“How are we gonna get Connie Brennan to the party tonight?” Howie asked.
“Just like always. We call her cell and tell her we’ll pick her up at midnight. She’ll sneak out after her parents are asleep and she’ll be back in bed before they’re up in the morning. She needs the drugs too much, and she sure as hell doesn’t want her ass spread all over the Internet.”
“You know it’s only a matter of time before she catches the clap, or something worse.”
“Yeah, so what? There’s plenty of talent to replace her.”
CHAPTER 4
James checked his watch: 8:30 a.m. He’d been up since 4:00. Time zone change, worry, and anger conspired to drive him from his bed. He’d gone online on his old computer, trying to get news about his brother’s assault. There wasn’t much.
James showered, shaved, and dressed in khakis, a blue work shirt, and hiking boots he took from his bedroom closet. Stuff he hadn’t worn since college. He picked out a blue ski jacket as well, and found an old pair of leather dress gloves in the pockets. Then he drove Frank’s old Honda across town to the hospital. He let the sight of his comatose brother stoke his anger. He sat down next to Frank, talking about things they’d done together, about their friends, about the Eagles and the Phillies.
After two hours, Frances showed up. James was about to let go of Frank’s hand and greet his mother when he froze. Frank had squeezed. James jerked his gaze at his brother’s face. No change there. Frank’s eyes were closed; nothing was moving except his chest, pumped by a mindless machine.
“He squeezed my hand,” James excitedly told his mother.
“The doctor said there might be involuntary muscle movement,” Frances said.
James placed Frank’s hand on the bed and stood. “I have some things to do,” he said.
“Can I help you, sir?” a baby-faced, uniformed officer asked as James approached the counter separating the police station lobby from the bullpen and offices.
“My name’s James Brennan. I’d like to talk to whoever’s handling the investigation into the assault on Frank Brennan.”
“Why don’t you have a seat over there while I check with the detectives,” the officer said. He pointed at a pew-like bench that ran along the building’s inside front wall,
Ten minutes later, an early thirty-something woman with short auburn hair, dressed in a conservative blue suit, walked up to him, right arm extended. James shook the woman’s hand.
“Detective Joan Summers,” she said.
“James Brennan.”
“I understand you’re asking about the assault on Frank Brennan.”
“My brother.”
“Let’s go get a cup of coffee.” She led the way through a door off the lobby, to a break room.
Summers took a dollar bill from her jacket pocket, inserted it into the hot beverage machine, and waited while it disgorged two cups of black coffee. She passed one over to James and said, “Sugar and cream on the counter over there.”
“Black is fine. Thanks.”
They sat at a table and Summers asked, “How’s your brother doing?”
“He’s in a coma.”
She shook her head. “Bad business. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. We’re at a dead end.”
“You believe there weren’t any witnesses?” he asked.
“Why would you ask that?” Summers asked, squinting at James.
“It happened at a party. People all around. I grew up here. This is a small community. There’s only one high school. Everyone knows everyone. Just seems strange to me.”
Summers nodded.
“What?” James asked.
She shrugged. “I had the same thought. The kids who were there either didn’t want to get involved or were too frightened to say anything. I thought your sister would help, but nothing there either.”
“Connie? How could she help?”
Summers gave James a curious look. “You didn’t know? Your sister was one of the kids at the party where the assault happened.”
CHAPTER 5
James drove back to the hospital and found his sister and mother listening to a man in a white smock. “R. Stafford, M.D.” was stitched in red on the left pocket.
The doctor put on a half-smile and said, “Let’s try to keep things in perspective. Frank was badly hurt. But the good news is the brain swelling has suddenly and dramatically declined. If he continues to improve, we may be able to take him off the ventilator.”
After the doctor left, James watched Connie walk into Frank’s room. When he followed her there, she moved away from Frank’s bed, over to the window.
James stared at his sister and, in a quiet voice, asked, “What’s the matter, Connie?”
Connie hunched her shoulders, still staring out the window.
“Come on, Connie. I know something’s on your mind. Let me help you.”
Connie turned around, her head bowed, appearing to look at her clasped hands. She finally said in a meek, defeated voice, “No one can help me.” Then she rushed from the room, shaking off James’s hand as he tried to stop her.
CHAPTER 6
Now that school was over for the Christmas break, Terry and Howie Blair had plenty of time on their hands. With their mother long dead and their father working long hours, they pretty much had the run of their house. This meant they could bring girls home, screw their brains out, and introduce them to drug and alcohol cocktails, turning them into money machines. They’d smooth them out on high-quality marijuana, then get them just a little bit drunk—just enough to break down the rest of their inhibitions. Finally, they’d introduce them to methamphetamines. The speed was the clincher. It turned the girls into sexual Olympic champions. Even with the shame of what they were doing, the girls gave the Blairs all the sex the boys wanted. Sex for drugs. No sex, no drugs. Once they were addicted to meth, everything else was easy. And, of course, there were always the photographs and videos as backup.
“I’m worn out,” Howie Blair complained, wearing only boxers in front of the open refrigerator. He pulled out a beer and said, “Nick’s going to love these two.”
Terry chuckled while he hitched at his sweat pants. “Mimi finally fell asleep.”
Howie nodded. “So did little Annie Fannie. Jeez, I’ve never had a girl as hot as that one. And she’s barely fifteen.”
Terry laughed. “Speed’ll do it every time.”
Howie laughed. “They’ll be begging for more magic dust by tonight.”
“Yep,” Terry said. “Their first party. Have to make sure they’re ready for action.”
“I told them we’d stop by around 11:45. Then we’ll pick up Connie Brennan. Should be at Carpesi’s party house a little after midnight.”
“Carpesi said there’d be thirty or so guys there tonight,” Terry said. “Ten guys per girl. At $500 per guy, that’s a very profitable night for him.”
CHAPTER 7
Forty-eight-year-old Sean Blair opened the front door of his house at 7 p.m. after another twelve-hour day.
“Hey, guys, I’m home,” he announced.
No answer.
Blair tried again, shouting this time, but got the same result.
He moved down the hall toward his bedroom, but stopped outside Terry’s room. He opened the door and detected the competing odors of sex and marijuana. Blair groaned. The high school girls were throwing their tight little asses at his sons as though they were rock stars. As long as they were careful. But the marijuana was another thing altogether.
He turned around and opened the door to Howie’s room and discovered the same pungent aromatic cocktail.
Suddenly feeling twice as tired as he had felt just a minute earlier, he walked to his room, shed his clothes, and put on a bathrobe. He thought about eating something, waiting up for his sons. But he suddenly felt too exhausted to do anything but go to bed.
James had tried unsuccessfully to engage his sister in conversation at the dinner table. He was about to try again when C
onnie’s cell phone rang. She jumped up, grabbed the phone from her sweatshirt pocket, and ran into the living room. She talked in a low, furtive voice. James could see her face flush and then go white. She looked as though she’d been told someone had died. Her free hand jackhammered the air, maybe making a point. Connie saw him staring at her and whipped around, putting her back to him, and rushed from the room and up the stairs.
James glanced from his father, whose face was buried in his hands, to his mother, who had a deer-in-the-headlights look.
“How long’s Connie been on drugs?” he asked.
Vince’s head came up as his hands became fists in front of him.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Vince demanded.
“Take it easy, Vince,” Frances said.
Vince shot a laser beam look at his wife. “What do you mean, ’Take it easy.’ We raised our kids to hate drugs. No way Connie–”
James interrupted, “I’ve seen the symptoms too many times, in the Army. Altered behavior and mood, glassy eyes, drastic change in appearance. She’s showing all the symptoms. And look at her hands and arms. She’s scratching them and then picking at the scabs. You had to know something was wrong.”
“We’ve known something was wrong for over a month,” Frances said. “Your dad and I have talked and talked to her. Yelled even. Tried to get her to go to a doctor. We set up appointments and she runs away. We were going to drag her to the doctor last week, but then Frank ...” Frances paused and then added, “But drugs ... it can’t be drugs.”
James said, “I’ll talk to her.”
He stood and walked upstairs. He knocked on his sister’s bedroom door.
“Come on, Connie, open up. Let’s talk.”
“Go away,” she said.
James tried again. But, this time, she did not respond.
James stood there in the hall outside his sister’s room and finally said, “We’ll talk in the morning. You can’t put it off forever.”
CHAPTER 8
James went to bed late that night and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But then something startled him awake. His battle zone nerves were still on high alert. He checked the bedside clock: 12:01 a.m. The rumbling sound of a poor car muffler rose from the street. He got out of bed and looked through his window. A red automobile, passenger side facing the house, was parked there. In the harsh light of a street lamp, James got a glimpse of a long-haired young man in the front passenger seat with what appeared to be a cell phone pressed against his right ear. It looked as though there were a couple girls in the backseat.
The muffled chirping of a cell phone carried to James’s bedroom. He moved into the hall and followed the sound to Connie’s door. The phone rang six times and then stopped. A minute later, the ringing started up again, but ended as it had before, with no answer.
When the phone didn’t ring again, James returned to the window in his room and caught sight of the car speeding away.
James’s father left the house at 7 a.m. He would drop by the hospital, be at his job by 9, and return to be with Frank at 6 p.m. He’d return home around 9.
James and his mother had breakfast together at home.
“Why don’t you see if Connie’s ready to go see Frank?” Frances told James. “I’ll clean up the dishes.”
James walked upstairs, not excited about confronting his recalcitrant sister, but determined. He knocked on her door and said, “You ready to go?”
No answer.
James tried again. Still no response. He tried the doorknob. Locked.
James slammed his shoulder against the door. That didn’t work, so he backed up a step and kicked at the door, crashing the sole of his boot against the doorknob. The lock popped and the door flew open.
“Oh my God!” James groaned. “Call 9-1-1!” he yelled. “Mom, call 9-1-1!”
Connie was hanging from the ceiling fan, her face blue, her neck bent at an impossible angle. A toppled chair lay on the floor. James snatched a pair of scissors from his sister’s desk and cut through the pink terrycloth bathrobe belt around her neck. Her body fell into his arms. He lowered her to the floor and started CPR, knowing with absolute certainty it would do no good.
His mother’s shuddering sobs coming from behind him, James performed CPR on Connie for ten minutes, until the paramedics arrived. They then worked on Connie and, finally, after another ten minutes, declared her deceased.
One of the paramedics stood and backed off from Connie’s body. He looked at James and said, “We’ve got to wait for a detective to show. Suicide’s a violent crime.” He shrugged as though in apology. “Don’t touch anything.”
James nodded while looking at his mother seated on the floor, her back against the side of Connie’s bed, her body shaking. He noticed Connie’s cell phone on the lamp table next to her bed and remembered it ringing at midnight, at the same time the red car had stopped outside. He glanced back at the paramedics—both preoccupied with repacking their equipment. He pocketed the cell phone and sat next to his mother.
James went downstairs when the doorbell rang. He let in two detectives, including Joan Summers, the one he had talked with the day before, and told them what had happened. He explained that the paramedics and his mother were upstairs in his sister’s room.
“Would you mind bringing your mother down here so we can be free to look at your sister’s room?” Summers asked.
James went upstairs and brought Frances down to the living room. He sat next to her on the couch. While the other detective went upstairs, Summers sat across from James and Frances and took notes as James again explained what had happened.
“Did either of you hear anything during the night?” Summers asked.
James told her about the car outside the house around midnight. But he decided not to mention the ringing cell phone.
“Can you describe the car?” Summers asked.
“Red. Low slung. Looked like a Dodge Charger. Sounded like a tank out there. Either needs a new muffler or has glass packs. Couldn’t see the driver, but the passenger in the front had long blond hair.”
James noticed Summers grimace.
“You know this guy?”
She waved a hand at James as though saying no.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Couple of girls in the back of the car.”
“You recognize any of them?”
James shook his head.
The other detective came back downstairs and crooked a finger at Summers, who stood and joined him in the entryway. They whispered for a minute and then Summers returned to the living room and said, “We’re finished here. I’m sorry for your loss.”
James walked the detectives outside and watched them drive away. Then he heard movement behind him—the paramedics wheeling Connie’s body on a gurney to their vehicle. They pulled away just as Vince Brennan screeched to a stop in the driveway.
“How is she?” Vince yelled at James, now standing in the front entry.
Frances ran at Vince and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest, crying a deluge of tears. “She’s gone, Vince. Our baby’s gone.”
Vince looked at James, his sad eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
“We found her in her room. She—she hung herself.”
Vince moaned as though a dagger had pierced his chest.
After Vince and Frances went inside, James removed Connie’s cell from his pants pocket and pulled up the record of incoming calls. The last two came from the same number: One at 12:01 p.m.; the other at 12:02. He highlighted the last number and pressed SEND. The phone screen showed the incoming number and the name Howard Blair. James was about to terminate the call when a male voice answered.
“You stupid bitch! You know how much trouble you caused us last night? I’m going to sell your ass on the street until you can’t walk straight. You hear me? Then I’m going to kick the crap out of you like we did your spastic brother. You hear me? And we’re going to mess up your paren
ts.” The guy paused as though he expected a response. When none came, he screamed, “Answer me, bitch!”
James clicked off the phone, barely able to contain the all-familiar rage swelling inside him. The fire and ice of battle. He walked back inside the house, went to the kitchen, and looked at the Pennsmoor telephone directory. He turned to the B’s and found three listings for Blair, but none for a Howard Blair.
He went upstairs to his room. Sitting on the side of his bed, he forced himself to calm down, to suppress the heat in his gut and the creeping fingers of ice penetrating his brain. He knew what he wanted to do, what he’d been trained to do. But he fought the urge. This wasn’t Afghanistan, after all. He’d go see Detective Summers. Tell her about the phone calls in the night. Tell her what the man had said when he called the number on Connie’s cell.
CHAPTER 9
James drove to the Pennsmoor Police station. He started up the steps, then stopped and stared at the sign hanging to the left of the building’s front door. He hadn’t noticed it the last time he was here. It showed the name of Pennsmoor’s chief of police. Sean P. Blair. One of the Blair listings in the phone book was for a Sean Blair. Sean Blair. Howard Blair. James didn’t believe in coincidences.
What if Howard Blair was related to the police chief? He thought about the reaction Summers had when he described the red car and the long-haired passenger. Something about the description had resonated with her. What if Summers was protecting Howard Blair?
Enraged, James returned to the car and drove to the hospital.
The ICU nurse smiled at him and said, “I just called your folks. We took your brother off the respirator; he’s breathing on his own.”
James felt a surge of adrenaline rip through him. “Thank God!”
“His brain swelling diminished. He’s alert, sort of. Not talking, but looking around and responding.”
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