-sized hole in the wall in less than a minute.
A week later the walls of Jessica’s room were so Swiss-cheesed with holes that I had no space left for new outlines.
Time for the real thing.
I’d been driving by the Jensen place regularly, sometimes three times a day. I always kept the photo on the seat beside me, for quick reference in case I saw someone who resembled Regina Ciullo. I was sure I’d know her anywhere, but it’s good to be prepared.
The houses on Shore Drive all qualified as mansions—all huge, all waterfront, facing Connecticut across the Long Island Sound. Although a car or two—a Bentley or a Jag or a Porsche Carrera— always sat in the driveway behind the electric steel gate, I never saw anybody.
Until Thursday. I was in the midst of cruising past when I saw the front gate begin to slide open. I almost slammed on the brakes, but had the presence of mind to keep moving. But slow.
And who pulls out but the bitch herself, the slasher of my daughter, slayer of the last thing in my life that held any real meaning. She was driving the Mercedes. Speeding. She passed me doing at least fifty, and still accelerating. On a residential street. The bitch didn’t care. The top was down. No question about it: Regina Ciullo. And she was alone.
Had she given her FBI guardians the slip again? Was she on her way to find another innocent, helpless, trusting child to slaughter?
Not if I could help it.
I followed her to the local Wegmans, trailed her as she dawdled along the cosmetics aisle in the pharmacy department, touching, feeling, sniffing. Probably looking for the means to whore herself up. As ordinary as the photo had been, it had done her a service. In the light of day she was extremely plain. She needed all the help she could get. And her body. Caskie had described it as “incredible.” Anything but, from what I could see. I guess there’s no accounting for tastes.
I caught up to her in the housewares aisle. That was where they sold the knives. When I saw a stainless steel carving set displayed on a shelf, I got dizzy. Visions of Jessica’s mutilated body lying on that cold, steel gurney in the morgue flashed before me. A knife like that had ripped her up. I saw Martha’s face, the expressions on her brothers’ faces—Your fault! Your fault!
That did it.
I ripped the biggest knife from the set and spun her around.
“Remember Jessica Santos?” I screamed.
Shock on her face. Sure! No one was supposed to know.
I pretended she was one of the outlines on Jessica’s wall. A deep thrust to the abdomen, feeling the knife point hesitate against the fabric of her dress, and then rip through cloth and skin, into the tender innards. She screamed, but I didn’t let that stop me. I tugged the blade free and plunged it in again and again, each time screaming,
“This is for Jessica! This is for Jessica!”
Somebody pulled me free of her and I didn’t resist. She’d been slashed like Jessica. The damage was irreparable. I knew my duty was done, knew I’d avenged my daughter.
But as I looked into her dying eyes, so hurt, so shocked, so bewildered, I had the first inkling that I had made a monstrous mistake.
I slammed my fist on the table.
“Call the FBI! Check it out with them!”
They’d had me in this interrogation room for hours. Against my lawyer’s advice—who wanted me to plead insanity—I’d given them a full statement. I wasn’t going to hide anything. This was an open and shut case of a man taking justifiable revenge against his daughter’s murderer. I wasn’t going to be coy about it. I did it and that was that. Now they could do their damnedest to convict me. All I needed was the FBI file to prove that she was the killer.
“We have called the FBI,” said Captain Hall, chief of the Monroe police department. He adjusted his belt around his ample gut for the hundredth time since he’d stuck me in here. “And there’s no such agent as Caskie assigned anywhere in New York.”
“It’s a deep cover thing. That woman posing as a Jensen is Regina Ciullo, a federal witness against Bruno Papillardi!”
“Who told you that?” Captain Hall said.
“Agent Caskie.”
“The agent who doesn’t exist. How convenient. When did you meet him?”
I described my encounters with Caskie, from the cemetery to my apartment.
“So you were never in his office—if he ever had one. Did anyone see you with him?”
I thought about that. The funeral had been over and everyone was gone when I’d met him in the cemetery. We’d stood side by side for less than a minute in the foyer of the FBI building, and then we’d been together in the alley and my apartment. A cold lump was growing in my gut.
“No. No one that I recall. But what about the picture? It’s got to have Caskie’s fingerprints on it!”
“We’ve searched your car three times now, Mr. Santos. No picture. Maybe you should plead insane. Maybe this FBI agent is all in your mind.”
“I’m not crazy!”
Captain Hall’s face got hard as he leaned toward me.
“Well then, maybe you should be. I know you’ve had a terrible thing happen to your family, but I’ve known Marla Jensen since she was a girl, back when she was still Marla Wainwright. And that was poor Marla you sliced up.”
He had to be wrong. Please God, he had to be! If I did that to the wrong woman—
“No! You got to listen to me!”
A disgusted growl rumbled from Captain Hall.
“Enough of this bullshit. Get him out of here.”
“No, wait! Please!”
“Out!”
Two uniformed cops yanked me out of the chair and dragged me into the hall. As they led me upstairs to a holding cell, I spotted Caskie walking in with two other cops.
“Thank God!” I shouted. “Where have you been?”
His face was drawn and haggard. He almost looked as if he had been crying. And he looked different. He looked trimmer and he held himself straighter. The rumpled suit was gone, replaced by white duck slacks, a white linen shirt, open at the collar, and a blue blazer with an emblem on the pocket. He looked like a wealthy yachtsman. He stared at me without the slightest hint of recognition.
One of the cops with him whispered in his ear and suddenly Caskie was bounding toward me, face white with rage, arms outstretched, fingers curved like an eagle’s talons, ready to tear me to pieces. The cops managed to haul him back before he reached me.
“What’s the matter with him?” I said to anyone who’d listen as my two cops hustled me up the stairs.
My attorney answered from behind me.
“That’s Harold Jensen, the husband of the woman you cut up.”
I felt my knees buckle.
“Her husband?”
“Yeah. I heard around the club that she started divorce proceedings against him,
but I guess that’s moot now. Her death leaves him sole heir to the entire Wainwright fortune.”
With my insides tying themselves in a thousand tight little knots, I glanced back at the man I’d known as Caskie. He was being ushered through the door that led to the morgue. But on the threshold he turned and stole a look at me. As our eyes met, he winked and gave me a secret little thumbs-up.
for Joe Lansdale
FIRE & ICE
BY JOSEPH BADAL
CHAPTER 1
By an eighth of an inch and one pint of blood, twenty-six-year-old U.S. Army Captain James Brennan missed becoming the 1,301st American to die in Operation Enduring Freedom. Instead, he became the 8,998th to be wounded.
Just released from Landstuhl Army Hospital and on Christmas leave for two weeks, James deplaned at Philadelphia International Airport Gate 23. Into the jetway—December, meat-locker cold. Juking and dodging people waiting to board planes. Down the long corridor toward the front of the terminal. He forced himself to stand ramrod straight, making the most of his six-foot frame, stretching the scar tissue on his leg and the sore muscles in his back and neck. Look strong, he told himself. For Mom, who would notice a limp. For Dad, who would see any sign of weakness. Growing up, he’d hated every time his father had told him, “Stop whining and act like a man.” But that mantra had, like a magic carpet, carried him through Basic Training, AIT, Special Warfare School, and twenty-three months in Afghanistan.
Inside the terminal, he searched for his parents; he was certain they would be waiting for him. He grimaced at the thought of his mother greeting him with her usual, shrill, “Jimmy, my sweet boy.” But then he smiled. Her greeting always made things seem right.
James had told his parents he was assigned to a staff position in Afghanistan. Hadn’t told them he was a killer, the leader of an assassination team. Hadn’t told them he’d been wounded. He spotted his father next to a newsstand, but had to do a double-take just to be certain. My God, he thought, Vince Brennan looked much older than his fifty years. He seemed haggard. James put on a smile and walked toward his father, who noted his approach with a wave. The two men met halfway and hugged.
“Hey, Dad,” James said. “Good to see you.”
Vince pushed away from his son and performed a quick inspection. “You look good,” he said.
“Lost some weight, but Mom’s cooking will fix that.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Vince said, but without much enthusiasm.
James looked around. “Where’s Mom?”
Vince swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You got any checked bags?”
“No, Dad. Just my duffel here.”
James suddenly felt worried. Something seemed wrong. Mom should be here. And where were his brother, Frank, and his sister, Connie? But he let the patience he had learned in the Army take control. Besides, how wrong could things be?
CHAPTER 2
Vince Brennan expelled a loud breath and said, “I’m glad you’re home, son.”
James noticed his father gripping the steering wheel.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
Vince glanced quickly at James and then turned back to the road. “Frank’s in the hospital. That’s where your mother and sister are.”
“What happened?” James asked, steeling himself.
“He was attacked a week ago by some guys at a party. They beat him up bad, Jimmy. The doctors put him into a medically induced coma to try to stabilize him. He’s on a ventilator.”
“He’s been in a coma for a week?” James asked. “Is he going to be all right?”
Vince slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
“Who hurt Frank?” James asked. A wave of heat invaded his gut and icy-cold fingers numbed his brain.
“Don’t know,” Vince said, shooting James a worried look. “Does it matter?”
James shrugged. “No witnesses?”
“No one saw anything. You know how that goes.”
No one saw anything at a party. Hard to believe, James thought.
“Not the homecoming I wanted for you,” Vince said.
James reached across the seat and squeezed his father’s shoulder.
The fast, heavy traffic of Philadelphia transitioned to the slower, less-congested roadways of Pennsmoor. A former farming area, Pennsmoor was now a bedroom community to Philadelphia and Lancaster. Vince and Frances Brennan moved there from Philadelphia when James was ten, Frank two, and Connie a newborn. Pennsmoor was safe and clean. Its schools were committed to excellence. The Brennans raised their children to work hard, tell the truth, and obey the law. They promoted patriotism and faith in God.
James stared out the window. Christmas decorations adorned the lampposts and garlanded wires hung from one side of the street to the other. Everything seemed surreal after Afghanistan.
At the hospital, they took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked to the intensive care ward. Six glass-fronted rooms formed a semicircle around a pod where two nurses worked. More surrealism: muted-beeping and blinking monitors, funereal quiet, medicinal odors. James spotted his mother talking to a nurse. He walked up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Frances turned and seemed to experience a kaleidoscope of emotions in an instant. She gasped, then smiled. Tears burst from her pale blue eyes, flowing down her freckled cheeks. Then she exhaled, said, “James, my sweet boy,” and grasped her son, burying her head in his chest, sobbing and shaking.
While holding onto his mother, James looked over her head through the window into the room behind her. He didn’t recognize the person in the bed there. Bandages, tubes, and medical contraptions overwhelmed the patient. On the far side of the room, fifteen-year-old Connie Brennan slouched in a chair, seemingly staring at nothing.
Connie had always been the beauty of the neighborhood. Now, her usual fair complexion looked almost gray and her blonde hair was tangled and unkempt. The bags under her eyes were purple-gray. She looked old and worn out, as though she should be in the hospital bed.
James raised an arm and gave Connie a small wave but got no reaction. He turned his attention back to his mother, who had stopped crying. Frances moved back a half step, blotted her eyes with a tissue, and gave James the once-over.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said.
James made a sweeping gesture, discounting his mother’s remark. “I’m fine, Mom. What’s up with Frank?”
“The doctor says there’s no change. They’re still trying to reduce the brain swelling.”
James stared again through the window into Frank’s room. “Connie’s taking it hard, isn’t she?”
Vince, now standing next to Frances, rubbed his chin, closed his eyes for a moment. “I can’t get a damned thing out of her. She won’t talk to anyone but Frank. And all she says to him is, ’I’m sorry.’ What’s she got to be sorry about?”
Vince and Frances took Connie down to the hospital cafeteria while James spent time with Frank. He held his brother’s hand and told him he was there for him, would watch over him. And he said, “I’m going to find the guys who did this to you, Frank.”
CHAPTER 3
“I need that Brennan girl tonight, ya hear me?” Nick Carpesi growled. “We got thirty guys coming in from Philly. She was missing in action last night. What happened?”
Terry Blair looked at his twin brother, Howie, and then back at Carpesi. “She’s at the damn hospital with her parents.”
“That sounds like a fuckin’ excuse, Terry.”
“No, Nick. But ...”
Overweight but powerfully built, forty-year-old Carpesi glared at the two eighteen-year-olds. The Blairs were man-boys: six-foot four, blond, blue-eyed football hunks. Spoiled punks, Carpesi thought. He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back against the wall. “You guys are startin’ to piss me off. How much money have I given you?”
Howie opened his mouth, but slammed it shut when Carpesi shoved his palm at him.
“Thirty-two grand in
less than one year. All you gotta do is recruit high school chippies. Thirty-two grand and all the ass you want. Is that about right?”
“Yeah, Nick,” Terry answered. “We appreciate what you’ve—”
“So the Brennan girl will be there tonight?”
The Blair brothers nodded in unison.
“And she knows what will happen if she doesn’t cooperate?” Carpesi asked.
“Of course,” Howie said. “Her whole family will pay, like her brother did. And she knows we’ll put the videos we have of her on the Net.”
“You keeping her supplied with meth?”
“Yep,” Terry said, smiling.
Carpesi snatched his chair away from the wall and sat down. “So we got nothin’ to worry about.” He smirked, grabbed a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit off the end, bending over to spit it into the wastebasket under his desk. He eyed the brothers as he rolled the unlit cigar in his mouth. He finally said, “I need those two new girls you been preppin’.”
“They’ll be there,” Terry said. “They’ve been on speed daily for two weeks; got pictures of them having sex. Eating out of our hands.”
Carpesi laughed. “You boys got your pick of the herd. Girls think they’re somethin’ special, they spread their legs for you football heroes.” He laughed. “Better enjoy it. Won’t last forever.” He pointed a sausage-sized finger at the Blairs and dropped all semblance of good humor. “Don’t disappoint me, boys.” Malice dripped from his words.
Terry and Howie Blair got into their fire-engine red, five-year-old Dodge Charger, Howie behind the wheel, and drove away from Carpesi’s auto body shop on the outskirts of Pennsmoor. Terry checked the dashboard clock and said, “We should just make it in time.”
Howie snapped a look at his brother. “That greaser, Carpesi, as much as told us he’d kneecap us if we let him down, and you’re worried about being late for school?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Terry said. “We show up late, we get detention, and the school calls Dad. We don’t need the aggravation. Besides, it’s the last day before the break.”
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