Sacrifice (11 page)

Lori Armstrong stood and followed in the priest’s wake. She paused between the pews and pointed a thumb over her shoulder.

“He’s yours,” she said.

“You’re not burying him with the family?” Jeff asked.

“I wouldn’t contaminate the ground,” Lori said. “I only arranged the service because I promised Mom I would. I had him cremated for the inside joke of burning up the arsonist. I’m done.”

She marched down the aisle and out the door, leaving five slack jaws behind her.

“Remind me to be nicer to my sister,” Dave said.

While the others filed out, Paul approached the altar. He laid Bob’s picture face up on the wooden box of his remains and carried them outside to the others. They all stood on the church steps looking horribly uncomfortable.

“Well, this sucks,” Jeff said. “This is just too young for any of us to die. I mean, I know the guy smoked himself to death and got lung cancer, but still…”

“He did have lung cancer,” Paul said. “But I did a little checking this morning. Here’s a big surprise. The cancer didn’t kill him.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What do you mean he didn’t die of cancer?”

“I’ve got connections in the Suffolk County Police,” Paul said. “A retired NYC sergeant gets some professional courtesy. I called the coroner and asked about the autopsy results. She found tumors in his lungs, two of which were the size of baseballs. But she said they hadn’t killed him yet. The toxicology report showed enough Darvocet in his system to drop an elephant.”

“And the cops didn’t tell anyone?” Ken said.

“He had a prescription for them,” Paul said. “An overdose suicide of a terminal cancer patient isn’t uncommon.”

“Unless he planned a reunion that started seventy-two hours later,” Jeff said. “In that case it’s damn uncommon.”

“There was no suicide note?” Marc said.

“Cops found him in his car on the side of the road,” Paul said. “There was no note there, but no one ever checked his house. Cops have bigger fish to fry.”

“Or bigger donuts,” Dave said.

“Everyone up for checking out Bob’s place?” Paul said.

“What’s Lori have to say about it?” Marc said.

“Yesterday, I told her what the coroner said,” Paul said. “She didn’t care how he died. She gave me the key to his place and told me we could take what we wanted. She has a service coming in next week to throw everything out before the landlord charges her another month’s rent.”

“Did I mention I never really liked her?” Dave said.

“Let’s do it,” Jeff said. “We’ll follow you, Paul.”

The route to Bob’s headed south past Selden though a neighborhood that looked increasingly rough. If anyone needed pictures to illustrate the phrase “suburban blight,” there were shots aplenty here. Liquor stores, pawn shops and tattoo parlors lined the cracked sidewalks, repeating like the scrolling background in a cheap cartoon. Apparently there was no limit to the demand for these services. The car caravan turned right onto a residential street.

No one knew what to expect Bob’s place to look like, but certainly nothing this bad. Sometime in the ’50s this starter neighborhood of tiny boxes had been the post-war dream come true for dozens of families escaping the city. No one could claim that now. Weeds choked what was left of the small yards. What fences still stood were bronzed in rust. Each house had its own casualty list of shingles and shutters. The cars in the street were at least a decade old, and odds were a third of them wouldn’t move. A guy in a black tank top and baggy pants slouched against a street light gave Jeff’s rented Caddy a thumbs up. An emaciated stray dog wandered across the street, sniffing for the trail of something edible.

They pulled up to Bob’s address. The little white shoebox was the last on the block that hadn’t had the attached garage haphazardly transformed into more living space. The few bushes at the front door were trimmed, and a hodgepodge of grass and weeds covered the ground. The roof was fully shingled and the asphalt chips sparkled in the sun, like the house was an old lady smiling to show off her new dentures. Bob’s was the best place on the block. The Half Dozen’s cars filled the street and driveway.

“Bob might have been renting this dive,” Dave said as they all met on the porch, “but you know he did the roof repairs and the landscaping on his own.”

“The guy was always working,” Paul said. “He wouldn’t have been able to stand looking at something he knew how to fix.”

The inside of the house was unnaturally dark. Cardboard covered the windows from the inside and blocked every lumen of sunlight. Flicking on the lights revealed a house decorated in a yard sale motif. The few sticks of furniture were old and worn. The bare walls cried out for pictures to break up the expanse. The television was vintage 1990 with a digital converter box sitting on top. An open pack of cigarettes lay on the coffee table next to an ashtray full of crushed butts. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and rancid food.

“Spread out,” Paul said. “See what we’ve got here.”

A few minutes later they reported back that the bed hadn’t been made and the kitchen sink had some rank dirty dishes in it. The refrigerator was stocked as was the pantry. An open, empty bottle of Darvocet was on the bathroom sink. A payroll stub said Bob’s employer was “Johnny on the Spot,” a portable toilet company. By the dates listed on the wall calendar, it looked like he worked the nightshift driving what the boys used to call the SST, the Shit-Sucking Truck.

“There wasn’t a suicide note anywhere,” Dave said. “Though having his job would warrant one.”

“A little respect, please,” Marc said with disgust.

“You processed a thousand crime scenes, Paul,” Jeff said. “What’s your take?”

“Nothing here says Bob was suicidal,” Paul said.

“There’s still the garage,” Jeff said.

They went outside to the garage. Bob had been the mechanic in the group. Oil changes, brake jobs, new mufflers. They came to Bob with everything. Jeff’s sad Pinto would never have made it through high school without Dr. Bob’s emergency surgery. They all expected a full set of rolling toolboxes and a pegboard wall full of tools. There was a gasp from the group as they opened the side door.

A folding table in the center held stacks of papers, some yellowed with age. Photos, maps and newspaper articles papered the walls like an enormous collage. Items in the articles were circled in red marker, and some of the pictures were annotated with arrows and dates in the same ink.

“This is creepy,” Ken said. They spread out and checked different sections of the walls.

“Oh, man,” Jeff said from the right hand side. “This stuff is from senior year. It’s all about the Woodsman.” Marc joined him at that wall.

Photocopied articles from the
Sagebrook Standard
covered Josie Mulfetta’s death and Vinnie Santini’s trial and conviction for manslaughter. There were the stories Marc had read thirty years ago in the library, Caroline Cody falling from a tree, the two boys electrocuted on the power lines, the short death notice of the infant boy they attributed to SIDS.

Next to the pictures was a map of Sagebrook, one of the ones real estate agents used to give away. The edges were tattered and several of the creases had degenerated into tears. A series of green dots peppered the area around the old village.

“Jesus,” Jeff said. “That’s our map. How the hell did he ever get a hold of that?”

Marc walked left and searched for dates until he found 1966. The Woodsman’s deeds were documented. Pictures old and new, articles from the local paper on the children’s deaths, even a short
Newsday
piece on the day camp barn fire and the six kids who died.

“Bob was researching the Woodsman,” Marc said, “and not just from when we went up against him.”

“No shit,” Dave said from the other side of the room. “There are incidents here from the 1930s, from the turn of the century.”

“But this stuff here is new,” Jeff said. Everyone gathered around.

Crisp sheets of paper on the far wall looked like they had been printed from Internet pages. There were stories about accidents and near misses with young children culled from
Newsday
and the now online version of the
Sagebrook Standard.
A boy drowned at the millpond. A girl who fell off the roof of her house. A few simple infant death notices.

“Bob was watching,” Marc said. “All these years. In case we had failed. In case he came back.”

“Maybe Bob was sure the Woodsman was back,” Jeff said. “Maybe he didn’t call us home for a reunion. He called us back home to kill it. For good this time.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The events of the day, the funeral, the revelations about Bob’s life, the possible return of the Woodsman—all exposed more raw emotions than anyone wanted to admit. That night, no one planned to meet for dinner. Jeff begged off with the excuse that he wanted to take a drive around town. He had noticed the Venetian was still in business. They had passed it on the way to Bob’s.

Back in the old days, Katy and her family had lived on the second floor, a convenient setup for commuting to work and a great excuse to cadge snacks when he’d come see Katy. Access to the world’s best Italian food had been just another of Katy’s selling points.

Jeff wondered if she had taken over the family business. It looked unchanged from the outside, except for the sign that said “Free WiFi” in the window. The same blue-checked curtains hung in the front bay windows. The front door was still a garish red. The neon script sign that said “The Venetian” was still there, but the last two letters were out tonight. Jeff seemed to remember that one or another letter had seemed to always be out on that sign. There were a few cars in the parking lot.

This little vacation down Sagebrook’s memory lane had been awful. Reunions should not morph into funerals. The good memories he had of his friends were being washed out by those awful experiences they had the last time they were together.

There was still one highlight that might come through. In the time before he hooked up with self-destructive women, there had been Katy. Seeing her again could be a pleasant reprieve from the gloomy results of the last few days. Jeff decided to give it a try. Maybe she’d be here, maybe she wouldn’t be. Worst case, he’d have dinner.

The restaurant’s interior hadn’t changed much. The dining room was still woefully under lit. Tall leather booths lined both walls; a collection of square tables sat in between. The paper placemats still had maps of Italy, and Jeff guessed that the back still had a maze and letter puzzles for the kids. Squat candles flickered in wrought iron holders on each table. A smattering of guests populated the place.

While all this looked familiar, one thing catapulted him back thirty years in an instant. The smell. That rich, sweet, tomato-infused smell that only existed in the Venetian. A mix of garlic and oregano and secret spices from the Old Country that Jeff had never smelled anywhere else. The Traina family secret marinara recipe had been guarded for years with more care than Coca Cola’s. If they had sold the property, the magic spell for red sauce would not have gone with it. Katy had to still be here.

Jeff followed the advice of the sign that said “Please Seat Yourself.” A teen girl with raccoon-like eyeliner came to take his order. He didn’t need a menu.

“Chicken parmigiana,” he said. It had been his favorite for years here, even when his parents had brought the family up here for a rare dinner out. The waitress scribbled the order down on a pad of paper. “I used to live here,” he added. “Do Katy and her family still own this place?”

“Yeah, she’s working tonight,” the girl answered. A silver ball bobbed on her tongue as she spoke.

Jeff’s heart skipped a beat. He pulled out a business card from his wallet and handed it to the girl. “Pass her this and tell her there’s a guy out here who owes her a corsage.”

The girl sighed at the thought of doing messenger duty and didn’t even look at the card.

Jeff was starting on his salad when she arrived. He looked up. Katy was lit to perfection by the candlelight. He might have been pushing fifty, but she didn’t look a day over thirty. Her hair was down to her shoulders and still a shimmering black. The freckles on her cheekbones were still enchanting. She looked down at Jeff, and for a moment he worried that she still held a three-decade-old grudge. Then she smiled a radiant Katy smile. She flicked Jeff’s business card at him.

“How dare you send in your business card like you’re some sales rep for olive oil?” she said. She bent down and kissed his cheek. There was a scent at her neck that smelled like lilac and rose. She sat across from him. “I thought it was a joke until I asked what you ordered. When Kelly said chicken parm, I knew it was you.”

“You look great,” Jeff said. He hoped he didn’t sound as awestruck as he felt.

“Kitchen steam keeps me hydrated,” she said. “You look good, too.”

“Fawning praise won’t help you,” Jeff said. “The waitress gets the tip. So you’re running the place?”

“The folks threw in the towel and retired to Boca Raton,” Katy said. “Dad made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. You seem to have eked out a living as well Mr…” She picked up the business card from the table. “…Chief Executive Officer. You are the most famous member of the Class of ’80. You came home because you couldn’t get decent Italian food in California?”