Girl Who Wasn’t There

by Vincent Zandri

  For an ex-con, I lucked out, you could say.

  I pull up to the yellow bungalow, open the door, get out.

  He’s already up on the porch waiting for my arrival. He descends the porch stairs onto the concrete landing, and then a second set of steps down to sidewalk level.

  “I didn’t want to turn on the porch light,” he whispers, “attract unwanted attention.”

  He’s not a tall man, but he’s not short either. His face is clean shaven, his hair closely cropped and curly. His skin is the color of coffee with lots of milk. He is wiry and thin. Like a bicyclist maybe, or a cross trainer. He’s wearing a plain white cotton t-shirt, and black Levis over brown work boots.

  “They’re both asleep,” I say, opening up the passenger-side door.

  He grabs hold of Susan, cradles her in his arms, carries her up the steps. I do the same with Chloe, cradling her in both my arms like she’s a little baby. He manages to open the screen door and together we enter into the humble home with the girls. I must admit, I half expect a team of police to be waiting for us. But the place is empty. He sets Susan on the far end of a sectional couch, near the fireplace. I set Chloe on the end closer to the front door.

  He goes to a closet that’s located between the kitchen and living room, pulls out two blankets, which he lays out over each girl.

  “My guess is they’ll sleep for a while,” I say.

  “What about you, Sid?” he asks. “What happens now? With each second that passes, I feel my state pension going bye-bye.”

  In my head, a vision of Joel Harwood. He’s not fast asleep, like most of the people in Albany who spend their precious time working long days running law firms. My gut tells me he is instead where I expect him to be. Question is, will he be expecting me when I get there?

  “If I’m not back in an hour,” I say, “call in the APD. Don’t let any harm come to my little girl or to Susan.”

  “Where are you going, Sidney?”

  “You know where I’m going.”

  “I was afraid of that,” he says.

  The Rabuffo estate.

  You can’t see the main house from the road. It’s set back a half mile inside some of the lushest, greenest, unspoiled acreage leftover in north Albany’s wealthy hamlet of Loudonville. The gate outside is controlled electronically. There’s always a man or two stationed outside guarding it. But now that Rabuffo’s been busted by both the locals and the Feds, the gate is unmanned, whatever support staff he had leftover scattering into the woodwork like cockroaches. As I pull up to it, the round headlamps on the truck shining on it, I can see that it has also been left wide open. By who and by what, I have no idea.

  No, scratch that. I do indeed have an idea or two.

  The police are one of those thoughts that pass through my head. The yellow Do Not Enter crime scene ribbon wrapped around the gate every which way, is one dead giveaway. If the FBI haven’t already been here to tear the place apart, they will be soon. Maybe even Department of Homeland Security will join them, given Rabuffo’s penchant for smuggling undocumented Chinese in and out of New York City.

  But here’s what I think. It’s the middle of the night. The gate’s been left wide open. It’s dark, and seeing that Walton and all his partners are now dead, including my wife, there’s only one soul left on God’s good earth who would take a chance on disturbing that yellow ribbon and crossing over that police line.

  That would be my lawyer, Joel Harwood.

  I drive on through the open gate, some of the ribbon ripping away when the truck plows through it. I take it slow, careful not to rev the engine for fear of giving myself away. I pass by one of the outlying buildings that Rabuffo’s men would use as a lunch room, or just a place to get warm in the winter. Then I approach the main house, which is situated at the apex of a cobblestoned turnaround. The white, four-story, red brick and white clapboard Colonial never ceases to impress me. It’s bigger than a Radisson, and the attached garage can house more cars, full-sized Suburbans, and pickup trucks than your average used car dealership. Or so it seems.

  There’s a car parked at the top of the turnaround.

  Caught in the pickup’s headlamps, I can see that it’s an old-model Mercedes convertible. Baby blue, with tan leather seats, and a matching leather-covered steering column. Its license plate isn’t entirely anonymous, but instead bears the epitaph “Esquire III” in white on New York State–blue lettering.

  I park the pickup behind it. But before I get out, I can’t help but notice that the shotgun I stole from the cabin is set on the floor in the passenger-side foot well. Gary must have stored it there after he ripped it out of my hands inside Walton’s trailer. That’s my good luck, and Joel’s bad luck. Grabbing the shotgun, I exit the truck, and shut the door as gently and quietly as possible.

  Showdown time has arrived.

  More yellow crime scene ribbon is taped to the front door. Some of it has been pulled away to make way for a man. A big man like Joel. I place my free hand on the door, depress the opener. The latch releases. Pushing the door open, I enter into the great vestibule. The floor is black and white marble, and the cathedral ceiling is white stucco, with a massive chandelier hanging down from it. A wraparound Scarlet O’Hara staircase begins on my right-hand side and accesses the second floor of the big house.

  The shotgun gripped in both my hands, I make my way across the vestibule floor and into the narrow hallway that leads to both a large living room where Rabuffo would host his NFL football parties, and beside it, a large kitchen boasting only the best stainless-steel and glass appliances known to man.

  To my left is a door that goes down into a basement that long ago was converted into a game room for some of Rabuffo’s never-ending poker games. I make my way down the carpeted staircase, my pulse throbbing in my temples, but my ears wide open. The overhead cans have been turned on already so there’s no need for me to be feeling and fumbling my way around in the dark.

  When I come to the landing, I take notice of the half dozen round wood card tables that occupy the floor, and the full bar that takes up one entire wall. The opposite wall sports three side-by-side 64-inch flat-screened HDTVs. The TVs have been turned on. A video is playing. Rather, not a video, but a home movie shot with an old-fashioned Super 8 camera.

  I recognize myself in the full color movie. Recognize all the people I’m hanging out with. We’re standing around the pool out back. Me, Rabuffo, Wemps, Singh, and one other man, Joel Harwood. We’re drinking cocktails from long-stem glasses and laughing for the camera. We’re speaking at whoever is shooting the film, but there’s no sound, so I can’t really make it out. About a dozen, very attractive women are swimming in the pool, or lounging around it on chaise lounges, their eyes masked with expensive sunglasses.

  One of these women turns onto her side, waves for the camera. She is beautiful, with her long dark hair, big teardrop eyes, a perfect build, and peppy smile. I have just begun dating her when this home movie was shot. She is Penny, and seeing her right now rips my heart to shreds.

  Men and women dressed in black and white serve us hors d’ oeuvres on silver platters. They’re all Chinese. In the film, I pull one of them into the camera shot with me. His tray is empty so he nervously tucks it under his arm. I must be telling him to smile for the camera because his face goes from anxious to suddenly bright and shiny. I recognize this man. He is Chen, one of the four who were executed by Wemps and Singh so many years ago now.

  My already broken heart begins to disintegrate.

  “None of us are without guilt,” says the voice from behind me. “Isn’t that right, Sidney? Or should I call you killer, just like Rabuffo so affectionately did way back when.”

  I feel the cold hard barrel pressed against the back of my skull.

  “Guess I walked right into this one,” I say, while exhaling a profound sigh.

  “That’s not like you, Sidney,” he says. “I will give you that. But now that I have the upper hand, I’ll ask that you lo
se the shotgun.”

  Survival instinct kicks in, and for a brief moment I consider spinning around and blasting him in the belly. But then it will only take him a half second to pull the trigger on the semi-automatic and the effort will have been for nothing. Penny might be gone now, but my daughter is alive. She needs me to stay alive. Maybe for once, I can deal with this situation without having to resort to brute force. Maybe for once, I can simply outsmart my enemy. The enemy whom I’d assumed was my friend.

  I drop the shotgun to the floor.

  “Kick it away,” he orders.

  I press the tip of my boot against the weapon, push it away … out of reach.

  “You can turn around now,” he says.

  I turn. My eyes lock on the big, salt-and-pepper-haired man. He’s dressed casually in tan slacks, black loafers, no socks, a white Izod polo shirt under a blue blazer, both its pockets stuffed with something I can’t identify. As usual, his gold Rolex is attached to his left wrist.

  He blinks rapidly, as if startled by what he sees.

  “Where’d you get that face, Sid? A car wreck?”

  If only he’d seen it before the swelling abated.

  “She’s dead, you know,” I say.

  “Who’s dead, Sidney?” he says. “Communications accuracy is of paramount importance in these matters. Especially when you planned on sneaking in here and killing me in cold blood.”

  “And what kind of fruit has your plan to steel the Rabuffo stash born thus far?” I beg. “Or is the metaphor not accurate enough?”

  The corner of my eye once more catches the film. Joel, jumping into the pool, surrounding himself with the ladies swimming around the deep end like beautiful mermaids.

  He says, “It got you out of the nasty ole’ penitentiary, now didn’t it?”

  “Penny told me all about your plan. You had every intention of sending me right back once you were done with me. That’s what you had in mind when you stole my daughter and made it look like I was the perp. Because, naturally, I was already convicted of murder. And ten years in a max security joint like Green Haven would have turned me into a monster. Isn’t that right? It would make the healer become the killer.”

  “Something like that, Sidney,” he admits. “Of course, Penny wasn’t aware of the full plan.”

  It comes as a relief to hear him say that, as I notice his eyes glancing at the televisions.

  “We had some good times back then,” he says. “We made some money. But you were unhinged. You, Wemps, Singh. Killers, all of you. You three high school amigos were walking time bombs. Rabuffo had no choice but to get rid of you.”

  His words slap me upside the head.

  “Hell you talking about, Joel? I was just the driver and bag man. I was planning on going back to med school as soon as possible.”

  He smiles, shakes his head a little. Like he doesn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.

  “You were indeed the driver and the bag man,” he says, smiling. “You were also the executioner. The killer.” He laughs out loud. “If you were my doctor, I’d be running for the hills.”

  “I did not shoot that family.” My voice, getting louder. More tense.

  “Didn’t say you did, Sid. You’ll see what I’m talking about in a few short moments.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Counselor.”

  Joel giggles. “You did how many years in the pen, Sidney? Ten? Tell me something, how much of that ten years did you spend down in the hole?”

  It’s the strangest sensation, but it feels like my brain is beginning to spin. Slowly at first, but speeding up faster and faster with each second that passes. My equilibrium is totally devastated. It’s dizzying, my stomach doing flips. I almost feel like I’m caught up in a bad dream. A vivid dream.

  “Jesus, you don’t recall a whole lot, do you, Sid?” he goes on. “I’m told solitary will do that to a man. You talk to yourself inside that steel cage. Convince yourself of things. Your subconscious becomes your bitch. You dream the dreams you want to dream. How did Tennyson so eloquently put it? Do we not live in dreams?”

  I’m hearing his words, but I suddenly feel like it’s not me standing before him, but an imposter. It’s like I’ve gone out of body and now I’m watching the scene from a distance. From somewhere else inside the room.

  “Tell me,” Joel goes on. “Did you dream about spending sultry nights in bed with Penny? Did you dream about walking sandy beaches together? White, sun-baked beaches in Cuba? Did you dream about making love to her in the moonlight?”

  He’s right, of course, because those are the precise dreams I experienced. I sent her letter after letter detailing my dreams. She must have told him back when they were together. She must have revealed my private letters to him. But whether I trained myself to have those particular dreams or not, they were the dreams I looked forward to when I lay my head down at night. Sleep is the only thing you come to look forward to inside prison walls. It is your only escape from the hard reality of the iron house. It is your safety and your refuge.

  You make up your own reality.

  “I’m guessing you did not dream about the men and women you killed,” he intuits. “That would have been too painful. You, the man who wanted to cure people, not execute them, even if they did have it coming.”

  Now on the televisions, the Super 8 switches over to digital video. Something shot from a smartphone maybe. One of the men being videotaped is myself. I’m holding a gun over a man who is down on his knees. Several men are standing around me. Wemps, Singh, and Rabuffo.

  The man on his knees is dressed in black. He’s got a goatee, and tattoos covering his face. A swastika is tattooed to his forehead, just like Charlie Manson.

  “Fuck you!” he’s shouting. “Fuck you and your children.”

  “You know what to do, Doc,” Rabuffo says, glancing at the camera. “You know how we handle organization traitors.”

  I see myself smiling as I pull the trigger. The gunshot feels like a punch to the gut.

  “How can that be?” I whisper, more to myself than Joel. “It’s got to be faked. A faked videotape. Faked history.”

  “It’s no fake and you know it, Sidney. There’s a dozen more films just like this one out there.”

  As if to add credibility to what he’s revealing, another videotape begins. This time, I’m standing outside the passenger-side door of a black BMW sedan. Once more, Rabuffo is standing close by. Also, Wemps and Singh are standing in the video backdrop, which is the parking lot to a restaurant or bar.

  “The money!” I’m shouting. “What … happened … to the money?!”

  Gunshots follow, the brilliant flashes lighting up the night sky.

  “Memory can be a stubborn whore, now can’t it, Sid?” Joel adds. “And how about this one? Now this one was an absolute beauty. A real George Bailey moment.”

  This next video is grainy black and white, shot from the closed-circuit cop cruiser dash cam. I see a small, ratty bungalow. It’s night. Two men are emerging from the house, guns in hand. It’s Wemps and Singh. Wemps, tall with thick blond hair. Singh, shorter, stockier, with short dark hair. The police are shouting at them to drop their guns, to get down on the ground. To surrender themselves. But my old high school buddies decide to shoot it out with the cops.

  It’s exactly how I remember it.

  Or is it?

  That’s when I see myself enter into the frame. I’ve got a semi-automatic gripped in my right hand. I’m firing at will, shooting Wemps in the gut, point-blank. I nail Singh in the left hand from a distance of a couple feet, the hand exploding in a haze of blood, bone, and shredded skin. I unload an entire magazine into my two best friends. Then, a team of cops tackling me, throwing me down on the ground. Joel was right after all. I was driver and executioner. The killer.

  The televisions turn off automatically.

  My brain is spinning so hot, I feel like it’s about to turn to liquid. Like it’s about to spill out of my ears. I see the
men I killed in prison in self-defense. All of them. The one in the laundry, the one in the yard, the one I nearly killed in the kitchen … I see them all like they are alive again.

  “I am a killer,” I say, swallowing something bitter and dry. “A natural born killer. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Joel?”

  “If it smells like a killer, tastes like a killer, looks like a killer, guess what, Sidney? It’s a fucking killer.”

  “But you arranged for my parole.”

  “I’ll give you this much, Doc. You are indeed a killer. But your selection of victims was beyond reproach. You have a conscience, and you maintain high moral standards, much like most would-be, could-be doctors of medicine. Those blood teardrops tattooed to your arm are trophies, but they had it coming. Just like Wemps and Singh had it coming for what they did to Chen and his family. You did the cops a favor when you put those two madmen down. On more than one occasion Rabuffo asked you to kill some of his deadbeat Chinese tenants, but you refused. Once he even asked you to kill a woman. But you married her instead.”

  He lets loose with a belly laugh. It’s like a shot to the heart.

  “Penny,” I whisper. I bite down on my swelled lip, taste the blood on my tongue.

  “Penny owed the boss,” he goes on. “She kept getting deeper and deeper and deeper. But you stepped in, covered her debt, just like Rabuffo had done for you years before. You even married her, had a kid with her.”

  “Now she’s dead,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Your friend Chief Walton shot her.”

  I’m not certain he knows about Penny’s murder. How could he? The news seems to drain the color from his face. He and Penny were lovers when I was away. Maybe he truly loved her. Maybe he knew full well the danger she faced when she agreed to this operation. Maybe one of his worst fears is now realized.

  He clears the dismay from his throat. “Let me tell you something, Sidney. Take it from your lawyer. If Penny is dead because of Walton, then it’s not your fault.”

  Am I supposed to thank him for that? Is the logic intended to comfort me?

  I gaze into his blue eyes, breathe in and out. I’m trying to regain my equilibrium. Trying to set the newly regained memories aside for the moment. Concentrate on the here and now. The present.