Mother's Milk (33 page)

She ran to the western edge – a long haul to Church Street, and not at all feasible, with buildings of all heights, and a parking lot halfway down, like a missing tooth … like … and that's when she saw him, two rooftops away, moving fast; she knew where he was headed.

She ached to follow, but instead ran toward the front of the building, and shouted down, ‘Hobbs!'

‘Barrett, what the hell are you doing …'

‘He's headed toward the parking lot,' she yelled, her throat still burning from the ventilator. ‘He's got a car.' And not wanting to hear a Hobbsian tirade as to why she shouldn't chase Chase, she went after him. As she ran over the first two rooftops, she realized that Chase had worked this exit route in advance. Where there should have been locked gates between roofs, or other barriers, they'd been removed or tampered with. On the third building she found a padlock to an iron door that had been carefully cut and put back in place. She pushed it apart and stepped through.

It was a crazy obstacle course, with ladders hooked and bolted over the sides of buildings or small gaps separating them, one misstep could end in a six- or seven-story drop. As she cleared the edge of her sixth building she caught sight of Chase's black-clad figure; he had something strapped to his back and another bag slung over his right shoulder. He was on the far end of the building preparing to climb an aluminum extension ladder that was angled to get him across a tight alley and up about ten feet to the roof of the next and last building before the garage.

She hesitated. What if she were wrong about the parking garage? What if he vanished inside the next building with some other carefully worked-out exit route? She padded quickly across the roof and waited for him to get two-thirds up the ladder.

Keeping her distance, and assuming he was armed, she shouted after him, ‘Is it too soon to call?'

He froze.

She could tell that whatever he was carrying was heavy. He maneuvered awkwardly, but managed to slip his right hand into his coat pocket.
He's got a gun
, she thought.
Don't do this, Barrett.
Keeping to the shadows of an air-conditioner compressor unit, she tried to hold him. ‘I mean after a first date, how much time should a girl give?'
Where the hell is Hobbs?

He didn't turn. ‘Let me go, Barrett, I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so relieved you're OK. I was worried they wouldn't know what to do.'

She marveled at how calm he sounded, how reasonable, even now laying on the charm. She had to hold him, give Hobbs a chance to block any escape routes. ‘I know you didn't mean to hurt me,' she said, keeping any irony from her voice. ‘Accidents happen. I pressed too hard. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry, Chase. I'm not good with men.'

With his body pressed against the ladder, he turned slightly, his perfect profile caught in a silver silhouette. ‘I really liked you,' he said, his voice smooth and resonant. ‘Even more than that … I was hoping we could be together,' and then added, ‘I'm surprised you're not armed.'

‘Why would I need to be armed?' she said, wondering when Hobbs and a herd of officers would swarm the roof.

He looked past her. ‘You came here alone?'

She had a moment's hesitation. ‘Of course,' she said, making rapid diagnoses of Chase's personality structure, knowing that with intense sociopathy frequently came a level of narcissism that could blind him to certain things … like flattery. ‘I had to see you,' she said, gambling that his belief in his own powers of seduction and of holding others in thrall would make him bite.

‘I'm glad,' he said, ‘but I can't stay.'

‘Please, I have to be with you,' she said, wondering if Janice Fleet or Marky had said similar things. Had he made them beg? She laid it on, each second that he didn't move increasing the chances the bastard would get caught. ‘Take me with you. I know detectives and judges; the whole thing can be fixed. You could blame it on one of those kids … They're all dead, anyway.' She realized her mistake the minute it slipped from her lips.

‘How would you know that?'

She didn't skip a beat. ‘They took them to the same hospital they took me.'

It was too late; he looked into the distance and saw movement three buildings back. ‘Fucking bitch! All the same.' He pulled his hand from his pocket and aimed.

She dove behind the metal compressor as the gun went off. A second shot hit the steel and ricocheted into the night; a third tore a rut in the tar paper inches from her foot. She braced and waited for a fourth. Seconds passed as shouts came from the direction of the next roof.

She peered around the edge of the compressor. Chase was on the move; shouldering his bag and pack, he started up the last few rungs.

Hell, no!
She broke cover and ran. She dove for the base of the ladder and pulled hard. It sprung forcefully from her hands, throwing her back.

He had just reached the top rung as the ladder shot out from under his feet. He clutched for the roof edge, missed, and fell forward. He screamed and grabbed frantically, managing to catch the iron railing where the fire escape was bolted to the brick. He hung on, as the flimsy ladder fell hard next to Barrett. It balanced like a teeter-totter on the edge of the roof and then slid over the edge; it bounced off the side of the building, shattered a window, and crashed to the ground.

She stared in horror as Chase held fast to the railing, a few short inches from the rooftop. He was also close to safety, just needed to pull himself over the railing and onto the fire escape. She could tell that the weight of whatever he had in those bags wouldn't give him much time. She imagined the frantic thoughts running through his head –
Safety and the fire escape … but certain capture, or back to the roof and a last stab at escape.

‘Drop the bags, Chase! Just pull up onto the fire escape. You can make it,' she shouted. ‘It's not worth dying for.'

He said nothing, but his answer was obvious as he tried to dead-lift his weight. He balanced on the fire-escape railing, pressing his body tight against the brick wall, his chin cleared the rooftop. His right arm swung up and gripped the roof edge.

Behind her she heard the pounding of footsteps as she watched Chase cling to the building's edge. He was actually going to make it. His left arm found a grip, but the bag he'd slung over his shoulder slipped back. He tried to correct the shift in weight, but his right hand faltered and lost its hold. He tried to hang on with his left, but the weight was too much. For a moment he seemed to hang, defying gravity, pressed to the side of the building, like a giant spider … and then he fell.

She stood frozen to the spot and listened. The sound his body made hitting the asphalt six stories below was complex, like a chord with a heavy thud in the bass, something hard and metallic in the middle, and the cracking of bones in the upper register. It made her feel sick as she realized that no one could survive that; he was dead.

Across the alley she saw uniformed officers swarm the roof, as Hobbs approached from behind. ‘You OK?' he asked.

‘Not really,' she said, feeling awful that she was responsible for Chase's death. Yes, he'd shot at her, but when she'd grabbed that ladder, his back was turned.
Why didn't you just leave him for the cops?

‘I'm getting you back to the hospital,' he said. ‘We can take your statement later.'

She looked down at her torn jeans, and at an oozing four-inch gash on her upper arm –
might need stitches
. She thought to argue. What she really wanted was a bath and her bed, to fall asleep and not have to picture Chase clinging to the wall, or looking into her eyes over dinner like a man in love.

‘Where's Jerod?' she asked, hoping that Hobbs wouldn't notice the tears.

‘He's OK.'

As is if on cue he appeared, his mass of dreads tucked under a navy NYPD cap. ‘You look like shit, Dr. Conyors. Did he get away?'

‘No,' she answered dully.

‘You shouldn't be up here,' Hobbs commented to Jerod.

‘I know, I just can't help it. I've got this role model who keeps breaking rules, what's a guy to do?'

Barrett felt drained, her heart pounded in her ears. ‘I want to get out of here … Hobbs, could you please just get me home or to my mom's. I need to see Max.'

‘No hospital?'

She looked at the gash on her arm. ‘It's just a little ooze. They'll keep me for hours and what I need is sleep.'

‘Your call.'

She looked at Jerod, the blacks of his eyes like saucers, patches of sweat drenching his clothes – but somehow marshalling strength and humor. ‘How are you doing?' she asked, amazed at how little she knew this young man who she'd evaluated on multiple occasions.

‘Been better,' he admitted, taking a deep breath and letting it out, ‘been worse. Keep thinking about dope.'

‘My offer stands,' she said, ‘you could do this much more easily with drugs.'

‘Thanks … but I want to feel this … remember it.' He looked at Hobbs. ‘You're not going to let them forget Carly, are you? I know she's out there. I don't want to think about where, or what they've done to her. Marky's gotta know something.'

‘I won't forget. And we'll need a statement from you, as well. But it can wait till tomorrow. So let's get you both out of here.'

B
arrett woke in the tiny bedroom she'd grown up in. Justine's matching twin bed was gone, replaced by Max in his crib. Light streamed through the sheer green curtains of the single window that faced the Bowery and the high-rise condo building on the other side. Sensing somehow she was awake, Max let out a soft cry. Feeling aches deep in her bones and joints she moved slowly, pulling her pajama-clad legs to the edge of the bed, dangling them off. She glanced at the lit numbers on the alarm clock; after ten. She tried to think through the events of last night, and of how she and Jerod had finally made it to her mother's just before 4
A.M.
All she'd been able to manage was a quick shower; slapped some gauze and tape around her arm and thigh and fallen into bed.

‘Ow.' Blisters throbbed on the soles of both feet. She stood slowly, and peered over Max's crib; she reached down. He felt soft and warm and she held him close, then settled back on her bed and unbuttoned her thin cotton top. She led his mouth to her nipple, his little hands kneading the flesh of her breasts as he suckled. It was peace, her thoughts quiet, as she batted away the realities of the day ahead. But in that moment, she realized little of that mattered, not really. Max was all; he was everything. He was beautiful and he was a part of her. His blue eyes, the color of the morning sky, looked up as he fed. She remembered the mockingbird song her mother used to sing, and quietly hummed, and then sang, ‘
Hush, little baby, don't you cry. Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird …
'

A gentle knock, and her mother's voice. ‘Barrett … honey, can I come in?'

‘Sure.'

The door opened and Ruth, in jeans, a black T-shirt from the bar, and her hair in a red kerchief, came in and settled next to her.

‘Where's Jerod?' Barrett asked.

‘Out like a light. How much longer till he feels better?'

‘He should be through the worst of it, but it's different with everyone.'

‘I like him,' Ruth said, ‘there's something sweet about him …'

‘I know,' Barrett said, again thinking of how much he reminded her of that long-ago crush on Kyle Matthews, ‘but he's got no one. No place to go, no money, nothing.'

‘He's got you, sweetheart.'

‘Not really,' Barrett said, feeling her bubble of calm begin to pop, harsh realities pressing in. ‘I'm his doctor; that's about it.'

‘He can stay here,' Ruth said, as she stood and walked over to the dresser and got a fresh towel. ‘I wasn't sure about that before, especially with the baby, but I have a feeling about him. He's got a good heart.'

Barrett took the towel from her mother and draped it over her left shoulder. She hefted up Max, every day a bit heavier, and laid him gently down, rubbing his back in circles and then gently patted him. She looked around the room, thinking about how her mother had packed Justine and her into a car in rural Georgia when they were small and driven through the night to escape a husband who got drunk and beat her. Barrett barely remembered her father, tall and angry with a shock of black hair. But the couple who'd taken them in – Sophie and Max – two Holocaust survivors who'd adopted the three of them as though they were blood relatives still crisp in her mind and heart. ‘You know he has problems,' she finally said.

‘Is he dangerous?'

‘No.'

‘Then it doesn't matter. We all have problems …' She let out a long sigh, ‘It's been a long time since we've talked, Barrett, I mean really talked.'

‘I know … it's just …'

‘I'm not pushing. Whatever it is you feel you can't tell me can wait. Just don't shut me out. I need my girls.'

‘I need you too,' Barrett said, and wished the moment could last, as Ruth carefully reached over and hugged her daughter, and her grandson.

Finally, she pulled back. ‘I hope it's OK, but I called your secretary to let her know you'd be late … or maybe not in at all.'

‘Thanks,' Barrett said, as she realized that Janice was dead and there were a ton of questions to be answered. And then an avalanche of other things that needed to be done, including giving a statement. Well, at least she'd see Hobbs. She owed him a huge apology, and just like she'd underestimated Jerod, she needed to find a way to repair their friendship, and maybe there was something more there. ‘Mom?'

‘Yes.'

‘You like Ed, don't you?'

‘Of course, he's kind of a vanishing breed.'