The River Killings (12 page)

“Let the voice mail get it,” he suggested. But I’d already reached for the phone.

“Zoe . . .” Susan sounded half-dead. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

“I’ve been calling you, too. Where’ve you been?” “At the Roundhouse, filing police reports.” “I thought we were done with that.”

“No, I wasn’t there about the women. It was about today. After I left you, I got carjacked.”

What? I sat bolt upright. “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

Nick lifted himself, resting on an elbow, curious.

“No, I’m not okay. I’m bruised in places I didn’t know I had. This guy came up to me at the stoplight—”

“Where?” As if that mattered.

“Twelfth and Lombard. He stuck a gun in my face.”

“A gun? Susan. My God. Nick—Susan got carjacked.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Is she okay?”

“So then he said, ‘Move over, bitch.’ I swear, I thought he was going to shoot me, but another guy was on the other side of the car and he just opened the door, pulled me out and threw me onto the street.”

“In broad daylight?”

“In broad daylight. He threw me down and they took off, right through the red light, and there I was, lying on the pavement, blocking traffic like one of those orange cones.”

“Gosh, Susan.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“They threw her onto the street. She was just lying there.” “I’m okay, though. I got checked out at the hospital. And they took a description of the guys—”

“Was she hurt?” Nick asked. “Is she okay?” I nodded, waving at him to be quiet.

“But I don’t think it’ll help. All I could remember was the gun.” “Damn, Susan.”

“And I couldn’t even call for help. My cell phone was in the car. In my purse. They got everything.”

“Everything?” Absurdly, I thought of her newly purchased bag of condoms.

“Well, the car. My cash, my phone. My credit cards. I had to stop all of them and that took forever. And the police told me to pad the list of stuff in the car for insurance purposes.”

Like Officer Bowman, I thought, telling me to think of extra items missing from my house.

“Maybe they’ll get it back.” I tried to be positive.

“Actually, I’m hoping they don’t. I don’t want to get in that car ever again, not after those creeps drove it.”

I knew what she meant. I felt the same way about my house. “Yeah. That’s why I’m dousing everything in cleaning fluids.”

“Huh?”

I remembered then that Susan still didn’t know about my break-in. As tired as I was, and even though Nick was lying there, I had to tell her. Her car had been stolen and my house had been burglarized the day after we found the bodies in the river. The traffickers had to be involved. And Susan had to be warned that her house could be next. I’d begun to tell her about my break-in when Nick sighed and got up, pulling on a pair of jeans.

“I’m getting a coke. Want anything?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the room.

“MAYBE
IT’S
A
LL
J
UST
A B
IZARRE
C
OINCIDENCE
.
“

“Your car is stolen, my house is broken into, Nick’s pictures are defiled and Molly says a woman’s following her, all the day after we found nineteen dead slaves in the river. That’s all a coincidence?”

“Maybe.”

“Susan, come on.”

“Okay, say it isn’t. What’s the point? Are they trying to scare us? Fine. We’re scared. What do they get out of our being scared?”

“What do they think we have or know? What would they be searching for in your car or my house?”

“Whatever it is, I hope they found it so they’ll leave us alone.”

“You said we wouldn’t hear from them again, Susan. That they were satisfied we knew nothing.”

“I said we wouldn’t hear from those two again. I wasn’t car-jacked by the priest and Sonia.”

“How can you be sure?”

She hesitated. “Sonia wore a costume, but I doubt she’s a wiry young man underneath.”

“So, who took your car? The slave smugglers?”

“Maybe. We drove in it to the river that night; maybe they think we found something and put it in the car. They might have looked for it in your house, too. And since they didn’t find anything, they’ll probably try my house next. Thank God for all my contractors—nobody can get past them.”

“But what are they looking for?”

Neither of us could think of anything. And we were both
wiped out. So, reassuring each other that the next day would be less harrowing, we hung up. Nick still hadn’t come back to the bedroom, so I went downstairs looking for him. The first floor was dark, reeking of cleaning fluids. The kitchen was as we’d left it before we’d gone to dinner: a mess. Stacks of dishes. Bottles and cans, unopened packages of food lay everywhere. Pots and pans, spice jars, dish towels and detergent covered the counters, waiting to be reshelved in newly sterilized cabinets. The sink overflowed with stuff to be thrown out. Looking at it, I shivered, realizing that, earlier in the day, I’d gone a bit berserk.

But where was Nick? Getting a coke had taken a long time. I checked the living room, the dining room. He wasn’t there. But the light was on in my studio.

“Nick?” I called. “You in here?”

I went to the door. Nick sat at my computer clicking away.

“What are you doing in here?” My tone was sharp. Nick was in my private space. The room I’d set aside just for myself.

“Just checking my e-mail.” His fingers moved fast. Signing off in a hurry? closing something he didn’t want me to see? Stop it, I told myself. Give the man a break. Why can’t you believe he’s simply checking his e-mail?

“So, Susan okay?” he asked.

“Just peachy.” I was surprisingly irritable. Bitchy, actually “As peachy as you?”

“She was carjacked. How would you expect her to be?” “I don’t know. Susan’s pretty tough.”

“If you think that, you don’t know her. Susan’s mush.” I walked over to the desk.

“Okay, whatever.” He pushed a button, minimizing the screen.

I glared at it, wondering what he didn’t want me to see. “Why didn’t you ask if you could use that?”

“The computer? Oh . . .” He shrugged. “I didn’t think it would be a problem. Is it?”

“No. But it’s mine. I don’t use your things without asking.” Actually, I didn’t give a rat’s behind if he used the computer. But he was
hiding something; I could tell. My only chance of finding out what it was, was by pulling rank. Still, I sounded like a selfish six-year-old.

“Okay. I won’t touch it again. Ever.”

“Of course you can, Nick. I was just making a point—”

He folded his arms. A patient, patronizing pose. “zoe, what’s going on? Is this about me using your computer? Or is it about you trying to pick a fight?”

I didn’t answer. I was feisty and cranky and I hated it that he understood.

“Because I think you’re upset about what happened last night. And angry about what happened here today. And you can’t do anything about those things, so you’re taking your frustrations out on me. Which is understandable. Everybody needs a punching bag sometimes. So don’t be shy. Don’t stop halfway. Go for it. If you want to fight, let’s fight.”

In the lamplight, Nick’s shoulders glowed golden and perfectly sculpted. His muscles bulged, casting soft shadows across the slopes of his skin. I stood in the doorway, tears flooding, unable to put my feelings into words. Anger? Confusion? Love? Fear? Rage? I couldn’t separate one from the other, didn’t know big from small, real from imagined. Maybe Nick was right. Maybe I was trying to start a fight to purge the turmoil inside me. I was definitely being picky and bitchy. Apologize, I told myself. It’s not Nick’s fault you’re boiling inside.

“I don’t want to fight, Nick. I’m just mad.”

But Nick didn’t back off. His pale eyes zeroed in on me, and his voice taunted. “Bullshit. You want to fight. Fine.come on. Bring it on. I dare you.”

He came closer, his arms reached out, grabbed my wrists. His mouth brushed mine; his unshaven face scraped my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.

“Nick.” I tried to push him away. “Come on. Stop it.”

But he didn’t. He held both my wrists with one hand, yanked at my T-shirt with the other, pulling me to the floor. “You want a fight?” His voice was a growl. “Okay. You got one.”

For a long time, we stayed on the floor, rolling and twisting, grunting and grappling. Sweaty and panting, our bodies struggled in silence, slamming each other roughly, like animals. Afterward, breathless and spent, we went back upstairs and lay on the bed in each other’s arms. I felt calm, tired, not as angry as before. I wasn’t sure that what had happened had actually been a fight. But if it had been, I’d kind of liked it. And I didn’t know, didn’t care who’d won.

T
HE
N
EXT
DAY,
M
OLLY
A
BSOLUTELY
R
EFUSED
TO G
O
TO S
CHOOL
. The good mother in me knew I should talk to her in depth, uncover the source of her resistance, help her work through whatever problems there were. But I was tired and overwhelmed, and I didn’t do any of that. I simply accepted that Molly was Molly, making up her mind and not budging from her position. Even as a toddler, before she was two years old, she’d been strong-willed, rejecting food she didn’t like, holding a bite of broiled salmon in her mouth for hours rather than swallowing it. Or climbing a tall kitchen stool onto the counter, scaling the highest cabinet shelves in order to reach a forbidden box of animal crackers. Now, with that same determination, she recited another litany of reasons why she should be allowed to skip school.

“They make you go to lunch even if you’re not hungry. And you have to wait in line and hold hands with another kid.”

“Molly,” I reminded her. “You have just a few days left till summer vacation.”

“That’s just the point, Mom. I won’t miss anything. I mean, seriously. What are they going to do in just three days? Besides, that lady’s there. I don’t like her following me around.”

The lady was what convinced me. Maybe she wasn’t actually following Molly, but I didn’t want to take the chance. So I caved and made arrangements for Molly to spend the day with my friend Karen and her son Nicholas. Nicholas went to a Catholic school; he was already on summer break. If someone was hanging around the school watching for Molly, she’d be disappointed.

Meantime, the kids would get hot and bored in the city, and I hoped that school, by comparison, would seem not so bad. But, as we were leaving, Karen called.

“Send a bathing suit,” she said. “I’m taking the kids to the swim club.”

Karen and her family belonged to Delancey Swim Club, a square-block urban haven of water slides, pools, restaurants and video games. Molly loved it there; it was where, in toddler classes, she’d learned to swim. By comparison, school wouldn’t stand a chance.

Oh, well, I thought as we walked to Karen’s. Maybe one day off school would refresh her; tomorrow, she might go willingly. But I knew better; once Molly made up her mind, she rarely changed it. Oh, Lord. I hoped she’d like day camp. If she didn’t, what would we do all summer? I had to go back to work, couldn’t entertain her. I could make occasional play dates, but most of Molly’s friends went to camp. Hari. Emily. Nicholas—all of them. Scanning the street, looking for potential slave traders, I tried to figure out how many times I could miss work to go to the library or the zoo. Not many.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Molly grasped my hand.

“Nothing, Molls.” I tried to sound cheerful.

“You look like something’s wrong.”

“Do I? I was just thinking.”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“What?”

“Pleeeeze don’t ever clean the house anymore? It smells sickening. My nose burns from it.” I smiled. “Okay.” “Promise.”

“Promise that I’ll never clean the house again?” “Yes. Never ever. Not with that pneumonia stuff.” “Ammonia.” “It stinks.”

“How’s this. I won’t clean with ammonia if you’ll keep your room neat.”

“That’s not fair. I like my room the way it is.” There was no point arguing. I wouldn’t win. I caved again, promising never to use ammonia again, ever, period. No conditions. “What are you doing while I’m at Nicholas’s?” “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not rowing, are you?” She eyed me cautiously. “Not until later. Why?” “Don’t row. Please?” “Molly, I’ll be fine.”

Molly stopped walking. “Don’t go, Mom.” “Why?”

Her brows furrowed. “Just don’t.”

“Nothing will happen, Molly. I promise.”

She shook her head. “How do you know?”

“Well, Coach Everett will be with us. He won’t let us flip again.”

She thought for a moment. “When are you rowing?”

“Later. About five.”

“Can I go with?”

I saw the worry on her face.

“Can I?” she repeated.

“Molls, what would you do? You can’t stay all alone at the boathouse.”

She pouted. “Maybe Emily can come. Like last time.” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?”

Once again, I explained that the boathouse wasn’t a place for children. That Tony, the manager, didn’t want kids hanging around. But Molly had been acting strangely lately, unwilling to go to school, thinking some woman was following her. And who knew how the break-in at the house had affected her? Not to mention the terror of the night before on the river. Damn, how could I be so insensitive? Molly was just a little girl; how could I expect her to take all these traumatic events in stride? I stooped beside her and faced her eye to eye.

“Everything’s okay, Molls.”

She avoided my gaze.

“I promise. You don’t need to worry. Okay?” She set her jaw. “I want to go with, Mom. I won’t bother anybody.”

I thought of Tony, his aversion to children and pets. Still, Molly’s feelings were more important than Tony’s fussiness. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“So let’s have Emily come.”

As if two six-year-olds would be better than one?

“I’ll talk to Susan. Maybe Julie or Lisa can stay with you.”

Instantly, Molly’s shoulders relaxed and her face brightened. “When you row, can I get water ice?”