by Dave White
Twice in one day. He’d lost Ashley twice in a day. It didn’t matter how he felt yesterday or a week ago, he’d lost her, he hadn’t given her up. John let her go, gently, laying her on the floor. He closed her eyes. She didn’t look like she was sleeping, but at least she didn’t look as scared.
He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. A woman answered and asked what his emergency was. He’d only had to call 911 once in his life, when he had office duty and a kid down the hall had a diabetes attack and passed out.
“Ashley, she’s been shot! She’s not breathing.”
“Okay. What’s your location?”
He gave it.
“There will be someone on their way. What’s your name?”
“John Brighton.”
He held the phone to his ear with two hands, gripping it so tight, his skin burned against his knuckles.
“All right. Someone will be there shortly. Just stay where you are. Stay on the line with me.”
He’d told them his name. Two hours earlier he’d been arrested, people were coming after him, and he’d just told the police his name. He hung up the phone. He squeezed his eyes shut and let the tears burn his cheeks.
There was a light rapping on the front door.
“Hello? Ashley?” It was Megan, Ashley’s neighbor.
John stayed quiet. He’d already called for help. He didn’t want to answer, and bring attention to himself. Didn’t want her to come in and see all this.
“Ash? I thought I heard screaming. Hello?” Then a pause. “If you’re okay say something.”
John held his breath and waited a minute. He heard the clunk of footsteaps walking way.
He dialed Michelle’s number from memory. She picked up after two rings.
“Ashley? What’s up?”
“It’s not Ashley, it’s John.”
“Are you kidding? They told me you broke out of jail. Are you insane? What are you doing at Ashley’s house? Are you okay?”
He could hear the blinker from her car, and the radio in the background.
“Wait.”
“John, you got to turn yourself in! My dad got you a lawyer, but he’s not going to be able—”
“I told you to wait!”
Michelle stopped talking.
He looked at Ashley once more. Her skin had darkened.
“I need help. I think Ashley’s dead.”
Silence on the other end of the line. He looked over at Ashley and pictured her standing up and walking over to him. She had a way of just wrapping her arms around him when he was down and tension would seep from his body.
No more.
“What happened?” Michelle finally said. Her voice shook.
“She got me out of jail. She set the police station on fire, and then she got me out of there. Took me to her apartment. Said someone was—Oh God—someone was trying to kill her. And me. We were in danger. Then some woman in a ski mask—she had a gun.”
The convulsions were back. He couldn’t get the words out anymore.
“Jesus, John have you lost your mind?”
“What, I—?”
“Did you call an ambulance? The police?”
“They’re on their way.”
“Good. Stay there. They can help. Just go with the police. We’ll sort this out.”
“Ashley said if I go with the police I could get killed. I need help, Michelle. I don’t know what’s going on. Have you talked to Frank?”
“No. Why?”
“I need to talk to him. I need to.”
The world twisted and started to fall away. John dropped the phone and then gripped the edge of the couch to keep his balance.
As the phone skidded across the hardwood floor, he heard Michelle say, “Did you shoot her John?”
Sirens were loud coming down the street. These were for him. The ones he’d called. John blinked out the fire that had returned to his shoulder and knew there was only one option now.
Run.
Christine pulled the ski mask off her head, and stepped on the gas, turning on to River Road. Hopefully the cops would show up and think it was a lover’s spat. That the guy from the news killed her. He’d apparently killed a bunch of guys on the dock. Why not leave him alive? He’d be the perfect patsy.
Tucking her Bluetooth into her ear, she dialed a secure number. She hadn’t called it in years and she hoped it still worked.
“Yes?” Short, gruff, rusty.
“Uncle Tony,” she said.
“Are you finished?”
“I got one. The woman. I ran into the man from the news, but he couldn’t tell me where Peter was. He didn’t even seem to know who Peter was.”
“I didn’t think he would. Peter Callahan is very good at his job.”
She could envision her aging uncle’s smug smile on the other end of the line, crooking at the side of his mouth, his eyes squinting slightly, as if he were going to pat her on the head. Like she was a child.
He’d taken care of her for her entire life, steered her into her career. She never got to see her half sister. Never saw her father. That was how Uncle Tony wanted it. That was how her dad wanted it. She’d only gotten to hang out with her half sister after they met at an office party her biological father threw when Christine was 18. Not that her father had invited her. Her stepsister was in college, felt bad about what ended up happening. She invited Christine to her dorm the next weekend. First time Christine ever drank. She barely remembered the night.
Just the Zima.
And Lew.
She got drunk on Zima of all things. She didn’t want to think about that night.
“Hey, I’m glad you got the woman. Easy one first, right?” Tony laughed.
“Thanks.” What else was she going to say?
I’m glad you’re glad. Pay me.
“She was a traitor.”
“She worked for you?”
“No. The man who hired me. But this is going to help me as well. I’m rebuilding after all the FBI raids and the New York war. This is something that can put us back on the map, can make me legitimate again. I will be right back with Donte Maiore.” Her uncle swore in Italian.
Donte Maiore was the big boss in New York. One of the few men who still meant something in the mob game. He’d been in the process of decimating the New Jersey mob, so he could have the metropolitan area to himself. Since Tony’s dad died, Tony had to listen to what Donte said. That’s what Tony’s dad wanted.
“I still need to find Peter.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re going to take care of that.”
“How?”
“Don’t ask questions, just trust me. And once you did, you’re going to be very happy. I told you, you’d probably run into your sister, didn’t I?” Tony coughed. “And then you can back up and do it again.”
Christine sighed. Her uncle always made things difficult. Always playing games. Always keeping things close to the vest. And making stupid jokes like he was in the Catskills.
“It’s all part of the plan,” he said. “We’ll be in touch. And soon. Be ready.”
She wanted to ask what plan. She wanted to say she was ready now. She just wanted to get this over with and get paid.
She hung up the phone and wiped the blood off her knife.
Michelle pulled the car over into the shoulder. She watched an airplane take off from Newark Liberty Airport, the low rumble of the jet turning to thunder as it passed over her car. Her stomach fluttered like a flag in the wind, and she swallowed to try and calm it.
She dialed Frank, her fingers trembling enough to make her miss the buttons the first time. She once went to a wake for one of her students’ mother. The mother’d had bladder cancer and passed away when Hailey was at school. They’d called her out of Michelle’s class to tell her. Two days later, Michelle stepped into the funeral home, waited on a long line, and said a prayer at the coffin. When she stood again, Hailey was standing behind her, tears streaming down her face. Hailey wrapped her arms ar
ound Michelle’s waist and pressed her face to Michelle’s stomach and sobbed. Hailey’s father sank to his knees as he watched. Afterward, Michelle went home and drank a whole bottle of wine.
Frank was in Chicago at the time, working, not answering calls, and bringing back a model of the Sears Tower when he returned. As soon as he got back, she told him what happened. He held her for a long time, apologizing over and over for missing her calls. Wishing he had been there.
Michelle wished Frank was with her now so she could sob into his chest again.
She dialed her phone and blinked when he answered immediately. A first for when he was working.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?”
“Oh my God, Frank. John just called me. He said Ashley’s dead. She got shot.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, except for a soft, wet click. As if Frank was catching his breath. She waited, feeling her legs tingle, like her nerves were trying to poke through her skin.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“John’s snapped. He thought Ashley broke up with him. He got arrested. And then he broke out. I asked him if he killed Ashley and he hung up on me.”
“You did what?”
“I asked if he killed Ashley,” she repeated.
She could hear Frank take in air, and wondered was he was doing. Had she interrupted a major meeting? Some intense negotiation on the price of steel? Or was he just hanging out in his office, drinking a Jameson on the rocks? She no longer asked. Every time she had before, he just talked around it. Telling her it was work, it was boring, and how was her day.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said.
She blinked. “Frank, I’m fine. I’m just—I don’t know what else to think.”
“He didn’t kill her. You know him better than that.”
Michelle took a deep breath.
“He’s had such a hard life, Frank. Hannah, his parents breaking up. He’s been seeing a shrink.”
“Do you really think he’s capable of killing someone?”
Cars flew by her on the Turnpike. Horns blared as a truck cut across three lanes to make the next exit.
“No,” she said. “That’s not John at all. Oh God, what was I thinking?”
“It’s okay,” Frank said.
“I wish you were here.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I have some things to tell you. It’s important, and I want to do it in person.”
Her face went hot.
“What do you want to talk to me about? What is it? This night has gone crazy. Frank, tell me. What is it?”
“Not now,” he said. “It’s better in person.”
Her body felt like she was trapped in a box and couldn’t punch her way out. The car was getting smaller, enveloping her.
“Frank. Frank tell me now. I can’t. What am I supposed to do?”
“Go home. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m staying at my father’s tonight.”
Pause.
“Fine,” Frank said. “Be careful. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Trust me, Michelle. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I miss you. I want you to be here with me.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll talk to you soon. I promise.”
He hung up. Michelle fought the urge to be sick, swallowing hard. She dug a piece of gum out of her purse, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. Merging back into traffic, she realized how carefully she would have to drive.
It was hard to see with tears in her eyes.
Where the hell was he going to run?
After slapping a dish towel over his shoulder to stop the bleeding, John’d found some gauze, Bactine, and medical tape in Ashley’s bathroom, and took it with him, hobbling down the steps of the apartment building and out on to the street. It was late and cold, no one was out wandering.
He made a quick turn around the corner and shuffled away from the front door. As he did, an ambulance blew past him, making a hard left in front of the building. He prayed for Ashley as it did. Then he looked at her car.
Take the car, he thought. Take the car and drive away.
But the last thing he needed was to get caught on a robbery charge too. He thought he could exonerate himself from the murder charges, he didn’t want to actually do anything illegal…
A fugitive. He’d run from the police. What was his life going to become now? What would administration think? The other teachers? His students?
What were they going to do with Ashley’s body? He took a breath and his chest shuddered with another wave of emotion. Why had she been with Frank that day?
Patrick Lyons lived just down the street from here. Pat was someone who used to work with John until the specter of tenure came up, and suddenly administration thought he wasn’t planning well enough. They cut his job out last summer. Pat now worked in a Central Jersey district, just north of the Raritan River. Teaching the same way, and getting praise for it from his new administrators.
He’d help. John and Patrick had been through plenty of bar fights since they started hanging out. Usually, whoever was the drunker of the two started them and the sober one ended them. Except John could never remember either of them throwing a punch.
John walked up the asphalt pathway to the one story brick apartment buiding, found Pat’s name on the buzzer and pressed. His shoulder felt like Shaquille O’Neill was stepping on it.
Through the intercom: “Yeah?”
“Pat, it’s John.”
Nothing.
Then the front door buzzed, and John stepped inside. The radiators spit heat, sizzling from the vents. The complex kept the heat way up, as tenants didn’t have to pay for it. John fought off a shiver. Stepping around the corner, he saw Pat’s door open. He rushed down the hall, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
Pat stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a couch, coffee table, and movie posters. The Fugitive. Goodfellas. Casino Royale. His arms were crossed, and his face was taut. There were four open beer bottles on the table. Two still had beer in them. John wondered for a second if Pat’s date was still there, hiding in the bedroom.
“I’m glad you’re here,” John said.
“What the hell happened?”
“Ashley’s dead,” he said.
Pat dropped his arms to his side.
“John, she’s not dead, you just had an argument. And why the hell was your picture all over the news tonight? You drunk?”
“No.” John ran his hand through his hair.
“What the hell happened to your arm? You’re a mess.”
“I’m—I’m trying to tell you what happened.”
“Hold on,” Pat said and went into his bedroom.
An instant later, a girl, with hair pulled back behind her head, clutching her jacket, walked out of the room. She gave John a quick glance, and then left, slamming the door as she went.
John had walked in on Pat before. He and Michelle were supposed to meet Pat and a new girl for a double date a few years back. Apparently, the date went really well before they got there. Pat let Michelle and John in before the girl was ready to go . . . out to dinner. She was ready for other things. She was apparently so embarrassed Pat let them in, she flipped John off and bolted. John squeezed Michelle’s hand tightly and felt himself flush. Michelle laughed and gave Pat a thumbs up with her free hand.
Getting flipped off and being embarrassed tonight would have been the least of John’s problems.
The walls felt closer here, as if pressing in toward his shoulders. There wasn’t room to move around. Too much garbage littered on the floor. The heat was pumping in here as well, and Pat didn’t offer to open a window. The room tilted off its axis a bit, and John stepped forward and collapsed into the couch. Another explosion erupted in his shoulder and shot down his arm and into his chest. Now it felt like Shaq had learned to tap dance.
“John,” Pat said, sitting down next to him. “
What the hell?”
John went through it. The whole thing. Even stuff Pat had heard before. The wedding, Ashley acting funny. Frank. The bodies. When he mentioned Ashley’s stomach wound, he gagged and had to put his head between his knees. After he got his breath back, he finished the story.
