The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (136 page)

In the parking lot off to the right, there was a small group of people smoking. One of them was a girl with a high-pitched pig-squeal of a voice who kept saying, “He never knew what hit him! I’m telling you, he NEVER knew what hit him!”

“Let’s do it,” Reggie said, yanking the heavy door open and stepping through first.

Not much had changed. The place was still dark and stank of beer and cigarettes, although smoking in restaurants and bars was now illegal. Reggie checked the pool table in the middle of the room and was slightly disappointed to discover that it was newer and no longer shimmed with old phone books. The red-vinyl-covered barstools had been reupholstered in black vinyl. The place was crowded, and it seemed to Reggie as if everyone had stopped what they were doing to stare at her and Charlie.

“I don’t have a warm, welcoming feeling,” Reggie whispered, leaning toward Charlie.

He put his arm around her. She knew it was meant to feel reassuring, but really, it just felt heavy. “I guess we don’t look like regulars,” he said in a low voice. He smelled like Listerine and sweet aftershave. She noticed he’d showered and shaved before picking her up, which seemed a little too I’m-thinking-of-this-as-a-date for her comfort level. She gently pulled away from him, leading the way toward the bar.

Reggie remembered following Sid across the room twenty-five years ago—his swaggering walk, the way Tara bounced along beside him; how their visit to Runway 36 had led them to the horrid little room at Airport Efficiencies.

Where would it lead them this time?

Irrational as it was, Reggie thought of turning around, walking back out before she had a chance to find out.

But then she thought of Tara. Tara, tied up in some god-awful dungeon, being shot full of morphine, her right arm ending in a mass of bandages.

But that wasn’t the Tara that scared her. No, when she closed her eyes, she saw the thirteen-year-old Tara, dark eyes glimmering, pissed off and self-righteous, saying, “I guess I’m fucked if it’s all up to you.”

“I’m trying!” Reggie said out loud without meaning to.

“Hmm?” Charlie said from half a step behind her. The music was loud enough that he hadn’t heard.

“Nothing.”

Behind the bar was a sweaty fat man and a rail-thin woman with frizzy dyed red hair.

“What can I get you?” asked the woman.

“You have Beck’s?” Charlie asked.

The woman frowned. “The only thing in bottles I got is Heineken.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll have one of those.”

“Make it two,” Reggie said, knowing it wasn’t wise to ask about the wine selection.

Behind the bar, up above the liquor bottles was a big-screen TV. It was tuned to a cable news channel, but the sound was off. Reggie saw a shot of downtown Brighton Falls, then Monique’s Wish. Reggie felt her breath catch in her throat. It was so like stepping back in time, seeing her home on the news. Only this time it was Tara’s face that filled the screen. It was a terrible picture—slightly out of focus and Tara was looking far off into the distance, squinting a little.

The frizzy-haired woman brought two beers and greasy-looking glasses.

“You know a guy who calls himself Rabbit?” Charlie asked, pushing the glass aside and taking a sip from the green bottle. Reggie could tell he was enjoying this. Hunting down a serial killer was a whole lot more exciting than selling condos and little ranch houses with remodeled kitchens and nice yards for the kids to play in.

The woman squinted at him. “You two cops?”

Charlie laughed, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a card. “Nah. I’m in real estate.”

She took the card and studied it. “And what? You wanna sell Rabbit a house or something?”

“Or something,” Charlie said, smiling slyly. This was so not the Charlie that Reggie knew. He was far too suave.

She took a tentative sip of her lukewarm beer. It tasted like skunk piss. Maybe she would have been better off with the house wine in the giant screw-top bottle.

The fat bartender lumbered over. “Quit yanking his chain, Evelyn,” he said. He looked at Charlie. “You want to talk to Rabbit, there he is.” He nodded his head and they turned to see who he was looking at. There was a skinny, grizzled-looking man at a booth by himself eating a burger. His gray hair was falling into his eyes and he had ketchup on his chin.

“Thanks,” Charlie said, dropping a twenty on the bar and wandering toward the booths.

“Talk about luck,” Reggie said. This had been easy. Almost
too
easy. She didn’t like it when things seemed to fall into place so effortlessly—it made her suspicious.

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “So far so good. But maybe you should do the talking. I think you’ve got a better chance with this guy.” Reggie nodded. Charlie stayed a step behind, letting Reggie take the lead.

“James?” Reggie said, standing over the man in the booth. “James Jacovich?”

He looked up, nodding. He held what was left of the burger in his hands, which shook slightly. His fingernails were long and filthy. He hadn’t wiped the ketchup off his chin. The skin on his face was thin and sagging and the whites of his eyes looked yellow. Here he was at last—the mythical Rabbit: creative genius, director of plays, the man who had connections.

“Do I know you?” he asked, voice barely scraping out through his throat, as if it hurt to talk.

“May I sit?” Reggie asked, eyeing the stained booth with trepidation.

“Free country,” Rabbit said.

Reggie took a seat. Charlie remained standing by Reggie’s side of the booth so he wasn’t breathing down the guy’s neck.

“My mother’s an old friend of yours. Vera Dufrane.”

Rabbit took another bite of his burger and chewed slowly and messily. Reggie could see he was missing most of his front teeth. She tried to imagine him twenty-five years ago, wondered if he’d ever been handsome.

“She’s back, you know? Alive. Did you hear?”

He nodded, finished chewing, and swallowed. “I might’ve heard something like that.”

“You wouldn’t remember the last time you saw her, would you?” she asked.

He grinned. “I’m an old man. You expect me to remember something that far back?”

“See the thing is, I saw my mom the day before her hand was left on the steps of the police station. She was at the bowling alley. I saw her get into a tan car with a broken taillight. And I’m pretty sure it was your car.”

He shook his head. “Wasn’t me. I told the cops a million times.” He went back to his burger, dismissing her.

“Rabbit,” she said, voice low and soothing. “My mom used to talk about you all the time. I remember the way she’d get all giddy, singing even, when she was getting ready to meet you somewhere. I don’t know much about what went on between the two of you, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: she loved you.”

He put down his burger and studied her a moment. Then he cleared his throat and in a soft voice said, “I wasn’t anywheres near the bowling alley that day and I’ve got witnesses to prove it. Vera didn’t want nothing to do with me. Truth is, we were on kind of rocky ground even back before I got arrested.”

Reggie nodded in the most friendly way she could manage. “Why was that?”

“She had this friend. This little gal named Candy.” He wiped his face with a napkin, just smearing the ketchup around. “And I guess I had me a sweet tooth one night.” He gave Reggie a lecherous grin. “You wouldn’t know it now, but I had a way with the ladies.”

Reggie nodded, thinking he was right—she wouldn’t know it, had a seriously difficult time imagining it.

“Vera was real pissed when she found out. Shit, it weren’t like we were married or anything.”

“But you saw my mom again once you got out of jail, right? Before she went missing?”

“Yeah. When I got outta jail we went out once or twice, but she dumped me. I was trying real hard then. You know, to get all cleaned up. To start over, I guess. But some people, they don’t get second chances.”

A bell rang in Reggie’s brain. “Second Chance,” Reggie said. “Does that mean anything to you? My mom had it written on a scrap of paper years ago.”

He laughed. “It was the name of that old social work program for people just out of prison. They gave ’em a place to stay, buddied them up with some upstanding citizen. Stability, they called it. Supposed to be swayed by these great role models. Show you how good your life could be.”

“And you were in this program?” Reggie asked.

“For a time. I lived in this house with four other guys. We had meetings and programs and got our piss tested to make sure we weren’t using.”

“And you were paired up with someone in the community? A good role model?”

“I sure was. He saved my ass until he couldn’t anymore. He had a drug problem once himself, but had gotten clean. He was my NA sponsor. He had this big old house with an in-law apartment over the garage and he’d let me stay there when I was having a tough time. I was there when Vera went missing. So I didn’t take her. And I had proof. An alibi.”

“Sounds like he did a lot for you. What was his name?”

Rabbit looked down at the wrecked remains of his burger, like the answer was there with the crust of stale bun and congealing grease. “It was the car dealer. You know . . . the guy who used to do all the commercials with the chicken.”

Reggie glanced up at Charlie, whose eyes popped open in a
holy-shit
look.

“Bo,” Rabbit said. “His name was Bo Berr. A helluva good guy.”

DAY THREE

Chapter 32

June 22, 1985

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

R
EGGIE SLEPT UNTIL JUST
after noon, drifting in and out of a dream in which she was searching for her mother and wound up back at Airport Efficiencies. The room was wrecked, but there, in the center of the bed, was a package wrapped in brown paper. With trembling fingers, Reggie opened the package. Inside was a wooden box with a neatly lettered label saying second chance. Cautiously she lifted the lid and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Looking up at her was a lifeless miniature version of Vera, pinned to a piece of Styrofoam amid a row of cockroaches.

Reggie sat up in bed, blinked at the clock, listened to the sound of kitchen chairs scraping against the floor, the low murmur of voices. She was supposed to have met Tara, Charlie, and Sid at the Silver Spoon for breakfast. They were going to eat, then ride out to the bowling alley to look for clues. Reggie wasn’t sorry she’d slept in. She didn’t really want to face the others, to have to discuss Airport Efficiencies or her mother or anything at all. She just wanted to sleep. She rolled over, closed her eyes, and saw her tiny mother impaled on a pin, cockroaches beside her.

“Fuck,” Reggie yelped, opening her eyes. Her skin felt prickly. The urge to cut, strong. Maybe, maybe she’d do it with a pin.

No.

Reggie stumbled out of bed and padded down the hall and stairs in her T-shirt and sweatpants. She’d go down to the kitchen, get some juice, and pretend things were okay. That her mother was just away but would be back anytime. That Reggie was just a regular girl with no secret longing to slice herself up with razor blades and pins.

Reggie’s ankle was still sore, but she could put more weight on it, her walk returning to almost normal. As she approached the kitchen, she could hear Lorraine talking. She was relieved Lorraine was up and out of bed. Reggie was starting to worry about what she might do if her aunt decided to never leave her room again.

“I just can’t believe it,” Lorraine was saying weakly. “I keep thinking there must be some mistake . . .”

“The fingerprints were a match, Lorraine. And the scarring.” George. His voice was tired and shaky. “But I know what you mean. I keep thinking it’ll be like all the other times—she’ll disappear for a couple of days, then come waltzing back, all smiles, acting like she was never gone at all.”

Reggie moved closer to the door, walking on tiptoes.

“It’s my fault.” Lorraine’s voice crumbled.

“You can’t blame yourself,” George said, low and soothing. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

“If we hadn’t fought . . .”

“She would have left anyway. You know how Vera was,” George said. “
Is
. I mean
is
.”

Reggie got to the doorway and tucked her body behind it, peeking in. Lorraine was hunched over the table, gripping a mug of tea tightly. George was right next to her, his body pressing against hers, his arm around her.

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Lorraine said, sitting up straight with effort. She ran her hand through her hair, which looked uncharacteristically unkempt. Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. “Something terrible happening. I think I’ve known it all along, sensed it. That Vera was on a path that could only lead to destruction. Ever since we were girls, then after, when Father died, the part of her that was cracked just broke completely. I think I lost her back then. Before, maybe . . .”

“It doesn’t do any good,” George said, voice breaking now as he pushed his own cup away, untouched tea sloshing over the edges. “You think I haven’t done the same thing? Been over it again and again in my head, fantasized about all the ways we could have saved her? If onlys do no good, Lorraine. Vera made her own choices. And maybe those choices led her to what happened. But maybe not. Maybe it was totally random.”

Lorraine was crying, not delicate little ladylike sniffles, but great sobs of agony. She rested her head against George’s chest and wept. George held on to her, ashen faced, his own eyes wet with tears. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “It just seems so unfair. So . . . surreal,” he whispered into her hair.

A strange sick feeling crept over Reggie. This was not simply two good friends comforting each other—it was obvious from their body language that they were more than that. She thought of the way she’d heard George’s voice the night Lorraine threw her mother out, and the whole thing was so obvious—he’d been spending the night with Lorraine. After he’d said his good nights to them, he must have doubled back, waited until Reggie had gone to bed, and sneaked back into the house, up to Lorraine’s room. Or maybe, maybe they’d been in the garage, on the leather couch. Maybe that’s what Vera had referred to when she said she knew what went on out there. Reggie’s stomach did a disgusted flip.