I withdraw my weapon and move to the window. I’m having trouble seeing clearly out of my right eye. I reach up and realize it’s swollen shut. When I see the smoking black mass in the driveway, I let out a scream. There is a crater in front of my house. Inside it is Lee’s car. It’s been reduced to a mass of smoldering metal.
Lee, I know, is gone.
25.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
I remind myself to keep breathing as I slip out the back door of my house. My feet sink into the wet sawgrass. I’m wearing a backpack stuffed with as much evidence as I can carry: photographs, audiotapes, financial records. I’m packing two weapons: one at my hip, one at my ankle. I need to get away from the house as fast as I can. I have to assume that Dad’s truck, parked across from Lee’s, is fitted with the same car bomb that turned my driveway into a moonscape. Whoever rigged it will, no doubt, be back to check their handiwork. They may be watching me already. If they know I’m alive, I am dead woman running. If they don’t, I have a narrow window to escape before they return.
It takes me less than five minutes to cross the half acre of preserved land that borders my house. It’s the longest, hardest run of my life. There is no cover in the marsh. Just thick, unwieldy underbrush to push through and pockets of muddied water. My backpack slaps hard against my spine as I move. I feel my left shoe come untied and I have to flex my foot hard to keep it from falling off altogether. I’m breathing so hard my lungs feel like they’re on fire. The smell of ash hangs heavy in the air.
I’m halfway across the marsh when a car backfires on Dune Road. I throw myself down into the muck. For a few seconds, I lie still. An egret lifts up into the air, unfolding its wings overhead. Daylight is breaking: a bad sign. I can see a column of smoke rising from in front of my house. The air smells like burnt metal and rubber. Someone will see it; someone will call the police. Soon, cop cars and ambulances will descend on this corner of Dune Road. They may already be on their way.
I get up, keep going. When I reach the other side of the preserve, I take a deep, grateful gulp of air. Then I force my way through the neighbor’s hedgerow; I emerge behind the garage. It doesn’t appear as though anyone is home. The windows are dark; there are no cars in the drive. I grab the garage door and manually hoist it up. No alarm sounds. Inside, there is an old station wagon, the keys tossed casually on the driver’s seat.
I let out a shaky exhale. Thank God for small miracles. My odds of survival just went up.
I slide into the driver’s seat and put the keys in the ignition. As I adjust the rearview mirror, I catch sight of myself. My right eye is purple and swollen, like a boxer’s after a fight. A cut at my hairline wells with dark blood. I hadn’t even noticed it. I reach up and touch it, and wince when my fingers feel a sliver of glass pressed beneath the skin. My fingers probe my scalp. There’s clotted blood there, too. I have a dull ring in my ears and I’m starting to feel woozy. Light streaks in front of me. I close my eyes for a second, willing myself not to lose consciousness.
My eyes pop open. I have to go. Light glints off the glass embedded near my hairline. I extract it with my nails, groaning aloud as I do. I blot the blood away with my sleeve; the blood is coming hard and fast now, and I have to stop it. I slip off my T-shirt and tear one sleeve off at the seam. I wrap the fabric as tightly as I can around my head, my eyes welling from tears as I do. Bursts of light pop in front of my eyes; the pain is blinding. I put the car in drive. I don’t have time to worry about a few cuts and bruises. Lee is dead. If I don’t move, I will be soon, too.
Before I pull onto the street, I take the SCPD baseball cap that Lee lent me at the crime scene and slap it on over my makeshift tourniquet. My head screams with pain, but I need to cover myself. It’s hardly a disguise, but at least my face is partially obscured. I’m also driving someone else’s car. I’ll have to write the neighbors a nice thank-you note when this is all over. Thank you for letting me steal your car. Please enjoy this bottle of scotch.
I’m almost to the Westhampton Bridge when I hear sirens. My pulse escalates. I have to fight myself not to press down hard on the accelerator. The speed limit here is an excruciatingly slow thirty-five miles an hour. I flip on the blinker and make my way onto the bridge, just as an ambulance squeals by me, heading east on Dune Road.
My phone is vibrating on the passenger seat. I lean over and turn it onto speaker.
“Nell!” Sarah shouts into the phone. “Where the fuck is Lee? Everyone is on the ground waiting for him. We’re ready to go. I’ve been calling him and he’s not picking up.”
“He’s dead.” My words come out heavy and slow. As I drive through town, my vision starts to blur. I blink back what I think are tears; I realize quickly that it’s blood. I drive straight through a red light, only half-realizing what I’m doing. I should pull over. But then I hear sirens again—maybe a block or two away—and I sit straight up and drive.
In and out. Keep breathing.
“He’s what? What happened?”
“Car bomb. In my driveway.”
“Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m in Westhampton Beach, less than ten minutes from the airport. But I need to go to Brentwood. I have to get Luz.”
“You go straight to the airport, do you hear me? Straight there. Sam is there. He’ll keep you safe. I’m going to send out the teams now. We have to move.”
“Call Luz. Make sure she’s safe. She’s a key witness, Sarah. They’ll get to her. They’ll hunt her down.”
“I’ll take care of her. You just stay alive. You hear me, friend?” She’s screaming at me, and yet I hardly hear her. I’m slipping into an almost dreamlike state, somewhere between waking and unconsciousness.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper into the phone, just as it slips through my fingers. My eyes close. The car runs off the road and hits something, hard and fast. The last thing I hear is the hard pop of the airbag deploying. Then there is nothing. Only darkness.
26.
My eyes open. The light is so bright it burns. I let out a small moan and squeeze them shut. I feel my body hurtling through space. A wave of nausea rolls up from my stomach. I turn my face to the side, preparing to vomit.
“Nell.” A familiar voice. More urgently this time: “Nell! Can you hear me?”
“Sam?” I croak, peaking through one eye. I can’t see anything, it’s all a blur. But I can hear him. He’s right beside me. I feel a wash of relief.
“Sir, you’re going to have to stand back now,” an unfamiliar voice dictates. “She’s going into surgery.”
“Nell! Can you hear me? I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”
“Sam!” I try to sit up, but I can’t. My head feels like it’s made of lead. I force my eyes open. A doctor, wearing a mask, trots alongside me. The white walls pass in the blur. We stop; I hear doors opening. I’m on a stretcher, I realize. Overhead are the halogen lights of a hospital. I don’t remember how I got here or how long it’s been since I was pulled out of the stolen station wagon. The last thing I remember was the punch of the airbag and the sickening sound of crumpling metal.
“Ma’am.” The doctor sounds agitated. “Please try not to move. We’re bringing you in for surgery. Everything’s fine. Just need to stitch you up. Okay? Try to relax.”
“Sam!” I shout. “Where’s Lee?”
Lightman doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. In the back of my mind, a voice reminds me: Lee is dead. Lee’s car exploded in the driveway. The doors swing shut behind us. Someone is adjusting my IV; I feel a warm surge of fluid flooding my veins. My eyes drop closed, and I slip back into a deep, hard sleep.
27.
There she is.”
My eyes flicker open. I look right and then left. Lightman beams at me from my bedside.
I attempt a smile back. Pain radiates through my bod
y. “Where am I?”
“You’re at Southampton Hospital. You just came out of surgery. You’re going to be just fine.”
“What happened?”
“When the car bomb went off in your driveway, the windows shattered. You were cut up pretty badly. You ended up passing out while you were driving to the airport. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Thank God you were on the phone with Sarah. She knew where you were. I came and got you myself.”
“Where is Lee?” I am awake now, alert. Everything comes rushing back. The sound. The smoke. Running across the sawgrass. “Is Lee—”
“He’s gone, Nell.” Lightman puts his hand on mine. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sure?”
He nods. His eyes well up. He takes off his glasses and dabs them dry. “It could’ve been you, you know. We found one on your truck, too.”
For a few seconds, we are both quiet.
“We got them,” Lightman says, finally. “We arrested them all.”
“Dorsey? Calabrese?”
“Yes. And DaSilva and Anastas. A bunch of others, too.”
“What about Meachem?”
“He’s out of the country. We can’t—”
“Don’t tell me he’s going to get off for this.”
“He’s not. He won’t. It may just take some time.”
“What about the others? The clients? The men at Meachem’s parties?”
“We have a lot of evidence, Nell. We’re going through it now. This will all come out in due time. The important thing is that we got Dorsey and Calabrese. And they’re done for. But you, you need to rest. You’ve been through a helluva lot.”
“What about Luz? Is she safe?”
Lightman nods. “Safe. She and Miguel left from Gabreski a few hours ago. They’ll go into protective custody. Luz has been amazing. She’s already given us some really helpful information, about Calabrese, the organization, the involvement of the SCPD, and the clients she met at Meachem’s.”
He pauses. I can tell he’s holding something back.
“What is it?”
He sniffs back tears. “You gave me a scare, that’s all. I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Any idea when I can get out of here?”
“Another day or so. I’ll arrange for you to come back to DC.” He points his finger at me. There are tears sliding down his cheeks. “And this time, you are going to therapy.”
I laugh. Then I’m in his arms. I press my face against his chest and let out a sob.
“Lee was a good guy,” I whisper.
“He was.”
“I need to stay in Suffolk County. Just for a little while.”
He gives me a look of exasperation. “Nell—”
“There are just a few things left to do. A few days, tops. I’ll be back at my desk next week.”
“Nice try. You still need to do the evaluation. And I’m sure Maloney’s going to be thrilled when he hears about what you’ve been up to.”
“Oh, fuck Maloney. Tell him there’s no point in having me on leave. I end up working, anyway.”
“Sarah’s worried about you. She wanted to come see you.”
“She’s got enough going on. I’ll give her a call when I get out of this place.”
“Where will you go? You can’t stay at your dad’s house.”
I shrug. “It’s my house now. It’s time to pack it up and say goodbye.”
28.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
My hammer hits a nail square on, pinning another shingle to the roof. The row is finished. Just three more to go.
I sit back on my haunches, admiring my handiwork. When I began this project a week ago, I thought I’d just cover the leaks and replace the rot. I found the work enjoyable, almost meditative. I didn’t want to stop. It’s hard, certainly. I do it in small bits, an hour or two at a time. When I see the new shingles, when I hold them in my hand and feel their clean, straight edges and their heft, twice as dense as the old ones, I can’t help but think the whole damn roof needs replacing. I have the time. I like saving the money. And I really enjoy the view. From up here, I can see over the dunes to the ocean. On a clear day, I can see past the looming arc of the Ponquogue Bridge all the way to the rocky point of Shinnecock County Park.
As it turns out, I’m pretty good at home repairs. Once I was released from the hospital, I got a contractor to put in new windows, but I fixed the boiler and the fridge on my own. Next, I want to tackle the deck. The stairs creak and the railing isn’t sturdy. Lightman tells me I should hire someone to do the outside work, especially now that it’s getting so cold. But I enjoy being outside. It’s like physical therapy for my shoulder. Every day, I feel myself getting stronger.
Before I returned home, Lightman made sure that any trace of Lee’s car was removed. The driveway was repaired, new gravel filled it. There is still a shallow indent where the explosion occurred. I want to leave it that way. I think about him every time I see it.
I haven’t yet decided what to do with the house. Maybe I’ll list it in the New Year. For now, I’m content to live in it as I fix it up. As Dr. Ginnis says, I’m taking it one day at a time. I speak to him most mornings, usually for longer than either of us expect. He tells me that he’ll sign my medical evaluation form whenever I’m ready to go back. For the time being, he isn’t pushing me. Neither is Lightman.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
I have just started another row of shingles when I hear a car pulling into the driveway. I stand up, shield my eyes from the late afternoon light. Sarah Patel emerges from a gray sedan. She wears black jeans and motorcycle boots, just like the first time I met her.
“Sarah!” I call out. I wave when she looks up.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re supposed to be in bed! What the hell are you doing up there?”
“Just a little home repair.” I laugh. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
We hug by the front door. After a few seconds, she pulls back, holding me at arm’s length.
“Well, we obviously need to fatten you up. But all things being equal, you look pretty good.”
“You, too. You didn’t need to come. You must be exhausted.”
She makes a face. “Oh, please. I’ve been meaning to visit you for weeks. But this investigation . . . well, you know. You really opened Pandora’s box, my friend.”
“Come sit. I want to hear all about it. First, though, I have something for you.”
In the living room, I set a log on the andirons and light a fire. We settle on the couch, Sarah on one end with her boots off and her feet tucked up beneath her, me on the other with a blanket draped across my waist. The fire crackles, filling the room with light and heat.
I take off the cross from around my neck and hand it to her. “This belonged to Adriana Marques. She’s wearing it in the photos my dad took of her.”
She turns it over, examining it. “It’s lovely,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t understand why I want her to have it.
“It’s a recording device.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widen, amazed.
“I didn’t realize at first, either. But it kept bothering me: why did Dad have it? Last night, it occurred to me: of course. She was recording all of her meetings for him. Look here.” I point at a small gold ball at the back, no bigger than a pinhead. “This is it.”
“Wow. Thank you. I will get this to the team as soon as possible.” She tucks it into her bag. Then she hands me a folder. “I have something for you, too.”
“What’s this?”
“Film stills of one of Meachem’s parties. From the video footage inside his Palm Beach home. Some heavy hitters in attendance.”
I open it and start to flip through them. I whistle. “You’re not kidding. Half of Washington is at this one.”
&nbs
p; “As I said. Pandora’s box.”
I stop on one photo in particular. It shows a cluster of people gathered by the edge of the pool. The men wear suit jackets, linen pants. The women—girls, really—are in cocktail dresses and high heels, their lithe bodies cast into relief by the setting sun.
I inhale sharply when I see a face I recognize. My head spins as I process this new information. Of course. The answer has been in front of me all along. Now I have to prove it.
I shut the folder.
“Any more arrests?” I ask.
“A few. The police commissioner down in Palm Beach—I think I told you about that one. A few of his underlings. Thanks to you, we went back into the Palm Beach records and found two Jane Does that were murdered in the same way as Ria and Adriana. They both fit the profile to a T. We were able to match one of the bodies to a missing person. Heather Valdez, a seventeen-year-old from West Palm.”
“And the other?”
“Still working on it, but the records are spotty. We may not get lucky there.”
“Where is Meachem?”
“No trace. We’re looking.”
“Bastard. Calabrese doesn’t have any connection to the Florida girls, does he?”
“No. Calabrese’s just local. There’s a Calabrese equivalent down in Florida. A pimp named Joe Lentz. He supplied girls to Meachem. He’s in custody. He’s not talking yet, but we’ll see.”
She pauses then, pressing her lips together as if deep in thought.
“What is it?”
“There’s someone I want you to talk to. Not right away. Just when you’re ready.”
“Sure. Who?”
“Maria Cruz. I met with her yesterday. She wants to meet you.”
“Oh.” I sit forward. “Of course. I can fly down there.”
“No need. She’s coming back to Suffolk County in the next day or so to give her deposition. She’s been really helpful with the investigation.”
Girls Like Us Page 21