“Well, thanks for that, then.”
Katie was on the porch, cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting, “Dinner!”
Trixie smiled. “Coming!”
“It’s chicken!”
“Okay!”
Katie ran back into the house.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“Yeah. I might be able to take some of the credit for her looks, but it’s Claire and Don who are raising her. And they’re doing a hell of a job. She’s in kindergarten now, smart as a whip.”
We were taking our time walking back, allowing ourselves more time to talk things out. But I didn’t know what to say. I was feeling a little shell-shocked.
“So, now what?” Trixie asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You still think I should go to the police, tell them everything?”
“I don’t know.” I paused. “But you can’t keep running. You can’t live this way. Maybe, I don’t know, you’ve got something to trade? What do you know about the drug trade, that other biker gang in Canborough? Maybe, you tell the cops everything you know, help them clear some cases, you can cut some sort of deal.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll have to give that some sort of thought. Regardless, I have to move on. I stay here one more night, and I’m gone.”
“Trixie,” I said, stopping and taking her elbow, looking her in the eye. “Face up to it. Do what you have to do, try to start over.”
She pulled away from me, gently. Katie burst out the door, jumped off the porch, and ran toward her mom, shouting, “Chicken chicken chicken chicken!”
Trixie scooped her up into her arms, rubbing noses with her daughter, and the two of them disappeared into the house, the screen door slamming behind them. I stood outside a moment, alone, wondering how this would all play out.
I took the couch.
Trixie had a double bed in the third bedroom upstairs, and she’d whispered to me that if I wanted to share it with her, she’d be a perfect lady if I could be a perfect gentleman.
I thanked her for the offer, but told Claire the couch would be fine. She got out some sheets, even though I told her not to bother, tucked them into the sofa cushions and found me a cushy pillow. I was upstairs, coming out of the bathroom, when I heard Trixie in Katie’s bedroom. The door was open an inch, and the room was dark but for a bedside lamp, and Trixie was sitting on the edge of the bed, up close to Katie, who was under the covers, her head pressed into the pillow, her eyes wide.
“Tell me more about the princess,” Katie said.
“Well,” said Trixie, “once upon a time, there was a princess, with very curly hair, who was only five years old, and she could do anything she wanted.”
“Even stay up late to watch TV?”
“Not that sort of anything. Anything that was hard, that took a lot of work, anything that the other princes and princesses thought would be too much trouble, that was the sort of anything she could do. Like, if she wanted to be a scientist, she could do that. Or if she wanted to be a doctor, or a painter, or a dancer, whatever she wanted to be, she could do it.”
“Was she magic?” Katie asked.
“Some people thought so, but mostly, she was just special. And she was special because so many people loved her.”
“How many people?”
Trixie thought a moment. “Seventeen,” she said.
“That’s a lot,” said Katie. “So what did the princess decide she wanted to be?”
“What do you think she decided to be?”
Katie mulled this one over. “I think she decided to be a dog doctor.”
“Really?” said Trixie. “A dog doctor. You mean, she wanted to be a dog, who becomes a doctor, or she wanted to be someone who took care of sick dogs?”
“She wanted to be someone who wanted to take care of sick dogs.”
“That makes sense,” said Trixie. “I think that’s a good choice.”
“I like dogs,” said Katie. “But I don’t like dragons. If a dragon got sick, I wouldn’t try to make it better.”
“Dragons are scary,” Trixie agreed.
“I don’t want there to be any dragons,” Katie said.
“Neither do I,” Trixie said, and leaned over to give Katie a kiss goodnight.
I slipped away down the stairs.
“Zack.”
When I opened my eyes, it took me a couple of seconds to realize where I was. On the couch, in the living room of the Bennet house. Trixie, in a robe, the sash knotted in front of her, was kneeling over me in the darkness. I could smell her hair as it hung down her face toward me.
“Zack,” she said again, whispering.
“Yeah, Trixie, it’s the middle of the night.” Instantly, I wondered what her intentions were. Here we were, alone, Trixie in a robe, me mostly undressed, in a darkened room.
“Shhh,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I think there’s someone out there.”
I blinked hard, several times, getting the sleep out of my eyes and getting them adjusted to the dark. “Out where?”
“Outside. Around the house.”
“What? How, what, you probably just heard something. An animal or something.” I’d swung my legs out from under the covers and was in a sitting position, in socks, boxers, and a T-shirt.
“I came down to the kitchen,” Trixie whispered, “for a glass of water, and I thought-” She stopped abruptly, put her index finger to her lip. Neither of us breathed.
I thought I heard a board creak. On the porch, at the front of the house.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
I nodded. Merker, I thought. Somehow, I’d fucked up, led him here. But how was that possible? How could Merker have followed me through the countryside without my noticing? Even an amateur detective like myself would have picked up a tail.
“Have you woken up the others?” I asked. Trixie shook her head. “Get them up, get Katie.”
Trixie didn’t have to be told twice. She disappeared, padding back up the stairs on bare feet. I stood and moved silently to the front door. The door window was curtained, but there was enough of a slit to peer outside. Out on County Road 9, a van with high beams on drove past. I couldn’t make out anything between the house and the road, no people, no unfamiliar vehicles, no-
Someone moved past the window, momentarily blocking my view.
My heart nearly burst out of my chest, but I managed to stay very still. I moved away from the door, pressed myself up against the wall. I inched my way toward the stairs and mounted them as noiselessly as possible.
A dark figure met me at the top.
“Zack?”
It was Don. No one, wisely, had turned on any lights.
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s at least one. I just saw him move past the front door.”
Claire and Trixie were behind them. “Stay with Katie,” he told them, and they both slipped into the girl’s room. “Who is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But he was going around the south side of the house.”
“I’ve got a rifle, but it’s in the back of my pickup,” Don said. “Shit.”
I thought of the small garden shovel by the front door, the one Claire had swung at me, but we’d have to go outside to get it, too.
“There’s an old baseball bat in the basement,” Don said. “If I can see to get down there.”
We both went back down to the first floor. I tapped Don’s arm, pointed to the front door. The shadow was moving the other way, past the door and then the living room window. Then it crouched down, disappeared below the frame.
“Call the police,” I whispered.
“But if they, if they come and find Miran…”
“Don.”
“Jesus, I know.” I followed as he crept into the kitchen, took hold of the receiver from its wall mount, and put it to his ear. “Oh God,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s nothing. No dial tone.”
“My cell,” I said. I tiptoed back into the living room, found my jacket draped over the back of a chair, fumbled around in the pocket until I had my cell phone out. I flipped it open, but because I’d left it on for so long, and had neglected to hook it up to a charger on the drive up here, it was dead.
“Are you kidding me?” Don whispered.
“Do you have a cell phone?” I whispered. Don shook his head. “Okay, go find your bat. I’ll stay up here, you see what you can find.” I trained my sights on the living room window and saw part of a head rise into view. Then another shadow moved across the window in the door.
“Oh no,” I said to myself.
I could hear Don bumping into things in the dark basement. Then footsteps coming back up. I could make out what appeared to be a bat in one hand, and a length of two-by-four in the other.
He handed me the bat.
“There’s at least two,” I said. “One by the window, one by the door. He must have brought Leo with him.”
“We get on either side of the door, when they come in, wham,” Don said.
It was as good a plan as any.
We got into position. Standing perfectly still, we could hear the board creak under the two men-it sounded like they were both out there-as they shifted their weight from one leg to another.
Four men, all within a few inches of each other, two on one side of the wall and two on the other, doing their best not to make a sound. All poised, waiting to strike.
Don stood across from me, holding the four-foot section of lumber over his shoulder. I had the bat at the ready.
And then, a good thirty feet away from us, the back door burst open.
My mouth dropped. Don’s probably did too, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at the four men storming into the living room by way of the kitchen, arms raised, weapons pointed, handheld lights blazing.
And then the front door burst open, and three more men came barreling in, similarly armed.
They were all screaming: “Police! Freeze!”
Just like in the movies.
Lights got flicked on. Don and I were pushed to the floor by two cops while others ran upstairs. I heard Claire and Trixie scream. Katie crying.
I tried to crane my head around to see what was happening, but a boot came down on my head and held it to the carpet.
I lay that way for a while, listening to the crackle of police radios, and then someone was told to let me up. I got to my knees, and standing there, waiting for me to get up, was Detective Flint.
“Mr. Walker,” he said, smiling and taking off his fedora.
And then it hit me. Why he’d let me keep Trixie’s car. Its built-in GPS system not only helped a driver figure out how to get around.
It could be used to track a missing car.
They’d let me lead them to Trixie.
Nice one, Zack.
30
They led Trixie away in handcuffs, but before they slapped them on her, they allowed her to change from her robe into some clothes. While she was getting dressed, I said to Flint, “I told you about Gary Merker. You told me about the stun gun marks on Martin Benson. Merker was there, he left Trixie a note. I can get it for you.”
Flint looked tired. He was a long way from home, and it was the middle of the night. But he still looked better than the rest of us.
“Mr. Walker, a man was murdered in her house. She fled the scene. She left you handcuffed so you wouldn’t be able to stop her from getting away. That’s what we in the police business call suspicious. Maybe even incriminating. Tell your friend to get herself a good lawyer.” He gave a tip of his hat. “And thanks again, for leading the way.”
“You called the car manufacturer,” I said. “You knew where I was all the time. I was being tracked by satellite.”
Flint smiled, but not as devilishly as he might have been entitled to. “So sorry to have disrupted your evening.”
Upstairs, Trixie was saying goodbye to her sister, to Don. And especially Katie. As Trixie came down the stairs, one officer walking in front of her and one behind, Katie stood, bleary-eyed, on the landing, clutching a yellow blanket and watching, baffled and sad. “When are you coming back?” she asked.
Trixie glanced at her and said, “I might be gone a while, sweetheart, but your other mom will take good care of you.” At the bottom of the stairs, they cuffed her.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Trixie. “It was your car. They used the GPS thing to find it. I led them right to you.”
She smiled tiredly. “It’s okay, Zack. I’m going to make it clear to them that you came up here to get me to turn myself in. Don’t worry.”
“You need a lawyer.”
“I told you about Niles. He handles all my difficulties.” She shook her head. “This one’s right up there.”
“We have to go, ma’am,” said one of the cops.
“See ya, Zack,” said Trixie, and Candace, and Miranda. “Maybe now you’ll catch a break. How much trouble can you get into with me locked up, right?”
I was on the road by six in the morning.
Trixie was right, there was something wrong with the Virtue. I tried to start it, but the engine, or the batteries, or whatever it was that made the damn thing go, failed to make a sound. So I hung on to Trixie’s car. If Detective Flint wanted to put the space shuttle and all the other resources of NASA into keeping track of my movements, he was welcome to. I no longer gave a rat’s ass.
I plugged my cell phone into the cigarette lighter. Long before I was home, it would be recharged, plus I’d be able to make or receive calls during my journey.
I called no one, and no one called me.
There was a lot of time to think on that drive home. And as I reached the city of Canborough and took the bypass, I felt a twinge of guilt. I probably should have driven into the downtown, parked outside police headquarters, and gone in to see Michael Cherry. I had some vague recollection of a promise I’d made to him two days earlier, that if I happened upon any information that would help him with the Kickstart massacre investigation, I’d pass it along.
It was fair to say I had a few new details he might want to have. I’d have a source for life in the Canborough Police Department, helping him crack a triple murder.
Moral dilemma time.
Maybe, for most people, this would be a no-brainer. Trixie had admitted to me that she’d shot and killed three men. Three men who’d raped her before, and were about to do it again. If her claim of self-defense was legit, she could tell it to a judge and jury. He might well agree. So might the jury.
But I could see the prosecutor-and in my mind’s eye he looked a lot like Sam Waterston-approaching the witness box. He was saying, “So tell us, Ms… whatever your name is at the moment. Is it Chicoine? Is it Snelling? So these men, they allegedly attacked you, allegedly sexually assaulted you, on this earlier occasion, you claim, and, let me just check my notes here, and then you went back to work with them? Just a couple of days later? And then, when they allegedly did this again, that’s when you decided to kill them? I’m just having a little trouble with this. Isn’t it more likely that the reason you killed them was because you were ripping them off for half a million dollars? And that this first incident, that this never even happened? That it’s just a very good story to justify what you did? I mean, do we have anything but your word?”
I composed Sam’s entire summation in my head as I drove.
It seemed unlikely that Gary Merker, the only one left alive who’d participated in the rape, would be called to support her testimony.
There was a good chance, I thought, that the evidence would exonerate Trixie in the death of Martin Benson. But if the cops ever knew what she’d told me about that night at the Kickstart, well, I didn’t like her chances of beating that one. Trixie was classic “blame the victim” material, by virtue of th
e choices she’d made, her line of work, her use of multiple aliases.
They’d tear her apart.
But was it up to me to keep Trixie from having to answer for the things she’d done? Or to at least explain them? Was I responsible for Trixie’s future? And what of my obligations to the Metropolitan? To my profession? If I had any intention of actually writing about this-assuming Magnuson put an end to my suspension, and that was quite an assumption-how could I tell only part of the story? If I couldn’t do the job properly, I had no business doing it at all.
I needed to talk to someone about this.
And the only person I could think of was Sarah.
I reached for my cell, started dialing our home number, glanced at the dashboard clock and realized Sarah would be at work by now. So I started punching the numbers for the main switchboard, since I had no idea what Sarah’s extension was in the Home! section. But when I got to the second-to-last digit, I stopped, and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
Maybe later.
There was no one home when I got there midmorning. Paul was at school, Angie at college. It looked as though everyone had fled in a hurry, dirty dishes still on the kitchen counter, the cream not put away. I opened the fridge, poured myself a large glass of orange juice, downed it, and trudged upstairs.
I dumped my travel bag on the bed, walked into the bathroom, turned on the radio that sat next to the sink.
I looked in the mirror. I hadn’t yet shaved, my eyes were bleary, my hair a tousled mess. I reached into the shower, turned on the taps, started unbuttoning my shirt.
It was the top of the hour and the news came on. The morning rush-hour traffic had thinned; it would be overcast with the odd sunny break. And then:
“Police have made an arrest in the grisly murder of an Oakwood newspaper columnist who was found dead, his throat slit, in the basement of a dominatrix earlier this week. Charged is Miranda Chicoine, who ran a sex business from her suburban home in Oakwood. Police arrested Chicoine outside of the village of Kelton, at the home of her sister and brother-in-law, Claire and Don Bennet, early this morning. They had been led to her location by Zack Walker, a reporter for the Metropolitan, who had been trying to track down the woman, hoping to talk her into turning herself in, according to police. In Washington-”
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