The Last Kind Words (17 page)

“No.”

“You should’ve. You must know something about last chances. Your brother’s used all of his up.”

I kept hoping she’d step farther into the room, or that her arms would tire, or that she’d drop her gaze and give me half a second to make some kind of a break. But it wasn’t going to happen. I could usually make a lie sound like the truth, but I was floundering with her. I felt sheepish just being here. I wondered if I could make the truth sound like the truth.

I said, “I’m in your house because I was hoping your parents hadn’t changed Rebecca’s room.”

“Why would you care about that?”

“I wanted to look at photos. I wanted to know a little more about her. My brother says he didn’t kill her. He admits he murdered the other seven people but says he didn’t touch her. He begged me to look into it.”

She started to laugh very quietly. It was grotesque. I’d made a similar noise when I’d run from my brother, pale and shaking. Her pupils were very large.

The girl said, “First you called her Becky, then Rebecca.”

I’d noted that too. “It was wrong of me to act so familiar.”

“Your game doesn’t even have any rules, does it?” she said. “You think it’s wrong to call her Becky but you don’t mind going through the drawers of a home you’ve invaded? Standing in a room of a girl murdered by your brother?”

“Actually, I do mind. I’m pretty ashamed. Listen, why don’t you call the cops?”

“What makes you think I won’t shoot you?”

“I was raised as a burglar. My whole life I’ve done nothing but take stupid chances. This is just one more.”

She lowered the gun a fraction, then raised it again. I was hoping if she pulled the trigger she would only shoot me in the leg. I very carefully reached for my pack of cigarettes and shook one out.

She said, “There’s no smoking in the house.”

I put the butt back in the pack. “Where do you smoke your pot?”

“In the yard, when no one else is home.”

“Fire your dealer. It’s cheap weed.”

“Your brother,” she said. The word itself seemed to dry her mouth. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Do you believe him?”

“No,” I told her. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Then why come around?”

“He’s my brother. I’ve hated him most of my life. But he’s my brother.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

The question flustered me. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever thought about it before. I struggled for an answer. Long before the competition over women, even before the bad blood over incidents I remembered clearly—the times he ran out on me during a job, the taunts, the drunken posturing, the fights he started with fences that came back to cause me troubles—I had loved him. We had been friends. He’d protected me. I could remember riding on the handlebars of his bicycle while he kept one arm around my waist to keep me from falling. I thought he would never hurt me. But it had shifted somewhere, in a way I still didn’t understand. He grew angry with me, seemed to always be on the attack. I thought of him stabbing me with the Revolutionary War figure that led to the awful scarring on my chest.

But I supposed that he had his reasons too, if someone had bothered to ask him. Maybe he was only reacting to something I put out into the world. He probably thought that I was distant, cold, a tightass. Maybe I
didn’t watch his back enough. Maybe he expected me to love him more, or better. Perhaps the truth was no deeper than the fact that Collie and I were simply wired to be enemies.

She squinted at me as if my hesitation was enough of a response. “You said a detective beat you up. That the truth?”

“Last night.”

“I don’t see any marks.”

I lifted my shirt. The bruises on my kidneys were a mottled blue and yellow. She appeared to be impressed with either my asskicking or my dog tat. She seemed to come to a decision. She lowered the gun. I had no doubt that if I moved toward her or tried to run or said anything out of line she’d shoot me out of my shoes. I stood still in the center of the room.

“Why did he hit you?” she asked.

“Because I stole some files from him. I wanted to read the original reports.”

“I thought you weren’t a thief anymore.”

“I’ve backslid a little,” I admitted.

“And?”

“And Collie confessed to all the other murders but not your sister’s.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. That’s why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you look into this five years ago?”

“He only just asked me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She kept the .45 low against the side of her leg, the way the pros did when they walked into a place to knock it over. “He’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And you’re crazy for helping him.”

“Probably,” I said. “Tell me about Rebecca.”

“Tell you what? I don’t know what to say.”

“She was seventeen.”

“That’s right.”

“The report I read said she was being tutored in an advanced physics class that evening. That she and several other students were at a teacher’s home. Mrs. Dan—” I couldn’t remember the name. It was Greek.

“Mrs. Denopolis.”

“Who lived near Autauk Park. Your sister didn’t drive?”

“She jogged. She was on the school track team. She ran everywhere.”

“You must live at least eight or nine miles from the park.”

“For Becky that was nothing. She was a long-distance runner. She’d run down Old Autauk Highway.”

I thought I had a good poker face in place but she must’ve read something in my expression.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just jogged that way yesterday morning.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Right. Did she ever mention Collie? That she knew him? That he was bothering her? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did she mention having any trouble with anyone? An ex-boyfriend?”

“No. I was only twelve but we talked a lot and shared secrets. The same way Sharon and I do now.”

It reminded me that I didn’t know her name. I asked and she said, “Cara.”

“Why aren’t you at school?”

It made her scoff. “What are you, a parole officer? I quit and got my GED. I work part-time at Kohl’s. I’m taking night classes at Suffolk Community.”

“Cara, would it be all right if I called you in case I have any other questions about your sister?”

“I’ve told you everything I can. But if you want to come back you can talk to my parents. I think they might listen. But I’m not sure they could help at all.”

“I doubt anyone can. I’m just spinning my wheels.”

“So am I. That’s how it feels. Like I’m wasting time. That’s why I—” She didn’t have to finish. I knew she meant the pills. She was beginning to tap the gun against the side of her leg. Her agitation was growing worse. I could see the fear in her eyes. It had nothing to do with me. The meds were wearing off. She had to be popping ten or twelve a day. The charge of her emotions was overcoming her, and she needed to deaden it.

“Where’d you get the scrips?”

“Like that’s your business? I stole them from my mother’s ob-gyn.”

“You’ve been on the meds for too long. You’re taking too many.”

“I need them.”

“But they’re making you sicker now. You know it’s the truth. You’re taking more and more pills and they’re not working as well.”

“Who are you to say that? You don’t know me.”

“I know when someone is an addict. You need to ease off. Slowly.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You can’t do it on your own. Talk to someone.”

“I think I might. Soon. One of these days.”

“Listen, Cara, one final thing. Even if you’re out of the house for a few minutes, even if you’re only walking to the corner. Lock your door.”

She hadn’t softened while we’d talked. A ribbon of hair had fallen across her face and she brushed it away and it fell back again. She raised the gun. I took a step back and a mean titter spilled from her mouth. “You think I was kidding about using this thing? I hope someone does try something. I hope you come back and try something. Next time I won’t chat. And I was lying about shooting you in the leg or the nuts. If I ever pull the trigger, it’ll be a head shot.”

Jack
“Fingers” Brown worked out of a bowling alley in Huntington Station. He held court on the last lane and never kept any hardware on the premises. If you wanted a clean, untraceable piece, you came to Fingers. Sometimes the serial numbers were filed off and sometimes they weren’t. It didn’t matter. They either were ripped off from a gun shop, had fallen off an army truck, or were police-academy-cadet fresh.

Collie had used a clean S&W .38 on his mad-dog outing. There were a couple of other guys on the island who might’ve been able to supply a piece like that, but I figured Collie would’ve gone to Fingers first. I wanted to know when Collie had decided to pick up a pistol. Had it been right after he’d left the Elbow Room or right before? Or had he nabbed it weeks in advance, preparing for his decline into the underneath?

Fingers was about fifty, with a smarmy leer, a snow tire around his middle, and a mountain of oiled hair that he kept swept to one side so it looked like he might topple over at any second. He’d been a gunrunner for twenty years or more and got picked up at least once a month by the cops, but they could never hold him for more than a day. He was smart and well connected, and word was he’d ace anyone who even looked like they might rat on him. His public persona of a bowling geek wasn’t a persona. Fingers really did spend several hours a day knocking pins down. I looked around at the signs on the front door as I walked in. They’d been there forever. Senior citizens bowled free on Tuesday nights. Fridays the high school kids got in for half price. Special prices for parties of more than twenty. Ask about discounts.

My family had bowled here when I was a kid. Grey was a natural who regularly broke 250. My mother was damn good too. She had a deceptively soft way of throwing the ball. It would drop from her hand
and seem to barely have enough power to make it all the way down the lane, but once it got to the pins they practically exploded. Mal couldn’t break 100 to save his life, and I wasn’t much better. Collie had always been competitive but never with himself. Only with me. So long as he beat me by even a pin, he was happy. My old man would just sit and watch the rest of us and laugh while Gramp hung around in the bar and snatched enough pocket change to pay for his beer.

It was twelve-thirty. Fingers never came in before noon. He was working a four–six split in the fifth frame when I stepped up and sat behind his entourage. His right-hand man was an ex-con leg breaker named Higgins who stood six-three, weighed 230 of mostly muscle, and wore sunglasses day and night so you could never tell when he had a bead on you. It wasn’t a bad guess to figure he was always watching. Word was he used a beaver-tail sap. I kept my hands on my knees.

Two young women were chattering, clapping, and urging Fingers on. They might have been twins or were just affecting the look. Short blond hair feathered across their eyes, lots of neck jewelry, both in muted summer dresses. The bowling shoes actually looked good on them. They each turned and gave me a beaming smile. I grinned back. Higgins kept his body angled toward me. If I made a fast move he’d find the sweet spot of my skull with that blackjack in no time flat.

Fingers had good form, a nice extension as he threw the ball, a solid curve that hooked the edge of the gutter and held on, breaking only at the last moment. He picked up the spare handily and the women clapped and woo-hooed.

He noticed me immediately but chose to ignore me until he and his lady friends had finished their game. Afterward, he gave each of them a juicy kiss that made me think this crew was a little kinkier than at first appeared to be the case. Maybe the bowling shoes should have been a giveaway. The women retired to the bar. Higgins kept focused on me the entire time.

Fingers finally turned his chin and waved me over. I got up and so did Higgins, who shadowed my every move. I stood before Fingers while he cleaned his ball with an oil-stained chamois rag.

“I know you?” he asked.

“We’ve never met,” I said. “My name’s Terry Rand.”

He nodded. “Family’s got a good rep, except for that one black mark on it.”

“Right. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I’m entertaining some friends right now.”

“This will only take a minute.”

“Not here.” He stuck his ball in a bag. Higgins kept eyeing me. Whatever intimidation the sunglasses got him would eventually cost him. He’d be rough to take under these bright lights, but in a parking lot at night he’d go pretty easy. “Make an appointment with my partner here. Maybe we can set something up in a few days. Maybe next week.”

“It can’t wait.”

“I told you. I don’t do business here.”

“From what I hear, Fingers, this is the only place you do business. No chance of the feds bugging you with all these pins flying.”

“Like I said, I’m entertaining some close friends right now—”

“Yeah, I saw. They really twins or do they just like to play dress-up and pretend?”

It made him reassess me. He held his bowling bag on his lap and wet his lips.