The One That Got Away

by Joe Clifford

  “What?”

  “I love your cousin but she’s not a runway model.”

  “And I am?”

  “Come on, Alex. You know you’re the pretty one. And, fuck, it ain’t been easy for Linda living in your shadow.”

  “My shadow?”

  “Your star has always shone brighter.”

  “Brighter? You mean because I was kidnapped when I was a teenager and chained up in a basement?”

  He slid his empty plate into the sink, looming above her, paw on shoulder. “I got to go to bed. I pay the rent here. You can stay as long as you want.”

  “What was that business about a PO?”

  “Got into a fight. Long time ago. Long story.”

  “I don’t remember you fighting so much.”

  “I fight. If I have to.”

  “You had to last night?”

  Tommy didn’t answer.

  “Don’t want to tell me what happened?”

  Tommy squeezed harder till Alex let it go.

  He motioned toward a rear door. “That’s the spare room. Ain’t much. But the couch pulls out.” Tommy pointed at the closet. “Pillows and blankets are in there. I expect to see you when I leave for work in the morning, understand?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Linda went out for more beer. She’ll be back in a few.”

  “I don’t have the energy to fight right now.”

  “Won’t be a fight.”

  Alex took her beer to the porch. Pulling the hoodie and zipping the bomber, Alex felt for her cigarettes, remembering she’d smoked the last one at the hospital. She hadn’t thought to ask Tommy to stop at Cumberland Farms. Even after he dropped her at the Royal Motel to grab her car, she’d neglected to pick up another pack on the way over. Her thoughts zoomed in other directions, most circling back to Riley. She glanced at the bedroom door, wondering how fast Tommy fell asleep.

  A few minutes later, her cousin hoofed up the steps with a brown paper sack, which she set on the porch between them. Linda reached in her bulky coat, pulling a new pack of Parliaments and tossing them to Alex. Then she reached in the bag and extracted a case of Bud Light and fifth of Jim Beam. She plucked a pair of paper cups from the floor, peering inside to make sure they weren’t too dirty, blowing to remove any dust and debris, and filled a few fingers in each, handing one to Alex and hoisting hers in a cheers.

  Linda downed the shot, poured another, and stared at the brownstone and brick.

  Alex held the burning Parliament. “You remembered?”

  “Sorry about before.” Her cousin plucked the burning cigarette from her fingers. “What’s the deal with this reporter?”

  “He’s not a reporter. Just some college kid working on a class project. He wanted to talk about Kira Shanks.”

  “Kira Skanks?”

  “Shanks.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what they called her.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone. She had a reputation. You were gone by then.”

  “I was still living here when she went missing.”

  “No. You weren’t.”

  “Reputation?”

  “She was the town bike.”

  “Town bike?”

  “Everyone got a ride.” Linda drained her second shot, sucked her beer dry, and stood with a stagger. She leaned her stocky frame against the wall, bending down for a clumsy kiss on the top of Alex’s head. “I’mma hit the head. Then turn in. Sorry about before.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You know I love you, right?” She didn’t look at Alex when she said this.

  Alex clasped a hand over hers, until Linda peeled away and stumbled inside, toward the bedroom.

  Alex sat on the porch late into the night, smoking cigarettes, drinking alone, and watching sneakers sway on the telephone line.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Even though Tommy had told her the couch pulled out into a bed, Alex hadn’t bothered making the effort. She grabbed the afghan shawl from the backrest, curling up in her jeans and tee. The long day had stumbled without grace into night; she was beat, drained, and didn’t have the heart for commitment. And right then converting a sofa into a pullout constituted a commitment. As usual sleep didn’t knock her out all the way. Alex spent listless hours tumbling, turning, tossing, listening to cars cruise the block through a haze, shadows transmogrifying into monsters behind her eyelids.

  Sharp shafts of sunlight sliced through bent plastic blinds, dust mite constellations clogging the beams. Alex sat up and cradled her head, which like yesterday morning throbbed with a vicious hangover. Except Alex hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover. These last couple days felt like straight edge compared to her usual intake. Maybe that was the problem and she was suffering withdrawal. Except Alex Salerno had never been strung out on anything. She made sure of that. After witnessing Denise dragged down by drugs, drink, men, the desperate depths to which her mother sank in pursuit of a fix, Alex swore she’d never let herself get addicted to anything. Maybe it was a caffeine headache.

  Alex knew Linda and Tommy were gone. She felt the emptiness inside the apartment, the vacant sound of empty rooms. She checked the time on her cell to be sure. She wasn’t up for company or conversation. Her head wouldn’t stop thrumming. She made for the kitchen to rehydrate and find coffee. Defective paper cups that failed to pass inspection stacked along the counter, tottering in towers, Have a Nice Day slightly off center. She filled one with tap water and downed it in a single swallow. Empty pints and handles, flattened beer boxes stomped like accordions were stacked up in corners, waiting to be carried to recycling.

  She made a couple calls to get her upcoming shifts at the bar covered. She’d worry about the dogs later. Rifling cupboards, Alex found a bag of coffee grounds but no maker. There was a jar of Folger’s instant on the counter. Maybe city living had turned her into another hipster snob when it came to her coffee. Back home, there was an artisan shop on every corner, barista a legitimate career choice, good macchiato an art form. Headache or not, she wasn’t drinking Folger’s.

  Alex shut the cupboard doors, squeezing her skull, jamming thumbs into eye sockets to block out that final image from the hospital, the one that didn’t gel with the rest of what she thought she knew.

  When she’d left the hospital yesterday afternoon, Alex had stolen a last look at Benny Brudzienski, slumped in his chair, melting like a dirty snowman in the sun. She’d hoped to impart one final, searing condemnation, let him know, hard luck or not, she had no sympathy for his kind. What he’d done was unforgivable; he deserved no mercy, death too good a fate. But when their eyes met that last time, Alex saw something she didn’t expect: life stirring within. Which on the heels of Noah Lee’s claims should’ve been enough to make her scream, “Faker!” Except the transitory glance conveyed something else, wrenching emotion Alex couldn’t qualify at the time, so she stuffed it away with the rest of the inconsequential information she had no use for, kind words from ugly boys, career trajectory, algebra. Overnight that expression had burbled back to the surface, crawling, scratching, clawing at the light. Until she couldn’t ignore it any longer. Standing in her cousin’s kitchen, she understood what that look had been: a person trapped under the ice, very much alive, desperate for release.

  Alex shouldn’t be here. She needed to get back to the city. She had to start looking for another job, find a better roommate situation, maybe get a place of her own, a means to improve her lot, because at this rate she might as well be stuck in Reine, where it cost a helluva lot less to be going nowhere.

  Someone banged on the door, the hard, bottom-of-the-fist kind used by cops. Alex had been tossed out of enough late-night parties to recognize the calling card. She didn’t move right away, instinctual guilt taking hold.

  “It’s me, Nick. From the Fireside.” A mop-top of bedhead poked above the archway window, eyes peeping through the glazing. “Nick Graves?”

&nbs
p; Alex crossed the floor and let him in. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Tommy.”

  Alex waited, but Nick didn’t say anything, so she wound her hand to hurry up. She didn’t want to be rude but the caffeine headache—and by now that’s what she’d convinced herself it was—made getting coffee inside her bloodstream priority number one.

  “I wanted to apologize for what I said. I was drunk. Shooting my mouth off. I didn’t mean that stuff about you.”

  The guy had been staring all night, fluctuating between mean-mugging and moon-eyed. He’d been impossible to get a read on. Either way, he’d offered little more than his name. He certainly hadn’t said anything inappropriate. Then she began to understand.

  “That’s why Tommy kicked your ass.” She had a tough time fighting back the grin.

  “I wouldn’t say he kicked—”

  “Oh, he kicked your ass.” Alex smiled, pointing at the black eye and Band-Aid slapped over the bridge of his nose. “You said something bad about me and Tommy beat the shit out of you.” Good ol’ Tommy defending her honor. She lifted her chin. “What did you say?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Um, yeah. You came all this way to beg forgiveness, ’fess up.”

  Nick shuffled his feet, staring at his shoes. “I called you an attention whore.”

  “You called me a…whore?”

  “Attention whore. I was drunk. That’s why I came here. To say I’m sorry!”

  “Okay, Nick Graves. You said you said were sorry. Apology accepted.” She didn’t mean it but she didn’t care either; she’d been called worse. Let him ease his conscience and move on. She had places to go, the first being somewhere with a decent cup of coffee.

  She went to close the door.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “What are you talking about? I saw you two nights ago.”

  “I mean before that. Tenth grade? Reine High? I sat behind you in Mrs. Hallback’s homeroom class all year. The spring before, you know.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Sure. I remember you.”

  “It’s not a trick question.”

  “No, Nick, I don’t. Okay? Sorry. Nothing personal. I don’t remember a lot from that time. I try to forget it.”

  “We were back to back. Our names. Saldana, Salerno. I was only there the year. My stepdad was in the military. I had his last name while he was married to my mom before switching back to my real dad’s name, Graves. We’re from here but bounced around a lot. My stepdad, Joe, was in the military. Army. Actually finished high school in Virginia, before moving—”

  “Great. I feel like I know you so much better. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because,” Nick said, face flushing, “I had a crush on you back then but you didn’t know I existed. And then you show up the other night, and I was piss drunk, and in a bad mood, and I don’t know. Suddenly I’m sixteen again. Trying to get you to notice me, which was pointless since you don’t even remember me. So I acted like a dick. I’m sorry.” He waited, like he wanted to shake her hand, pulling up short, averting his eyes.

  It was adorable how flustered he was getting.

  “We cool?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “We’re cool.”

  Nick nodded over his shoulder toward a flatbed pulled on the curb. “You want to get breakfast? I have the day off. I move furniture for my Uncle Jimmy, but today—”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “And I have a girlfriend. Fuck, I’m just trying to be nice. There’s a great roadside café on the way to Rensselaer. They make the best coffee. I’m serious, freshly ground, like one cup at a time. It’s the shit. Homemade pastries delivered too. Thought I could buy you a bear claw, make up for being an asshole the other night. But I mean if you’re too busy—”

  “Good coffee?”

  Nick Graves wasn’t lying. In a town fueled by watered-down Dunkin’ Donuts swill and burnt gas station brew, good coffee had finally found its way to Reine. Alex cupped her hands around the piping hot cup, savoring each sip. She tapped her Chuck Taylors in the squishy mud underfoot, downright giddy with the charged rush of quality caffeine.

  The two sat outside Java the Hutt on railroad ties, the only seats provided. The pop-up mobile shop was designed to gas and go but couldn’t meet the demand fast enough. A line stretched around the edge of the truck, overflowing into the trampled weeds that served as a makeshift lot, which showcased two types of vehicles: old pickups and puke-green Priuses. Place was packed for a weekday morning, and the crowd was younger than Alex would’ve guessed, a trendy new hot spot, tech kids fueling up before zipping off to the jobs where important things got done. Even Reine was getting in on the hipster action. Alex dug out her cigarettes, absentmindedly offering Nick the pack.

  He shook her off. “That shit will kill you.”

  “What won’t?”

  “So,” Nick asked, “what have you been up to since I saw you last?”

  “Well, there was that whole abduction thing.”

  “I mean, after that.”

  “Like what have I been doing for the last twelve years?”

  “Sure. We can start there. How about work? What do you do?”

  Alex could see where this was headed. She wasn’t up for being the answer to anyone’s problems, revisiting high school what-ifs. “Thanks for the coffee and bear claw, but this isn’t a date.”

  “I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

  “I’m sure you are doing your best.”

  Nick laughed uneasy, unsure how offended he should be. He turned away and pretended to be interested in a particular license plate.

  The morning commute limped along the one lane, either headed for downtown Rensselaer or making wide, looping arcs for Interstate 787 or the 90, en route to Albany or Rye. Even the way the traffic here flowed was depressing, everything mismatched and unappealing, like poor people picking out glued-together ribeyes at the dollar store.

  Nick stood, zipping the sleeveless vest over his thermal. “I’ll drop you back at Linda and Tommy’s.”

  Alex panned around the borders of her old hometown, skyline plugged with ash and soot from nearby factories along the river. Strange something so hostile and ugly could invite such nostalgia. She wasn’t ready to go just yet.

  “What are you doing today?” she asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “You don’t have to apologize. It’s a simple question. What are you doing today?”

  “Nothing. I have the day off.”

  “Want to take a ride with me?”

  The Idlewild Motel where Benny Brudzienski killed Kira Shanks sat kitty corner to the IHOP. Long-haul truckers and families on their way to Niagara Falls often stopped at the restaurant because of its close proximity to the interstate and easy on-and-off access. Tourists never stayed at the motel, which featured a dozen rundown ranch-style rooms at rock-bottom prices. Back in the day, the motel remained in business because college kids rented these rooms to high schoolers looking to party. The kids had a place to get loaded, the richies from Uniondale made an extra buck, and no one in Reine seemed to care. But when Benny Brudzienski killed Kira Shanks, that all changed. No more underage alcohol sales, no more raiding Mom’s pill stash. No more turning a blind eye. The party was over. The Idlewild had the misfortune of being the last place anyone had seen Kira alive, transforming the old motel into a ghost town.

  As Nick steered into the unpaved lot, Alex saw half the windows were covered with plywood but the other half of the motel was still operational. A dingy sandwich board boasted rooms for twenty-nine ninety-nine with free HBO. A man carrying a ladder—bushy yellow mustache, oversized glasses—squinted in their general direction before slinking around the corner.

  After Kira went missing, a
uthorities called in the dogs and sent out search parties into the dense forest behind the motel. The woods back there were enormous, thick with vegetation, rife with hidden alcoves and underground caves, countless streams and creeks. Hundreds of places to hide a body. The tall trees and uncultivated bramble obscured views of the river but if you listened hard enough you could hear its rushing waters. The tributaries met up with the Mohawk, which fed the Hudson, sweeping all trash out to sea. Alex didn’t know if they’d dragged the river. No body ever floated to the surface.

  Standing beside the truck, Alex studied the crime scene. Where was the room where it happened? How could a man with Benny’s diminished IQ cover up the crime so well? And, most importantly, how had no one found the body after all this time?

  “I like mysteries as much as the next guy,” Nick said, “but you want to tell me what we’re doing here?”

  “You know what this place is?”

  “Yeah. It’s where Benny Brudzienski murdered that girl.”

  “I saw him.”

  “Who?”

  “Benny Brudzienski.”

  “When? Where?”

  “At the hospital. Yesterday.”

  Nick had to think about that one. “He’s not in prison?”

  “No. He’s in a psychiatric facility up in Galloway.”

  “They just let you in? Why would you want to go there?” Nick grew excited. “Did they have him all restrained, like with a mask so he couldn’t attack people?”

  “This isn’t Silence of the Lambs. Besides, he’s catatonic.” Alex counted the operational motel rooms, wondering if they were still renting out that particular one. Simple math, basic overhead and budget pricing, didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room for electric bills, let alone turning a profit. “You familiar with the story?”

  A brisk, pre-storm wind swept across the gravel as the thunderheads rolled in, slapping dead leaves against the hulls of big-barreled garbage cans.

  “I know that fat freak killed her,” Nick said. “They found his blood in one of these rooms. Probably raped her first.”

  “Why do you say that?”