The River Killings (4 page)

“Mom. Trust me. They’re easier than the jungle gym. Julie’s just mad because they couldn’t find me and I won.”

“You didn’t win; you cheated. We thought you got kidnapped. We spent the whole night looking for you.”

“Molly,” I pressed on, “if Tony Boschetti’d seen you up there, he’d have our hides.” The house manager was strict about boat-house safety.

“Our hides?” Molly asked.

“Hides-and-go-seek,” Emily explained.

“You are simply not allowed in the boat bays unless you’re with me. It’s not safe. Understood?” Molly nodded soberly.

“Good. Now, can we go?” I headed for the door.

Susan followed. The girls straggled behind. “Can we stop at Harry’s for water ice? We’ve been waiting all night.”

Harry, the unofficial mayor of Boathouse Row, was one of several vendors who sold balloons, sodas, candy and frozen treats from trucks under umbrellas in front of the boathouses. Harry knew everyone along the Row, and everyone knew him, especially kids.

“It’s too late, Molls. Harry closed up a long time ago.” “Aw, that sucks,” Julie said.

“Julie.” Susan spoke reflexively. “Watch your language.”

Molly took my hand. “Mom?” She squinted up at me. “What’s in your hair?”

I touched my head, retrieved a skinny stem of a river vine.

“Wow. You’re all wet—” She eyed me, head-to-toe, noticing me for the first time.

“What’d you do, flip?” Julie smirked, just then realizing that we were indeed damp.

Susan and I looked at each other, searching for a quick response. Nothing came to mind.

“You did?” Julie’s eyes widened and her pout became a grin.

“You guys flipped? Emily—” Molly burst into giggles. “They flipped!”

Emily and Molly rolled with laughter. Apparently, the idea of us flipping was hilarious.

“What happened? Did you hit a bridge?” Julie went to Susan and began pulling tiny pieces of green stuff from her hair. “Yuck. Mom, you seriously need a shower.”

“Let’s go, kiddoes.” Susan kept walking. “We’re wet and tired. And it’s late.”

Finally, Susan and I herded the girls down the stairs to the door, where Officer Olsen waited. The girls asked endless questions. “How’d you flip? Did you crash? Is your boat hurt? Are you hurt? Why’s that policeman here?”

Answers were tiresome, especially that last one. But Susan and I managed to avoid details, dodging questions with commands. “Watch where you’re going,” we said. Or, “Shh, you’ll wake Tony.”

Tony’s attic apartment was on the top floor of the boathouse. As I mentioned his name, I glanced back up the stairs toward his door and saw a man, backlit by the hall light, at the railing. Wearing nothing but a towel, he stared down at us. Was it Tony? I couldn’t see his face, but it had to be. Oh, damn, I thought. We must have awakened him. I didn’t want to deal with Tony just then. Didn’t want to explain what had happened or hear him rip us for rowing alone at night, flipping the boat, leaving it upriver, bringing the kids to the boathouse.

For a moment, he and I stared at each other in the dim light. Then, wordlessly, he turned and, towel flapping, headed up the hallway toward the attic stairs. Odd, I thought, that Tony hadn’t said anything. Not one word. Maybe he wasn’t as difficult as his reputation implied.

Susan hustled the girls out the door. Their tiff forgotten, they tittered with excitement when they found out they were going to ride in Officer Olsen’s patrol car to the lot where Susan’s car was parked.

Finally, we were going home.

A
LL
I W
ANTED
W
AS
A B
ATH
.A L
ONG
H
OT
S
OAPY
B
ATH
T
HAT

would steam away the chill of the river, soak away the touch of dead flesh. I rushed Molly into bed, then, peeling off my damp socks and spandex unisuit, I turned on the hot water, poured in some bubbles, lit a few candles and switched off the overhead light. In the tub, I lay back, absorbing the heat, relaxing my muscles, my bones, letting the water rise around me, enclosing me. Suddenly, though, the moving water held me too tight, began to strangle me like a river. A hot river this time, but a river, nonetheless. Stop it, I told myself. You’re being ridiculous. Just relax. Lie back. Focus on the heat, the comfort. I closed my eyes, letting my legs float. And slowly, surfacing in the darkness, I saw the pale, vacant face of a woman. My eyes opened and I sat up suddenly, splashing bubbly water over the side of the tub.

Okay, the bath wasn’t working. Maybe I’d just wash off and relax with a glass of wine. I dunked under the bubbles, rinsing my hair, my ears, my nose. Sponging off all the places the river had flooded. Finally, the steam began to do its work, soothing my bruised and aching muscles, making them heavy and slow. I leaned back, resting, letting my limbs drift, closing my eyes. And heard someone moving in the room.

For a moment, I didn’t dare open my eyes. I pretended I hadn’t heard while I thought about what to do. Jump out of the bathtub screaming and streak out of the room? Throw a towel—or a shampoo bottle?

“Mom?”

Molly was perched on the toilet cover, the seat I often occupied while she bathed.

“Geez, Molly—I thought you were asleep,” I breathed. “I’m not tired. It’s too hot to sleep.”

I had no energy for a conversation. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

She grinned slyly. “Too tired to go to school?” “School’s almost out. Another few days—” “School’s boring. All we do anymore is watch movies and have assemblies.”

I breathed deeply, collecting myself, focusing on the moment. I waited a few seconds before speaking. Then, calmly but firmly, I said, “It’s late, Molly. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay? Go back to bed; I’ll come tuck you in.”

She didn’t budge. For a while she poked at her gums, feeling for incoming teeth.

“I want to skip. Can you write a note and say I’m sick?”

“No. That would be lying.”

“Please. They boss you. ‘Watch this movie. Color this picture.’ What if I don’t feel like it?”

“Molls, just hang in. Next week you’ll be done.” If Molly hated kindergarten, what would she think of first grade? Or high school?

“It’s hot in my class. There’s only one fan, no AC. I don’t want to go, Mom. I just want to hang out.”

Hang out? There it was again, that teenage tone. “Molly, you’ve got to go.”

“It sucks, Mom.”

I didn’t comment on her language. I was triaging our fights. “Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like.” “Pleeeeze don’t make me.”

I was tired and I knew she could easily keep pestering me all night. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay?” Damn. I’d weakened. She sighed, giving up for now. “Were you scared?” Scared of what? It took a moment to figure out what she
meant. “When we flipped? Only a little. We can swim and the boat floats, so we just hung on and rolled it back over. Then we climbed in and rowed to shore.”

“But then, why was the policeman there?”

Oh dear. What was that speech Susan and I had prepared? Why couldn’t I remember it? “Oh, Molls. It’s a long story and I’m way too tired to tell it now. Please, go back to bed.”

“Was somebody killed? Is that why there was a policeman?”

I didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to tell the truth or to lie. “Sometimes there are accidents on the river. Once in a while, people drown.”

“Somebody drowned? Really? Who?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“You found a drowned person? A lady or a man?” “A lady.”

“Did she fall in the water? What happened?” “We don’t know yet. Nick was there. He’ll try to find out.” She nodded, satisfied with the answer. Rubbing her eyes, she stifled a yawn.

Clearly, my bath was over. I grabbed a towel and stood, pulling the plug. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s tuck you in.”

I pulled on my robe and together we blew out the candles. Holding hands, we walked to her room and she climbed into bed. Snug under her covers, eyelids drooping, though, Molly still fought sleep. She gripped my hand, not letting me leave.

“Mom.” Her voice was sober. “What if you drowned when you flipped?”

“I didn’t drown.” I smoothed her curls with my free hand and smiled to reassure her. “And I won’t.”

She blinked a few times, not accepting that answer. “But if you did?”

“It won’t happen,” I said again, kissing her forehead. “But what if it did? Who would I live with?” “Nick would take care of you.” I understood her anxiety. She was adopted, had already lost one set of parents. And I was a
single mom. For all Molly’s bravado, she was a little kid who needed to know she was safe. So I went on. “And not just Nick. Susan and Tim would take care of you. And Karen. And Davinder. And Ileana and . . .” I chanted on for a while, rhythmically listing our friends, people she knew who loved her. I was still going strong, naming Aunt Lanie in New York and our dozens of cousins in Chicago when I heard a soft snore and realized I could stop. Molly, thank God, was finally asleep.

AND
THEN,
I W
AS
A
LONE
. H
EAVY
WITH
FATIGUE,
I P
ULLED
O
N
A nightgown and climbed into bed. And lay there, unable to sleep. Each time I began to drift, I felt myself tilting, spilling into the river, thrashing upside down in the water, choking, and I kicked myself awake. When I closed my eyes, I felt the gentle caress of hair against my face, the floating weight of a dead woman in my arms.

Who were those women? What had happened to them? How had so many bodies ended up in the river together? Memories and questions swirled through my mind. I rolled over. I rearranged the pillows. I turned the light on, then switched it off.

Finally I got up, wandered downstairs, poured myself a glass of wine and wandered into the living room of my small brownstone house, where I curled up under an afghan on my purple velvet sofa.

The sofa was, without contest, my favorite piece of furniture. Overstuffed and oversized, it swelled like a big purple cloud in the middle of an eclectic, usually cluttered, room. I sank into it, sipping cabernet, drawing comfort from the familiar and the personal. I gazed at the treasures crammed onto the built-in shelves. My great-grandmother Bella’s weighty brass mortar and pestle; her porcelain soup tureen, bursting with dried flowers. A geisha doll my uncle Dave had sent my mother while serving in Japan after World War II. Books, photo albums. A painted clay sculpture Molly had made at school that looked sort of like a mongrel cat. And, on the bottom shelf, an enlarged framed picture of Nick, Molly and me, taken at Cape May in March. The ocean wind had been blowing Molly’s curls against Nick’s face, hiding part of the
angry scar that crossed his cheek, almost blocking the paralysis that allowed only half his face to smile.

Paintings lined the living room walls, most of them by aspiring artists I knew. A bold abstract of yellows and umbers, a fat nude, a delicate etching of a farm beneath a crescent moon. One, the brooding profile of an olive-skinned woman, was new, painted just this spring. By me. I assessed it for the zillionth time. The eyebrow, a dark check mark, was the focal point of a face dabbed with purples and greens. Despite its flaws, I liked it. More important, I’d finished it. My first painting in years.

The room, as usual, was cluttered. Molly’s red shorts and a lone sandal, a half-finished bead project, a worn stuffed bear, an empty glass and plate. Nick’s library books stacked on the coffee table. In the far corner, my StairMaster, sulking with dust and disuse.

I sipped wine on soft cushions. Life, I assured myself, was pretty good. I liked my job at the Institute; being an art therapist was challenging and important, even though it hadn’t been my ambition. Painting had been my dream. But I was beginning to paint again, gradually. And art therapy paid the bills.

And Nick, I thought, was also good. For the first time since my divorce, I was half of a couple again, and so far I hadn’t messed up. I still had my issues, of course, but I’d gotten less protective of my turf. Less possessive of Molly. And, even if I hadn’t completely torn down my protective walls, I’d let Nick pass through most of them. Sometimes I even managed to trust him. Nick, Molly and I were blending, feeling almost like a real family.

Yes, life was pretty much okay. I had close friends, a cozy home full of clutter. A job that was meaningful. A relationship that was relatively stable and a child I adored. Whatever had happened on the river had been an anomaly. I needed to relax and put the night into perspective, focus on the positives.

Still, I stayed awake, staring into the colored light of a stained-glass lamp, listening to sounds of the city at night. Distant sirens, screeching brakes. Occasional blasts of blaring music from a passing car. And, loudest of all, the impenetrable silence of empty air.

W
HEN
N
ICK
F
INALLY
C
AME
H
OME
T
HE
S
UN
W
AS
UP,
AND S
O
W
AS
I. I greeted him by leaning into his arms and staying there. We asked each other how we each were, and we both lied. Nick was pale and drawn, his blue eyes overly bright, as if haunted.

“What?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“You sure you want to hear?”

“I have to. Nick, I was there.”

He nodded, touching my cheek, kissing the top of my head. “There were nineteen.”

Nineteen dead women? “Lord.” I tried to comprehend the number. “How could nineteen women drown at once? Couldn’t any of them swim—Or call for help?”

He watched me gently, patiently. “I doubt they drowned, Zoe.”

What? Oh. His answer began to sink in. The women had died before they’d hit the water. Someone must have put them there. I couldn’t grasp it, even though I’d seen it. Nineteen bodies? How does somebody put nineteen bodies in the river?

“But then, how did they die?”

“We don’t know yet. We’re waiting on the autopsies.” Of course he’d say that. Nick never said more than he had to, didn’t volunteer his theories. “They were Asian.” Asian? “All of them?” “Every one.”