Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  “You all right, honey?” one of the Blue Hairs hollered over to her.

  Trying to catch her breath, she answered in between huffs, “Yeah.” Other than the women gossiping in the corner, there were a man and a woman standing at the water fountain.

  “I’m fine,” Megan answered.

  “Enjoy, you have the pool all to yourself,” the lady said.

  “Great.” Megan was less than thrilled with the notion.

  “C’mon, girls, let’s go take a steam. To hell with heart medication and doctor’s orders.”

  When you’re in your seventies and eighties, rebelling against doctor’s orders must be as close to an uprising as you can get. It did put an idea in Megan’s head, though. “Ladies, would one of you mind turning the sauna on for me?”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  In the locker room, Megan stripped out of her bathing suit, hanging it on one of the shower hooks. She wrapped a towel around her naked body. As soon as she opened the door to the sauna, she knew the ladies had done right by her. It was hot and relaxing. She could hear faint conversation next door from the steam. She was embarrassed to admit to herself that their presence was appreciated; though she was alone in the sauna, there were people nearby, and that fact comforted her. She discarded the towel, placing it on the top tier of the wooden bench. She moved gingerly onto her back, hoisting her feet up to the wall. Her creamy legs were sprinkled with pale freckles from her ankles to her inner thighs. Her body began to glisten with sweat as the jets sprayed down from above. She closed her eyes, breathing deep into her lungs. She pushed her hair back, but a few strands couldn’t help but cling to her shoulders. The water hitting the rocks made a sizzling sound. She was on the verge of relaxing when the sound of Uncle Mike’s demand leapt to the front of her mind.

  Do not go anywhere unarmed.

  It was enough to catapult her out of the sauna, forgetting her towel.

  forty

  Megan was halfway up 93rd Street to her apartment when her cell vibrated. 1 text message was indicated. She pressed the view message button.

  Sweet Caroline appeared. Megan stared down at the text. Her face, reflected off the phone’s glass screen, made her look nauseated and faint. She knew her eyes were open, but her surroundings were out of focus; everything seemed to be spinning around her like an amusement park ride out of control.

  “Please, God … no …” She took a deep breath and dialed the phone number the text originated from. Megan knew a woman named Caroline should answer the phone, but wouldn’t. It was too late for Caroline, whoever she was.

  “Hi, this is Caroline. Sorry I missed your call. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.” The sweet voice echoed through Megan’s head. She hung up before the signal sounded to leave a message. She leaned against the railing of a brownstone to steady herself.

  Her phone vibrated again. Her cell phone might as well have weighed three hundred pounds with how much energy it took to raise it into view.

  “McGinn.”

  “I know.”

  He remained silent.

  “Her name is Caroline,” Megan said it as if she’d asked someone to pass the salt. “I just got a text.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to come over, quietly, and I mean quietly. Palumbo and Rasmussen know you’re on your way. No bravado, otherwise it’s all our asses.”

  “Nappa, what is it?” she demanded.

  “We’re at Two-Thirty East Eighty-Seventh Street. Caroline Dacey.”

  “Okay.”

  forty-one

  Palumbo let Megan into the building. “Nappa and Rasmussen are up there. Third floor.”

  Megan nodded.

  “You don’t have long; I’m surprised the press isn’t here yet.”

  “Thanks,” Megan answered.

  She was on the third step when Palumbo added, “Heads-up: this one is bad, if that’s possible.”

  Megan looked back at Palumbo’s pained expression, something she’d rarely encountered while working with him. There was nothing comforting she could say to ease a look she knew all too well.

  The apartment smelled like a diner: anything and everything fried. Nappa and Rasmussen were at the end of the hall in the living room. She glanced into the kitchen. No in-depth search needed there, it was the size of most people’s closets. Two dishes, silverware, and napkins topped a small butcher block in the corner, never to be plated. Never meant to be, for that matter.

  “McGinn, I put a call out to CSU, but I wanted you to see the scene, short on time,” Nappa urged.

  Megan nodded. She stood over Caroline Dacey’s dead body. “Oh my God.”

  She immediately understood why Palumbo had worn such a distressed expression. In the middle of the room Caroline lay on the floor in the position of Christ hanging from the cross. Her arms were spread out, bloodied hands nailed into the floor. Her legs were slightly bent, with two more nails lodged into her feet. The side of her head had been cratered by the bloody baseball bat positioned upright in the corner. Her hair was combed as if to hide the damage from the blunt force she’d sustained. One of Caroline’s eyes stared up toward the ceiling; the other was swollen shut. Blood, not yet dried, exited her ear, nose, and mouth.

  “The unsub used a bat to finish her off. Strangling wasn’t enough?” Megan shook her head. “Who called this in?”

  “Downstairs neighbor,” Rasmussen answered.

  “She fought like hell,” Nappa said.

  “And all it got her was a trip to Dr. Max Sutherland’s slab for autopsy. She would have had a better chance at getting blood from a stone or having a month full of Sundays,” Megan responded.

  She looked around the apartment. Angelic was the theme for the living room (now, not so much living). There were pictures of angels and candleholders in the shape of cherubs, and angels’ wings carved into two sconces hung in the hallway. Then, death reigned over the celestial setting. Two teacups were smashed to the floor, a wet mark on the wall, a crack in a wall mirror, the coffee table turned on its side.

  “You need to see the kitchen,” Nappa said.

  Megan walked back to the small room and opened the oven. A traditional Irish breakfast consisting of bacon, fried eggs, fried mushrooms, and tomatoes filled a large cast-iron skillet.

  “McGinn, turn around.” She did.

  A pen-and-ink drawing of Archangel Michael hung on the wall, signed by Caroline Dacey. Archangel Michael was depicted flying down from heaven in battle against Satan and his followers. Who is like God? was written in small letters at the bottom in Caroline’s handwriting.

  A handwoven Saint Bridget’s cross was fastened to the corner.

  “Her cell isn’t here,” Nappa said.

  “Well, I can tell you the last number dialed on it,” Megan bit her lip. “Mine.”

  Palumbo entered the room. “McGinn, time for you to go. CSU, press … it’s getting busy out there.”

  “Okay.”

  Then Megan did a first at a crime scene: she made the sign of the cross before leaving the room.

  forty-two

  I threw Caroline’s cell into the middle of Third Avenue, just in time for a bus to crush it. I didn’t get the euphoria I’d experienced in the past. What a shame. When the cashier asked if that was all, in truth it was, until I noticed the single wrapped roses in the bucket beside her. It was the last remaining pink rose among the red and white flowers. In that moment, I knew my destiny.

  _____

  Megan went to the only bar she knew would be open at this early hour: Kinsale’s. The same establishment where she’d hooked up with the stockbroker. She was hard-pressed to tell which patrons had been there all night and which had arrived for their morning “coffee.” She didn’t care either way. She plunked herself down at the bar
and asked for a shot and a beer. She kicked back both and ordered another round while listening to the sound of police sirens coast by. It made her regret not fighting harder to stay on the case officially. The bartender turned the up the volume on the television—breaking news on the Upper East Side. No shock to Megan.

  No matter what the idiot reporter conveyed, though, it could never match the scene Megan had just walked through.

  “Ken—another, and please turn that off,” Megan barked.

  It wasn’t just another. By noon, she was crocked.

  Megan hailed a cab outside Kinsale’s. She didn’t have the energy to take the subway, and it was midday, so she knew the morning rush-hour traffic would have filtered out by now. She was grateful that the driver wasn’t the chatty type. She wasn’t in the mood for forced conversation. She leaned her head back on the seat and stared out along the East River as they drove south on the FDR. The water was calm, but the gray overcast day made the river appear dark and swampy. The screen in the cab played a similar breaking news report regarding the Upper East Side murder from a competing news channel. She muted the screen, wrapping herself up in her jacket and waiting for the last two shots of whiskey to send warmth through her system. Unfortunately, it was her bladder receiving the more significant effects. When they reached their destination, it would have shouted a “Praise God” louder than a Southern Baptist during service on a scorching Sunday morning if it had a voice.

  Megan paid the cabbie and entered the front door to the hospital, but then had to be buzzed through the second door. The nurse at the front desk smiled the same fake smile she’d offered when Rose was admitted. Megan was in no mood to return it.

  “Hi, I’m Megan McGinn, Rose McGinn’s daughter. I just wanted to see my mother for a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s lunch time. The patients are—”

  Megan saw a ladies’ room down the hall in the opposite direction of her mother’s room. “I’m just going to use the facilities and I’ll be right back.”

  “Ma’am, I need to see identifi—”

  “McGinn! Megan McGinn!”

  She left the ladies’ room several minutes later feeling very relieved and ready to charge the nurse with verbal abuse for calling her ma’am. She walked up to the desk while the nurse was on an obvious personal call.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but during lunch the patients—” the nurse spoke while covering the phone with her palm.

  Megan pulled out her badge, slapping it down on the desk. She didn’t say a word. She stared the nurse down like a Rottweiler contemplating a Bichon Frisé as a snack. She put her badge back into her pocket and marched down the hall. But her slight buzz wasn’t what prompted her to turn around to add, “And don’t call me ma’am!” Megan would have said that stone-cold sober.

  She slowly opened the door to her mother’s room. She peeked in, not because she expected her mother to be awake, jump up, and yell surprise!, but out of courtesy. Rose was asleep. Megan smiled over her, then leaned in and kissed Rose on the forehead and whispered, “Hi, Momma. It’s me, Meggie. You’re all tucked in, I see.” She walked around to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge. She pushed Rose’s hair away from her eyes. “I had dinner with the Murphys, they all send their love.”

  She cringed at her own lie.

  Okay, not really. But they would have if they’d known I was seeing you again so soon. I’ll be forgiven, I hope.

  There were so many lies being told lately, Megan hoped God was running a two-for-one special on absolution. She watched her mother sleep for a few minutes. She was happy to see Rose was wearing the new nightgown she’d bought for her. “The nightgown I bought looks nice on you, Momma.”

  Confession was a foreign concept to Megan, and one she had never taken seriously. When she was young and in Catholic school, she’d sit in the confessional, pop her gum, and tap the door with the tips of her shoes while formulating the most outrageous confessions for the priest to hear.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been eight hours since my last confession. I’m really sorry I tried to suffocate my best friend’s hamster with a pillow. I was just curious about how long it would take—but thanks for bringing him back to life. I’m sorry for the mean thoughts I had when I caught Sister Augustine drinking from the flask she keeps under her robe. And I’m sorry for the thoughts I had when Bonnie Jean elbowed me in the ribs during gym class today. I couldn’t help that one—I’m better at dodgeball than her.”

  Megan would end each confession with that line of truth that made the priests disregard her skewed sense of humor. “And I’m sorry … really sorry … for being mad at my mom this week. I’ll try to be a better daughter. Okay, that’s it, I’m done.”

  Megan was sure she’d heard a few poorly suppressed laughs coming from the other side of the confessional, but that was when she was a kid. Now as a grown woman, she needed to get things off her chest that were a lot harder to admit. And she knew that if she lied this time around, she’d only be lying to herself.

  “Oh, Momma, where do I begin?” Her heart felt heavier with every word she spoke. “See, there’s this case I’m working on.” She held her hand in the stop position. “I know, I know, you hated it when Dad would talk about a case, especially with me, but Momma …” Megan wiped the end of her nose with her coat sleeve. “Two young women were murdered, and it’s gotten complicated on so many levels, and I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this one. Dad was always in my corner when it came to work. I could go to him with anything, and now he’s not here.” She leaned over and grabbed a few tissues from Rose’s side table. “I’m not sure if you remember that part, but he died. Sorry if that’s a shock.” She blew her nose. “Brendan has his own life out in Ohio for Chrissake, so that leaves me and you.” Megan’s tears raced down her face. “The only problem I have with that is …” She pushed her hair back, giving herself a moment to catch her breath. “We never really got along. I’m sure it was more me not getting along with you. I was such a brat to you growing up.” Megan felt a twinge of guilt telling her mother her problems, but the weight of them was taking its toll and she needed to do something to lighten the load.

  “Anyway, like I said, I’m working these cases and one of the women who was murdered, well, I’ve been dealing with her mother quite a bit. I know it’s wrong to feel this way, and I know how awful this is going to sound, but I’m jealous of them, Momma. I’m jealous of how close they were. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true.” Megan blew her nose for the third time and pulled out another tissue from the box. “I look at you and me—we were never close, not like that, anyway, especially after what you tried to do to yourself. Now you’re here and … it’s hard, Momma. It’s hard for me to see you this way, and I can’t do anything to help you. I feel so guilty. I know I wasn’t the kind of daughter you would have preferred. You wanted a ‘girlie-girl,’ someone who played with dolls. Someone you could have had pretend afternoon tea parties with. Someone you could take shopping to Lord and Taylor. Instead, you got a tree-climbing, sneaker-wearing tomboy. I was so hard on you for that. I went out of my way to not be the daughter you wanted me to be. And whenever I screwed up, you’d let it go. You always forgave me.” Megan looked up at the ceiling and thought, Well, not always.

  “Okay, the thing with making me wear dresses once in a while, and grounding me for throwing eggs at cars on Halloween, and that time I was caught smashing the neighbor’s outdoor Christmas tree lights, and when I put the candy bar in your purse and the grocer thought you’d stolen it. I admit it, that was wrong of me, and I deserved to be punished for that.” She grinned at the notorious pilfering of the Snickers bar; couldn’t help from laughing. “The candy bar incident was really wrong of me.” Megan looked down at Rose, unsure if she should continue, but her words flowed as quickly as her tears, and she was unable to control either one. The odd thing was sh
e was starting to feel comfortable talking to her mother.

  “There’s so much going on that it’s starting to overwhelm me a little, maybe a lot. There’s something I haven’t told you, Momma. This case has gotten personal, and it’s starting to worry me. Really worry me. And on top of that, Dad kicking when he did, and all the pressure of trying to do what’s best for you, there’s only so much a girl can take, ya know?” Megan leaned over, resting her head on Rose’s chest. She gripped her shoulders, wanting the hug to be returned. “I miss Dad so much. I miss him so much.”

  Megan wasn’t sure how long she been crying into her mother’s arms when she felt a hand caress the back of her head, followed by a whisper in her ear.

  “Baby girl.”

  Megan knew the voice, but it had been so long since it’d sounded this lucid. She lifted up her head and found herself staring into her mother’s eyes.

  Rose wiped one of the many tears from Megan’s cheek. Her blue eyes met Megan’s. “Time to buck up, baby girl. Be strong. Have faith. I love you.” Rose held up a strand of Megan’s hair, adding, as only a mother could, “You need a haircut.”

  Megan half laughed. She then cried on her mother’s chest as Rose returned to sleep and Megan followed suit, though not without a moment of gratitude that her mother had recognized her.

  forty-three

  Megan felt the buzz from her cell phone. She lifted herself from Rose’s embrace. Nappa was calling from his personal cell.

  “Hello?” Megan was groggy, rubbing the crust out from her eyes.