by Liz Moore
—
Upon entry, I am met with the familiar smell of all such houses, and the deep chill of a shadowy structure in winter. Interior cold, I think, is even bitterer than the cold of the outdoors. No sunlight penetrates the inside of these abandoned homes, not boarded up as they are. The air is still and brutal, like the inside of a freezer.
I take two steps and wait while my eyes adjust. The floorboards creak precariously. I am afraid, in fact, of stepping on the wrong one—or an absent one—and being summarily deposited into the basement.
I wish I had my duty belt, if only so that I had access to my flashlight. Instead, I palm my cell phone and turn on its flashlight application.
I swing it around, shining it toward all four corners of the room I’m standing in. I realize, as I do, that I’m expecting to see human bodies: lifeless ones or living ones, I can’t be sure. But I see neither. Only a few mattresses on the floor, heaped with cardboard and trash bags and blankets, and some piles of fabric—clothing, most likely—and other objects I can’t identify. This abando appears to be, at least for the moment, actually abandoned.
I think of Truman’s description of his encounter with Dock, and recall his saying that, at one point, it sounded like Dock disappeared upstairs. But I don’t see a staircase. Not immediately, anyway.
I inch forward and shine my phone toward the front of the house, across from where I entered. I see a front door and a small threshold cut into a wall that ends before a foyer. The staircase, I realize, must be on the other side of that wall.
My eyes have finally adjusted enough for me to walk more confidently, and suddenly I am propelled forward by a new sense of urgency. Get in, I think, and get out.
I mount the staircase quickly, stepping over a few rotten steps as I go, holding the rough banister in my left hand.
When I reach the top, I see a human face staring back at me, wide-eyed.
I drop my phone with a clatter and realize, at the same time, that the face is my own, reflected back to me in a mirror mounted to the wall.
Shakily, I retrieve the phone and begin the old familiar routine of peering into doorways in search of my sister.
I realize that I’m sniffing the air for signs of decaying bodies. It’s not a smell one readily forgets. But although the house smells awful, I am grateful to observe that it lacks the distinct and nauseating scent of human death.
A bathroom is missing both its toilet and its tub: there are gaping holes in the floor where both used to be.
A bedroom contains an old sofa, a bunch of magazines, and some used condoms on the floor.
In another, there’s a bare mattress on the floor and a chalkboard on the wall, bold markings on it in a childish hand. The windows on the upstairs rooms aren’t boarded, and in the daylight they let in I can make out what the artist has depicted: a sort of skyline, a city of tall buildings with innumerable windows represented by tiny dots. I gaze at it, wondering whether the drawing was created before the house’s abandonment, or whether a child might more recently have drawn it. There are three stubby pieces of chalk on the wooden rail beneath it, and I can’t resist: I reach for one and make a tiny, inconspicuous mark in the right-hand corner. It’s been years since I drew on slate.
I’m just returning the chalk to its groove when I hear someone enter the house below.
I flinch. And the chalk makes a slow arc from the rail to the floor, landing with an unmistakable clack.
Who’s up there, the person says. A man.
Wildly, I eye the nearest window. How badly injured would I be, I wonder, if I opened it and dropped down to the ground from the second floor?
Before I can decide, I hear loud footsteps pounding up the staircase, and I freeze.
I wish I had my weapon now.
I keep my hands visible. I clear my throat, prepared to speak.
The person pauses on the landing at the top of the stairs. When I entered this bedroom, I closed the door behind me, but didn’t latch it. I can almost taste my heart as it hammers in my chest. It feels abnormally high inside me, as if it’s trying to escape up through my throat.
The bedroom door opens with a bang. Someone has kicked it open.
At first I don’t recognize him.
He’s been very badly beaten. His right eye is swollen completely shut. It’s black and green. His nose looks out of joint. His ear, too, is swollen, as is his upper lip.
But his haircut is familiar, as is his orange jacket.
—Dock? I say.
I’m shivering now. My knees are knocking. Perversely, I’m embarrassed. It’s cold in here, I want to say. I’m shaking because I’m cold.
—What the fuck are you doing here, he says.
—Looking for you, I say.
I’m improvising.
He takes one step forward, slowly.
—How did you find me, he says.
—I asked around, I say. You know. I know people out here.
He gives out a sound that’s like a laugh, but painful. He puts a hand to his side. I wonder if his ribs are broken.
—What are you carrying? he says.
I hesitate, just for a minute. There’s a very, very small chance that I might convince him I’m armed. And that this might let me make my escape. But I don’t know if he is, and therefore it might be foolish to bluff.
—Nothing, I say.
—Raise your hands, he says.
When I’ve done so, he comes toward me and lifts up my shirt. Then looks down the waistband of my pants. He places his hands all over me. I stand there, feeling helpless.
—I should kill you, he says softly.
—I’m sorry? I say.
—I should kill you, he says, for what your family did to me.
I go very still.
—I don’t understand, I say.
—I don’t understand, says Dock, mockingly. Imitating me.
—One thing Kacey always talked about, he says, is how smart you were. She might have been mad at you. But the way she talked about you, you would have thought you were Alfred Einstein.
I look down at the floor. I stay silent. But it takes all of my strength not to say, Albert.
—So I’m not sure I believe you, Dock continues, when you say you don’t understand.
I keep my eyes on the floor. I am trying to be as unchallenging as possible. One thing they taught us in the police academy that I have found useful, actually, is how to use your body to convey what you cannot say with your words alone.
Dock points to his face. Look up, he says. Look at me. This wasn’t a fair fight, he says. Does this look like a fair fight to you? If you see Bobby O’Brien, you should tell him to watch his back.
Bobby.
I close my eyes. Remember the strange look that passed over his face, upon learning Dock’s name at Thanksgiving.
—I apologize sincerely if my cousin did that, I say. You should know that I rarely talk to him. We aren’t close.
He scoffs. Right, he says.
—We’re not, I say. If he did that to you, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.
Dock pauses, assessing me.
He shifts a little. Scratches his head.
—Why do I believe you? he says at last. It’s weird, but I believe you.
—That’s good, I say, lifting my head just a little. Glancing up. Then lowering it again.
—Huh, he says, as if surprised.
—Still, he says, you tell him that if you see him. Tell him not to come around the Ave. There are a lot of people here on my side of things.
—I’ll convey the message, I say.
He laughs again. Then grimaces. Put your hands down, he says. Your arms must be getting tired.
—What are you doing here, he says.
—Looking for Kacey, I say.
&nb
sp; I’ve run out of reasons to lie.
He nods. You love her? he says.
I stiffen.
—She’s my sister, I say, carefully. And she’s also a citizen of the district I patrol.
Dock laughs again, a little. You’re weird, he says.
Then he says, Listen. Get out of here. I don’t know where she is. I’m telling you the truth.
—All right, I say. Thank you.
I don’t know if he is. I do know I want to leave unharmed. I can still feel his hands on my body. It gives me a crawling feeling, the need to get into a shower.
Before he can change his mind, I walk toward the door and into the hallway. But as I’m about to descend the stairs, he calls out again.
—Mickey, he says.
Slowly, I turn around. Dock is backlit now, framed by the window, a shadow. I can’t see his expression.
—You should be more careful, he says. You’ve got a son to think about.
My muscles tense, as if preparing for a fight.
—What did you say? I say, slowly.
—I said you’ve got a son, he says. Thomas, right?
Then he sits down on the mattress in the corner and lowers himself painfully until he is prone.
—That’s all, he says.
He closes his eyes.
I leave.
Dock’s voice as he said my son’s name, Thomas, echoes in my ears. If it was meant to be a threat, it worked.
I sit in my car, contemplating my next move. It’s obvious, I think, that if my cousin Bobby is the perpetrator of the attack on Dock, then he knows more than he was letting on at Thanksgiving. And yet it’s also obvious that he’s not prepared to tell me any of it.
My only chance, I think, is to surprise him in some way, or get information about him secondhand.
Without much optimism, I text my cousin Ashley.
Do you know where Bobby’s living these days?
* * *
—
While I wait for her to respond, I call Truman. He answers right away.
—Mickey, he says, when I’ve finished talking. I can’t believe you. What were you thinking.
I feel myself growing stubborn.
—Truman, I say, I was simply relying on the evidence I was given to make an informed decision. I knew he’d be out of that house at two-thirty. I knew the house needed to be searched for clues to Kacey’s whereabouts. So I made the decision to do it.
Over the phone, I can almost hear Truman shaking his head. Putting his hands to his temples.
—No, Mick, he says. That’s not how things work. You could have gotten killed. You understand?
Hearing Truman say it this way, so bluntly, I falter.
—Listen, he says. You’re in over your head. Both of us are. Did you even report her missing yet?
I hesitate. I tried, I say. I tried to tell Ahearn. He was busy.
—Then tell a detective, says Truman. A real one. Not us. Tell DiPaolo.
My resistance to the idea increases with every appeal Truman makes to me. I can’t put my finger on why, but distantly a bell is sounding in my brain, and if I could just get Truman to stop talking, perhaps I could hear it.
—Mickey, Truman says, you’ve got to get serious, now. This guy knows about Thomas. He used Thomas’s name. No more messing around.
Finally, the reason for my reluctance presents itself to me. I picture Paula Mulroney’s incredulous face as she said to me the words that have haunted me since I heard them. That’s one of your guys, she said. Your guys. Your guys. Then I picture Ahearn as he received this information. How quickly he shoved it aside.
There it is, at last. The reason I haven’t told my colleagues about my sister’s disappearance: I am not certain, anymore, that I can trust them.
Truman has gone silent. I’ve gone silent. The only sound between us is our breath.
—Hey, he says finally. You might not give a shit about your own life. But Thomas does. And I do.
Reflexively, my face reddens. I am unused to such direct statements from Truman.
—Are you hearing me? says Truman.
I nod. Then, remembering that I’m on the telephone, I clear my throat, and say, I am.
* * *
—
After I’ve hung up, my phone dings once.
A text from Ashley.
Nope.
* * *
—
At home tonight, I spend an extra half hour reading to Thomas on the sofa. I listen to him tell me the small tribulations and successes of his day. I count with him as we name the days until his birthday celebration, happy to know there is something in his life he is looking forward to.
CARLOTTA AND LILA, Thomas begins chanting, as soon as he sees them across the McDonald’s. CARLOTTA AND LILA. CARLOTTA AND LILA.
We rushed to get here. We’re fifteen minutes late for Thomas’s own party. South Philadelphia is a half hour from Bensalem, and somehow time got away from me.
The girls run toward Thomas.
—Hello, I say to their mothers, and they both say hi. Lila’s mother gives me a hug, which I accept stiffly. I know them both vaguely from Thomas’s time at Spring Garden Day School, but I had to look up their first names before I called them.
They are two different types. Carlotta’s mother is older than me, probably in her mid-forties, with curly hair and a practical zip-up parka and mittens that look hand-knit.
Lila’s mother is around my age, early thirties. She has bangs and long wavy hair and she’s wearing a blue coat, clasped with a belt, and both are so beautifully made that I want to reach out and touch them. On her feet are boots with chunky heels and in her ears are delicate golden earrings that dangle almost to her collar. She looks like she works in fashion. Like she smells nice. Like she has a blog.
In my slacks and my white button-down, I probably look like a waitress.
Both mothers, in different ways, seem like they came from good families, went to good colleges.
Both of them, I realize sharply and belatedly, look like they have never eaten at a McDonald’s in their lives.
—This is so great, says Lila’s mom, Lauren. The kids are in heaven.
But Carlotta’s mother, Georgia, appears mildly concerned. She’s scanning the play equipment as if looking for danger.
—I didn’t know they had an indoor playground, she says to me.
—They do, I say. It’s the draw. It’s the only one in the city, and Thomas loves it. I’m sorry you had to come all the way here, though.
—No problem at all, says Lauren. It’s not hard to get here. We just took Columbus down. And they have parking, she adds. What a luxury.
—No problem, Georgia agrees, after a beat.
We stand together in silence for a moment, watching the children play. Lila and Thomas have scaled the ladder that leads into a little elevated playhouse, and Carlotta is bathing in the ball pit, flailing her limbs wildly, as if making a snow angel. I glance at Carlotta’s mother, who, from the look on her face, seems to be wondering how frequently everything is cleaned.
—So how’s work? Lauren asks me. I never spoke to anyone at Thomas’s school about what I do, but I imagine both women used to see me picking him up in uniform sometimes, when I didn’t have time to change.
—Pretty good, I say. You know. Busy.
I hesitate. I want to ask them what they do, but there’s a part of me that imagines they might not work—that they might have the resources to send their children to nursery school for its enriching qualities, not because their livelihoods depend upon it.
I am still struggling with how to phrase this question when Georgia says, What’s going on with those murders in Kensington?
—Oh, I say, surprised. Well, there’s a lead. But nothing definite.
—A
re they connected? says Georgia.
—Looks like it, I say.
—I hope you guys figure it out, says Georgia. I don’t like how close that whole business is to the kids’ school.
I pause.
—Well, I say. I don’t think preschoolers are what this person is after.
Both women look at me.
—I mean, yes, me too, I say. I think we’re getting close to apprehending him. Don’t worry.
More false comfort dispensed. More silence. I cross my arms around my middle, shift my weight from leg to leg.
—I hope everyone’s okay, says Georgia, looking at her watch.
—Who? I say. Confused.
—I mean I hope everyone can find this place okay. I got turned around a little bit myself.
—Oh, I say, suddenly realizing. Oh, this is it.
—Keeping it small, says Lauren. Smart.
—This is it? Georgia says, making a circle in the air with her hand.
Thomas comes over, ready with a list of things he wants to order. A shake and chicken nuggets and a hamburger and french fries and another shake. Lila and Carlotta are behind him, ready with their own orders. Clearly they’ve been plotting.
But Georgia kneels down and places her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Carlotta, she says, we talked about this. We brought lunch, remember?
Carlotta’s eyes get wide. She begins shaking her head back and forth, incredulous at the injustice that’s about to transpire.
—No, she says. No, I need a hambirder. I need a hambirder and fries.
Georgia glances up at us quickly before standing and steering her daughter, now crying, ten feet away, where she crouches down again and speaks to her lowly, urgently.
I turn away, pretending not to watch, or care. But I can imagine what Georgia is telling Carlotta: This food is not for us, honey. This is not food that is healthy enough or nourishing enough for me to allow you to eat.
I imagine that she thought it would be a large party. That they could slip away unnoticed to eat their healthful, nourishing food.
—What’s wrong with Carlotta? Thomas asks, and I say, I’m not sure. Let’s give her some space.
