Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “He had apocalyptic fantasies. He started to talk about the end being near . . .”

  “His end?” Maybe he’d sensed that he was going to die. It happens. Meade’s father, who—like Garvey Quinn—dropped dead of a sudden heart attack—reconciled a longstanding feud with his brother about a week before it happened.

  But Chaplain Gideon is shaking his head. “Not his end. The End of Days. The Second Coming. He was obsessed. He talked about it all the time, wrote about it.”

  “What did he write?” Meade asks. “Did he keep a journal?”

  “Not that I know of. He wrote letters—long letters.”

  “To who?”

  Meade resists the urge to correct Brandewyne’s grammar. To whom. It should be to whom. He sips his coffee. Ugh.

  “To everyone. His family, his friends, his enemies . . .” Chaplain Gideon sighs. “If he had channeled all that energy toward changing this world for the better, imagine what he could have accomplished.”

  “That’s something I think about every day doing the work I do, Chaplain,” Brandewyne says, as Meade looks around for the waitress. He’s chilled through after waiting outside on the church steps in the bracing wind, and he really could use some hot coffee.

  “People like you—both of you—you’re doing just that.”

  “Doing just what?” Brandewyne asks.

  “Changing this world for the better.”

  The two NYPD detectives, both of whom are balding, bespectacled, slightly overweight, and wearing wedding rings—are barely distinguishable from each other or countless other middle-aged men Jeremy’s ever met. Not the least bit intimidating; in fact, they’ve been surprisingly pleasant so far.

  Why wouldn’t they be? This isn’t an interrogation, Jeremy reminds himself. It’s an interview. He’s not a suspect, he’s here to help.

  “Mr. Cavalon, did Miguel say or do anything that made you think he might be in some kind of danger on Friday night?”

  “No.”

  They’re meeting in the center’s large conference room, decorated with paper snowflakes suspended on strands of monofilament fishing line from the drop ceiling. The boys made them in art class. Some are barely more than rectangles with a few haphazard holes cut in them; others, elaborate three-dimensional filigrees.

  Jeremy’s gaze keeps drifting toward the snowflakes, wafting a bit in the air blowing through the ceiling vents. But he does his best to stay focused on the detectives, not wanting them to think he has any reason not to look them in the eye.

  “Did Miguel mention anything about a plan to meet anyone after he left you that night?”

  “No.”

  The detectives take turns asking the questions, writing down his answers.

  “Did he receive any phone calls or texts while you were with him?”

  Is it a trick question? They’d have to know that, wouldn’t they? Unless the mugger—if it was a mugging—stole Miguel’s phone . . .

  But still, the cops would be able to access the phone records.

  Yeah, they must know. If not yet, then they will soon.

  “His girlfriend texted him quite a few times,” Jeremy tells them.

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Did he talk to you about their relationship at all?”

  Jeremy contemplates that.

  Do they even know Carmen is pregnant? They might not. Miguel mentioned last night that he hadn’t told anyone but Jeremy, and if Carmen hasn’t told her parents yet . . .

  But her friends know. At least one friend—Brenda. Brenda, who said Carmen didn’t want to have the baby because she didn’t want to get fat.

  Have the detectives talked to Carmen yet? To Brenda? How much do they know?

  How much should Jeremy tell them?

  Least harm . . . what would cause the least harm? That’s your obligation.

  “Mr. Cavalon? Did Miguel talk to you about Carmen?”

  The truth. Just tell the truth. You have nothing to hide—not when it comes to Miguel, anyway. He’s already been harmed.

  Jeremy swallows hard. “He did talk to me about her.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was told to me in confidence . . .”

  “We understand that. But we’re talking about a dead child, Mr. Cavalon, and if he told you anything that might have led to his murder—in confidence or not . . .”

  Miguel is dead.

  A dead child . . .

  Powerful wording.

  A child who technically raped a child who is now expecting a child . . .

  But Miguel can no longer get into trouble for that.

  Trouble—it’s a relative term.

  “Carmen was pregnant. He wanted her to have the baby. She didn’t want to.”

  The detectives exchange a now-we’re-getting-somewhere glance.

  Jeremy looks at the snowflakes dancing in the hot air and hopes that Carmen, wherever she is this morning, has changed her mind.

  Ryan doesn’t go to Mass every week the way Lucy does. Whenever he has attended, though, his sister has always been here.

  Today, he finds himself looking around the church expecting to see her, even though he knows he won’t find her.

  He came on a whim, and probably for the wrong reason. He’s not opposed to spiritual healing, but he’s really just looking for a way to fill the weekend.

  He was worried that if he stayed at home with nothing to do, Phoenix might call and he’d jump at the chance to see her.

  He was even more worried that she wouldn’t call, and he’d spend the day sitting by the phone.

  Pathetic. Yeah, he knows. But at least he’s trying to do something about it.

  “Ryan Walsh—good to see you,” Father Les greets him, standing by the door after Mass is over.

  In his mid-forties, tall, athletic, and charismatic, Father Les has been with the parish for about ten years now. He always shakes hands with his parishioners as they exit, making Ryan feel vaguely guilty whenever he hadn’t been here for a while. Like now. But if Father Les is taking attendance, he doesn’t chide Ryan for his absences. He just seems genuinely glad to see him.

  “Has Lucy settled into her new apartment in the city?” he asks, after inquiring about Ryan’s new job.

  “She has.”

  “We’re going to miss seeing her here. Be sure to wish her a merry Christmas for me, and remind her to let me know when the baby comes. I’m keeping her in my prayers.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Ryan promises.

  “And a merry Christmas to you, too, Ryan. Remember—God is in control.”

  Those are, and always have been, Father Les’s standard parting words to everyone.

  Ordinarily, Ryan lets them go in one ear and out the other.

  But today, for some reason, the phrase resonates. He starts to walk away, but then turns back to the priest.

  “Father?”

  About to shake the hand of the next parishioner, the priest turns expectantly back toward Ryan.

  “If God is in control, does it mean that your life is predestined and your fate is out of your hands? That nothing you do—or don’t do—will matter?”

  “Not at all. We all have free will, Ryan. We all make choices every day of our lives. It’s up to us to listen to what God is saying—to let God guide us down the right path. Do you understand?”

  Ryan doesn’t—not at all—but he nods politely. “Thank you, Father.”

  He turns again to go.

  “Ryan?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here if you need me.” Watching him intently, the priest raises a hand and makes the sign of the cross over Ryan, blessing him.

  Why?

  Does he see something? Kno
w something? Feel something?

  A chill slips down Ryan’s spine and he hurries away.

  Snowflakes are starting to swirl as Meade steers the car onto Interstate 95, heading back toward the Jersey Turnpike. Brandewyne wanted to drive, but he insisted, in no mood to stop every half hour so that she can smoke a cigarette, hacking away the whole time from inhaling smoke and cold air. That’s what happened just now, when she insisted on lighting up before they hit the road.

  “You know, she could be long gone from New York by now,” she muses, turning up the fan on the passenger’s side vent to blast some heat in her direction.

  “Let’s hope so. But it’s still only a matter of time before she snaps and hurts someone else.”

  “Like that old guy.”

  “Who?”

  “Chaplain Gideon, who do you think?”

  “She’s never even met him,” Meade reminds her.

  “Exactly—but obviously, she spent a whole lot of time thinking about him. And talking to him,” she adds pointedly.

  True.

  “What if she comes looking for him? It sounds like she’s living out some kind of apocalyptic fantasy herself.”

  “I agree. But I don’t think she’ll try to harm Chaplain Gideon.”

  “Who do you think she has in mind?”

  Meade shakes his head grimly. “I’m not sure, but I wish Jeremy Cavalon and his wife would return my phone call.”

  “Maybe they have.”

  “No. I checked a few minutes ago, before you got into the car. Not a word from them. I hope . . .”

  “What?” she prods, when he trails off.

  “I just hope she didn’t get to them before we did.”

  “Goose? Where are you?”

  Startled awake, Lucy opens her eyes. It takes a groggy moment for her to get her bearings—she’s in the bedroom, but it’s not morning; the light is wrong: long shadows falling through the windows across the brocade rug.

  Oh—that’s right. She was lying on the bed, resting, and she must have fallen asleep. A glance at the clock tells her it’s late afternoon.

  At her side is her copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. She’d been reading through it, looking for information about daydreams and hallucinations, wondering if by any chance they were a symptom of pregnancy.

  Sure enough, there was a section in the book about vivid dreams and fantasies, both at night, and during the day, when you’re wide awake—or think you are. There wasn’t much information, but it was enough to convince Lucy that she’d definitely imagined the “ghost” she’d seen this morning at church.

  “Goose!”

  “In here.” She sits up and the baby kicks, seemingly in protest.

  “C’mere!” he calls over a thumping racket in the front hall.

  She makes her way in and her eyes widen at the sight of Jeremy juggling an enormous pine tree through the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” He drops the tree, closes and locks the door, and grins at her. “Merry Christmas, Goose.”

  She throws her arms around him. “I don’t want to know how much that cost.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s huge! How tall is it? Are you crazy?”

  “I had to get a tall one with these twelve-foot ceilings. Oh, and I got you a present, too.”

  “You mean that isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s in my coat pocket. No peeking,” he adds with a laugh as she playfully pokes his pocket.

  “What made you decide to do this?”

  “It Christmas, and we’re having a baby.” Jeremy puts his hand on her stomach. The baby obliges with a swift kick. “Whoa—did you feel that?”

  “Did I feel it? Are you kidding?” Lucy rests her hand over his, leaning her head on his shoulder, and finally, there it is: that feeling of comfort and healing that eluded her at Mass this morning.

  Earlier worries try to push their way into her head, but she learned, years ago, how to keep troubling thoughts at bay. Sometimes, no matter what’s happened in your life, you just have to be in the moment.

  “Come on, Goose,” Jeremy says, giving her stomach a final pat. “Let’s get this tree decorated. Christmas Eve will be here before we know it.”

  “Well, I guess Lucy didn’t recognize me after all at church,” she tells Chaplain Gideon, watching Lucy stand by, laughing, as Jeremy wrestles the tree into the living room.

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “If she had, she would have done something about it. At least have told Jeremy. Instead she went to bed and slept all afternoon.”

  “True. Maybe she thought you were a figment of her imagination,” Chaplain Gideon suggests.

  “You don’t think she can tell the difference between something real and something that’s only imagined?” She smiles, relishing the thought of Lucy Cavalon thinking she might be delusional.

  She’s almost tempted to pop up again and tease Lucy a little—make her think she’s really going crazy.

  Chaplain Gideon’s response to that idea is loud and clear. “No! Absolutely not! You heard what Jeremy said just now, didn’t you?”

  Yes. She did.

  Christmas Eve will indeed be here before we know it.

  All she has to do is get through another two days, and it will be time. A whole new world will begin for her—and this one, this miserable world, will end for Lucy and Jeremy Cavalon and so many others.

  Just as Daddy promised it would.

  Two more days, and then she’ll see him again—after the baby comes, when the dead will rise up to be judged alongside the living.

  Just like Daddy said.

  Turning away from the computer screen, she yanks open a drawer and pulls out a treasured packet of envelopes. Dozens of them, with thick, folded sheets of paper inside, all tied together in a satin ribbon she’d worn in her hair as a child—back when she was Daddy’s little girl.

  Chapter Twelve

  A snowstorm of historic proportion struck the tri-state area late Sunday night, bringing significant accumulation, high winds, and drifts several feet high. City public schools are closed this week for the holiday break, but many businesses let their employees leave early on Monday and will remain closed through Christmas Day tomorrow. Air travel is snarled with thousands stranded at the airports, and still, the snow keeps falling—”

  “Can we please watch something else, Lu?” Ryan asks, sprawled in an antique chair with his legs dangling over the arm. “A soap opera, a game show, anything? This 24–7 storm coverage is getting old fast. I mean, it’s just snow.”

  “A lot of snow,” Lucy points out, sitting on the sofa with her feet propped on the marble coffee table.

  “I know, but still . . .” Ryan gestures at the TV, where the scene has shifted to a reporter out in the blizzard-blown tundra—could be the Dakota prairie, could be Times Square—poking a yardstick into a snowbank.

  “All this drama—you’d think we were at war or something. Can’t they cover anything else? Is weather all that’s happening in this city?”

  “Pretty much.” Lucy glances toward the tall windows, where snow is coming down hard against a bleak urban winterscape.

  Stretches of I–95 are closed up and down the East Coast, and she’s already informed Jeremy’s parents that they won’t be able to make it to Connecticut tomorrow. Good thing, because the news desk just reported that there are power outages and jammed phone lines all over Eastern Connecticut.

  When Lucy called Elsa early this morning to cancel, her mother-in-law was disappointed but already anticipating the inevitable. “We’ll have a belated celebration this weekend. Just stay safe, both of you. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” Lucy told her, but the truth was, she had awakened feeling a li
ttle crampy again this morning.

  She’s done nothing but rest for more than twenty-four hours now, so it isn’t due to exertion. Her company and Ryan’s were among the businesses that closed early yesterday and didn’t open at all today. The two of them have spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours in this room, lit only by the tiny colored bulbs on the Christmas tree standing tall between the windows. They’ve been cozily watching TV, eating, talking, and reading . . . just like old times.

  If only Jeremy were here . . .

  But she hasn’t seen much of him during waking hours since he left for work yesterday morning, an hour before she did. He was out till late last night for his basketball team’s holiday dinner. It took him over two hours to get home due to snow on the elevated tracks in the Bronx. Nonetheless, he braved the weather again today to head back up again.

  Lucy knew better than to try to talk him out of it—not just because she knew she wouldn’t succeed, but because she knew how much it meant to Jeremy to spend at least part of the holiday with his “guys.” Plus, he was supposed to pick up a couple of bags of donated gifts for the boys on the way to the group home, and there was absolutely no way he’d miss doing that.

  When she reached him a little while ago on his cell, he promised to leave by five o’clock to head home, and said he’d pick up something for dinner along the way.

  “What did you have in mind?” Lucy asked.

  “Whatever I can get. Pretty much everything is closed.”

  Including the fish market. Lucy called to check first thing this morning.

  “Wait, Jeremy, do you want me to call around and see if I can have something delivered so you don’t have to stop?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll take care of it. I’ll probably just get a pizza or some Chinese, okay?”

  Pizza or Chinese. So much for her seafood dinner. From seven fishes down to one: a can of tuna Ryan found in the cupboard and made into sandwiches for their lunch.

  “I miss you, Jeremy.”

  “I miss you, too,” he said, but he sounded distracted. Well, of course. He was at work. “Look, I’ve got one bar left on my phone. I forgot to charge it last night and it’s about to die. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I’ll get there—with dinner.”