Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He was so young, then—just twenty-one, and living in California, in Papa’s house. He had no friends. Papa had seen to that.

  For fourteen years, he kept Jeremy isolated from the world. For fourteen years, he abused Jeremy—physically, emotionally, sexually. Fourteen years of hell.

  There was no one to turn to for help.

  And that meant that when Papa died and the police asked questions, there was no one to protect but himself. Had they found out the truth and sent him to jail, he was the only one who would suffer.

  Now he has Lucy, and a baby on the way. If the truth ever came out . . .

  But it won’t now, after all these years, if it didn’t back then.

  No one questioned Jeremy’s story. No one ever learned that Papa didn’t have to die that day out on the lake.

  That’s the thing about drowning. It’s hard for anyone who wasn’t there to prove that it wasn’t an accident.

  If, say, a person can’t swim . . . and that person rents a fishing boat and forces the young man he claims is his son to go out on the lake with him . . . and the person drinks too much and accidentally falls overboard . . . and the so-called son doesn’t jump in after him, or even throw him a life ring . . .

  Well, the so-called son who didn’t rescue him is the only one who really knows what happened.

  The irony that his grandmother Sylvie also drowned has not been lost on Jeremy. She was here alone, slipped, fell, hit her head. That’s what the coroner ruled, anyway, and there’s no reason for anyone to question it. Of course no one did.

  But when it happened, Jeremy couldn’t help but worry, somewhere in the back of his mind, that someone might make a connection to Papa. That someone might question whether Sylvie’s death really had been an accident, or whether Jeremy might have had something to do with it.

  He didn’t, of course. He loved her. He’d have no reason to harm her. No one would have reason to harm her.

  Sylvie Durand’s death was an accident.

  Papa’s was not.

  He, however, deserved to die. He deserved to rot in hell for what he’d done to Jeremy for all those years—and, he suspected, to other boys. Boys who never came forward.

  The train has arrived at Soundview Avenue.

  Jeremy gets off, descends from the elevated platform, and heads toward the Bruckner home.

  It was only about twelve hours ago that he made this trip in reverse, calling the number on Miguel’s note as he walked, and praying it didn’t belong to Carmen. Miguel, he knew, would be finishing up his shift at the warehouse where he works—worked—part time.

  Miguel. Past tense. Miguel. Dead.

  Last night, he answered his cell phone on the first ring. “Coach, can you meet me? I need to talk to you.”

  “Did you go through the information I gave you?”

  “Yeah.”

  No, he hadn’t. Jeremy could tell by his tone.

  “But I need to talk to you, Coach.”

  “Maybe on Monday,” Jeremy started to say, “we can—”

  “Monday will be too late. I need help. Tonight. Please.”

  “I’m on my way home, Miguel.”

  “I’ll come there. I’ll come anywhere you are.”

  “You can’t come to my apartment, Miguel,” Jeremy said quickly.

  “Then I’ll meet you someplace else. Where you living now? Upper West Side, right?”

  Wondering how he knew that—then realizing the kids probably know a lot more about him than he realizes—he hesitated.

  “Coach, come on, please. There’s no one else who can help me.”

  “All right,” Jeremy said, against his better judgment, and told him about the coffee shop.

  Miguel arrived five minutes after he did. By that time, Jeremy was angry—at himself for agreeing to be there, and at Miguel for talking him into it. Angry, exhausted, tense, emotional . . .

  Had anyone in the coffee shop noticed his mood, or overheard what they were talking about?

  Even if anyone had . . . it wasn’t necessarily incriminating evidence against him.

  No . . . but it won’t help his case. If, during the investigation, the police make a connection between this and Papa’s death . . .

  Jeremy’s cell phone rings in his pocket, startling him.

  Checking the screen, he sees that his brother-in-law is calling. It’s unusual for Ryan to get in touch directly with Jeremy. Elsa must have called to invite him for Christmas.

  But Jeremy can’t pick up the call. Not right now.

  Whatever Ryan needs will just have to wait.

  “So you agree that it is absolutely possible, then, that an inmate could have walked out of Bridgebury prison that night?” Meade looks from Brad Vecchio, the prison superintendent, to Damien Hammill, the corrections officer, who agreed to this interview with him and Brandewyne today.

  The meeting is taking place in a depressingly damp Quonset hut that reminds Meade of his late grandfather’s Sears shed. It serves as temporary headquarters for prison staff, not far from the site they refer to as, not surprisingly, ground zero.

  “It’s possible,” Vecchio says carefully, “but unlikely.”

  “We’re not interested in likely,” Brandewyne speaks up. “We’re just interested in possible. And if it’s possible . . .”

  “It’s possible,” Vecchio repeats reluctantly.

  It might just be the circumstances, but Meade is having a hard time imagining the superintendent, given his ho-hum demeanor, mustering the slightest bit of enthusiasm for anything at all. With his gray crew cut, fleshy face, and no-neck physique, he’s the kind of man who seems decidedly ill at ease in the suit he’s wearing, ill at ease in the metal folding chair—which he also appears to be wearing—and naturally, ill at ease answering questions posed by a couple of NYPD detectives.

  You can’t really blame the guy. It was bad enough that Bridgebury’s aging infrastructure was partly responsible for the deaths of so many inmates and staff members. But if one of those inmates walked away from that tragedy and murdered two innocent people—and goes right on killing—Vecchio is going to have a real problem on his hands, and he knows it.

  Reminding himself that this is an interview and not an interrogation, Meade looks at the superintendent. “Tell me what you remember about this particular inmate.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Do you know how many inmates there were at Bridgebury, Detective Meade?”

  “I do. And I’d say that she was among the most notorious, wouldn’t you?”

  “They’re all notorious. That’s what I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”

  Meade gives up on him for the time being and turns to the corrections officer, a fellow African American. Sometimes, the shared-culture thing helps to put a brother at ease.

  “Officer Hammill.”

  “Detective Meade.”

  “You worked on Cellblock B, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you remember this particular inmate?”

  “I do. She was quiet—during the day. At night, though, she’d talk. A lot.”

  “To the other prisoners?”

  “Nah.”

  “To herself?”

  Hammill shakes his head. “To someone she called Chaplain Gideon.”

  “Who’s that? The prison chaplain?” Brandewyne guesses.

  “The prison chaplain’s name was Harry Connelly,” Vecchio speaks up. “He died in the collapse.”

  “Then who’s Chaplain Gideon?” Meade looks from Vecchio, who shrugs, back to Hammill.

  “Well, at first I thought maybe it was her nickname for one of the other inmates,” Hammill says. “They have nicknames for each other, you know?”

  Meade nods.

  “Crazy nicknam
es. Like there was this one hard-ass—built like a linebacker, if you know what I mean? And her cellmate calls her Tinkerbell. There’s another one, they call her Beanpole, and believe me, she’s no beanpole.”

  “They used to call me Wino back in high school,” Brandewyne says unnecessarily. “And I didn’t even drink.”

  Meade sighs inwardly. “So . . . Chaplain Gideon? Is that a nickname, do you think? Something she called one of the other women on the cellblock?”

  Hammill shakes his head. “I looked in on her whenever she’d start talking to this Chaplain Gideon person, and there was never anyone there. Guess he was just a figment of her imagination.”

  “Mrs. Cavalon? I have someone here to see you,” the lobby security guard announces over the intercom, startling Lucy for the second time in the space of a few seconds—the first time being when security buzzed up in the first place.

  Her nerves have been on edge ever since Jeremy left, well over an hour ago, to head up to the Bruckner home to deal with the fallout from last night’s tragedy.

  She’d have gone with him if he’d have let her, but he wasn’t about to do that.

  “It’s work for me, Lucy.”

  “But it’s going to be hard on you.”

  “I don’t come with you to work when you’re facing a tough day,” he told her with a shrug, “and you don’t have to come with me.”

  She could have argued that this was different, but she could tell he wasn’t in the mood for reason, much less company—or sympathy.

  Nor was he in the mood to talk about what had happened to Miguel.

  That’s how Jeremy is, sometimes, in a crisis. He simply shuts down.

  She had no choice but to let him go, out the door, off to face what is bound to be a difficult day in a lifetime that’s been overloaded with difficult days.

  After he left, Lucy realized she was feeling crampy again. She’d been so caught up in what was going on with Jeremy that she’s not even sure when it started. She only knew that she felt it.

  She made herself sit down and put her feet up, and it’s definitely subsided.

  Braxton Hicks?

  Please, God, let it be Braxton Hicks.

  As she tries to process what the security guard’s voice is telling her—someone here to see you—the rest of her brain is preoccupied with what her body is feeling and with her husband’s latest challenge.

  Miguel.

  She’s heard the name before, but she can’t remember specific details about him, and Jeremy wasn’t in any frame of mind to share them when she asked.

  One thing is certain: Miguel was little more than a child—a child whose short life had seen a lot of pain—and now he’s dead, just days before Christmas.

  When Jeremy’s boss, Cliff, told Lucy why he was calling, he mentioned that one of the boys had been mugged and killed.

  Lucy assumed it had happened in the South Bronx near the Bruckner home. When she discovered that Miguel had been slain right here, in their own neighborhood, she’d been shocked and dismayed.

  “Mrs. Cavalon?”

  Lobby security. Right. “Yes? I’m sorry . . . who did you say was here to see me?”

  “Mr. Soto. Carl Soto.”

  She gasps. How could she have forgotten all about the landlord’s visit this morning?

  How, indeed?

  “Carl Soto? Oh—that’s fine. Go ahead and send him up. Thank you.”

  What?

  Why on earth is Carl Soto here to see Lucy Cavalon?

  She glares at the computer screen, where Lucy is hurriedly brushing her hair into a ponytail and checking her reflection in the mirror.

  She seemed surprised when she heard his name.

  Almost as surprised as I was.

  Now what?

  There’s no doubt that the landlord is going to discuss the apartment he forced the Cavalons to vacate. Why else would he be here?

  Her thoughts racing, she wonders if there’s any way to intercept him on his way upstairs.

  And what will you do to him?

  Slit his throat right then and there?

  “No risks,” Chaplain Gideon booms at her, and she winces, closing her eyes. He keeps on talking to her—talking at her, the way he always does.

  “You know better. Last night was foolish enough—and the night before, at the hotel. You’re letting temptation get the better of you. If you’re not careful, you’re going to ruin everything.”

  She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. Onscreen, Lucy is smoothing her maternity top over her bulging belly.

  They’re close, now . . . so close . . . to Judgment Day.

  Chaplain Gideon is right. He always is.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispers to him. “I’ll control myself this time.”

  Opening the door to her former landlord, Lucy wishes Jeremy were here with her, or at least, that she’d had time to compose herself before the visit.

  Carl Soto is wearing a dress shirt and dark slacks and leather jacket, and he reeks of cologne—decent cologne, probably, but to Lucy’s pregnancy-sensitive nostrils, pretty much any scent is unappealing.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cavalon.”

  She sees his eyes go straight to her stomach, and realizes he didn’t know she was pregnant. Well, of course not. How would he? They never saw him, and they didn’t tell him about it when they got the eviction notice.

  If they had, Lucy realizes, it might have made a difference, because when the man looks up again, it’s with an expression of consternation.

  “This—uh—this is for you.” He thrusts something at her—a cellophane-wrapped poinsettia in a tinfoil-wrapped pot, the kind you buy at the supermarket. It’s red and a little sickly-looking, but it’s the thought that counts, Lucy reminds herself, and thanks him for it.

  “This is for you, too.” He hands her a package. “UPS left it for you at the apartment.”

  “Thank you.” Checking the label, she sees that it’s a Christmas gift she ordered from a catalog a while back—a sweater for Jeremy’s sister Renny. It was out of stock at the time, and she forgot all about it. “I filled out a mail-forwarding form at the post office. I guess I should let UPS know that we moved, too. And maybe tell the downstairs tenants to keep an eye out for packages.”

  “They left last night to go away for the holidays,” the landlord tells her, “but I’ll stop by again and make sure nothing else shows up this week.”

  “Thank you. That’s nice of you. Come on in. I’m sorry Jeremy isn’t here,” she says, leading him into the living room, “but he, uh, got called into work.”

  “It’s all right.” He looks around, clearly impressed. “Well, you two landed on your feet, didn’t you?”

  Immediately irked, Lucy sets the package and the plant on the coffee table, hard enough so that several petals drop off.

  “This is my husband’s grandmother’s apartment,” she informs him.

  “Oh. Well, uh, it was nice of her to let you move in with her, huh?”

  She shrugs, not about to bother to tell him that Sylvie happens to be dead. Better to just get this visit over with, security deposit back in hand, and put the whole experience behind her.

  He looks at the sofa, clearly waiting to be invited to sit down. She was about to do just that before he made that comment about landing on their feet.

  Might as well stay on my feet, she decides, and make him do the same.

  Petulance isn’t usually Lucy’s style, but it’s been a rough morning already and Carl Soto rubs her the wrong way.

  He clears his throat. “Mrs. Cavalon, I’ve been feeling really bad about what happened. About—you know.”

  Kicking us out on the street during the holidays—especially now that you know I’m pregnant? Yeah, I’ll bet.

  He shoots another glance at her stomach, and, feeling
suddenly vulnerable, she resists the urge to wrap her arms around it.

  “For what it’s worth . . . I didn’t know.”

  Lucy shrugs.

  “Really . . . I didn’t know you were expecting.”

  “I believe you.”

  “But anyway—it wasn’t my idea for you to move out.”

  She raises an eyebrow and resists the urge to point out that it wasn’t exactly her idea, either.

  “I’m not proud to admit this, but . . . well, someone wanted to move into the apartment before your lease was up, and I—I couldn’t turn her down.”

  Lucy just looks at him, not quite getting it.

  He takes a deep breath. “She offered me money—a lot of money—for the place.”

  Okay, now she definitely doesn’t get it.

  The apartment was decent—as urban duplexes go—but there are countless places just like it in White Plains. Better places.

  “Sentimental reasons,” Carl Soto explains, as if reading her mind. “She said she lived there when she was growing up, and she wanted to move in again.”

  Resting a hand on the small of her back, Lucy absorbs that, and offers him an okay, whatever shrug, wishing he would just give her the check and go.

  “I felt bad about it, but, you know, I really needed the money—who doesn’t?”

  If this is an apology, Lucy thinks, he just needs to come out with it. She sneaks a peek at the antique Jeux d’Olympe marble clock on the mantel and wonders what Jeremy is doing right now; whether he’s okay.

  “And you have to know, Mrs. Cavalon, I thought this woman really wanted to live there . . .”

  He thought she really wanted to live there?

  Something in his tone alerts Lucy that this isn’t just about an apology. She looks sharply at Carl Soto’s face.

  “What?” she asks, seeing his obvious guilt along with an oddly anxious—perhaps even frightened—expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “She never moved in. I let her know you were out, that the place was all hers, and I never heard from her again.”

  “But—what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “You tell me.”

  Lucy’s mind races through various possibilities.

  That she didn’t really want to live there after all?