Intent to Kill

by James Grippando

  By the time Ryan’s cohost and producer arrived, he was ready. He gathered up his script, put on his headset, and adjusted the microphone. The engineer did a quick voice test, and on audio cue from his producer, Ryan was ready to go.

  “Morning, knuckleheads. Ryan James here with the incomparable Jock Grogan, and this is Jocks in the Morning, the numero uno sports talk show in the Hub.”

  Ryan glanced through the glass at Emma, who could hear the broadcast on speaker. With her nod of encouragement, he continued according to their script.

  “We’re starting on a serious note today,” said Ryan. “Those of you who were listening to the show a couple of days ago heard a pretty remarkable phone call from my brother-in-law, a very special person who we call Babes. Three years ago, when my wife Chelsea was killed in a car accident, I thought my own life was over. But it wasn’t only tough for me. Chelsea’s little brother took it very hard, too.”

  Ryan paused. This was proving to be more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He glanced toward Emma again. She shot him another subtle vote of confidence, and it gave him more strength than she’d probably intended. He was suddenly no longer tied to the script.

  “When something like this happens to you—man, you can’t describe it. At first, it’s like a lightning bolt. No way could this be true. You think you’re going to wake up and find this was just a bad dream. But it’s not a dream, and you’re so angry you could…”

  Ryan was completely off script now, speaking from the heart. There was no going back.

  “Well, you just want to find the bastard who did this and make him pay. But then you realize that no amount of justice or revenge—whatever you want to call it—is going to bring your wife back. That’s when the bottom falls out. I mean, sometimes you can’t even breathe. You know you should get down on your knees and thank God that your daughter is still alive, but then you ask yourself: Why the heck did He let the accident happen in the first place? Why did He have to take Chelsea? And it’s not just because you’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to you. You actually feel guilty because you have your whole life ahead of you, and Chelsea’s life is over, except in your heart. Which is so unfair, even ironic. Because your heart is frozen.”

  Ryan drew a breath, but something inside wouldn’t let him stop.

  “So you wake up every day resenting the fact that somehow this cold and frozen thing keeps on beating, forcing you to live with the pain, forcing you to hear people tell you that time heals all wounds. But time has a flip side. You’re getting older, and so are your memories. You start to forget what her voice sounds like, and the anger comes flooding back, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.”

  He paused, collected himself. “Sorry. This probably isn’t making any sense to you. What I’m trying to say, Babes, is this: I talked to your mom. She told me everything. I know why you think you killed your sister. But I’m here to tell you that you did nothing wrong. Chelsea’s death,” he said, his voice quaking, “was not your fault. It’s just not your fault.”

  Ryan swallowed hard. It was difficult to say those words aloud, but not because he didn’t believe them. Listening to his own voice, it was as if Ryan were speaking to himself, trying to get the message through his own thick head once and for all: that he, too, had done nothing wrong, that he had not caused Chelsea’s death, and that there was nothing he could have done to save her.

  There was complete silence on the air as the truth sank in for Ryan.

  Finally, his cohost prompted him: “Ryan?”

  It was clear from Jock’s expression that he thought Ryan had merely zoned out or lost his train of thought. Jock didn’t understand. Ryan looked again toward Emma, who was still watching and listening. The compassion in her eyes told him that she did understand. Maybe it took the heart and soul of a woman who dealt with violent crime and victims every day. For a split second he was back in his kitchen with Ainsley, staring straight into the sun—the nearest star to Earth—while Emma whispered to him that the answer was always closer than you thought.

  Ryan reached inside for the strength to finish. “Babes, we all want you to come home. Please, just come home.”

  He could speak no longer. He signaled to Jock, who took it from there.

  “Ryan, we’re all with you, pal. Hope it works out. Okay, dudes,” he said, shifting gears. “Let’s talk sports.”

  The current winning streak of the Red Sox was the farthest thing from Ryan’s mind. He removed his headset and pushed the boom microphone away. His gaze shifted once again toward Emma, and their eyes met. She looked as if she wanted to tell him something, and there was definitely something he wanted to say to her.

  She gave him a complicated smile, then turned and left—quickly. Too quickly, Ryan thought.

  Ryan got up and started after her, but his producer caught him in the hallway. She was smiling widely, excitement in her eyes.

  “That was fantastic, Ryan. Absolutely great radio!”

  Ryan heard the ding of the elevator in the lobby. Emma was leaving, and he let her go.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Great stuff.”

  37

  YAZ WAS NOT ABOUT TO LET BABES GO ANYWHERE.

  Last night’s phone call had gone remarkably well. Yaz was downright proud of his performance. Blackmail was his game. The price was ten thousand dollars. He could have been more heavy-handed, but he made it clear that if the sum wasn’t paid in full, he would go straight to the newspapers to tell all—and name names. The meeting was set: tonight at eleven, under the I-95 bridge at the Seekonk River, Yaz would take delivery of the cash.

  The last thing he needed now was Babes crying to go home.

  “It’s a trick,” Yaz told him.

  Together they’d listened to Jocks in the Morning on Babes’s radio and heard Ryan’s plea loud and clear. Yaz had serious damage control to do. Babes seemed to like repetition, so every hour or so, Yaz would rehash the same conversation, trying to brainwash him.

  “Yes, sir,” said Yaz, “your brother-in-law is definitely working with the police.”

  Babes was sitting in the corner of the crypt with his knees drawn up and his back to the stone wall. He kept his eyes forward, looking only at the floor, happy to be untied for “good behavior.”

  Yaz said, “If you go home, the cops will be waiting for you. And you know what they’re gonna do?”

  Babes shook his head.

  “What are you, stupid? You went on the radio and told the whole world that you killed your sister. They’re going to arrest you and throw your ass in jail. You ever been to jail, Babes?”

  “No,” he peeped.

  “I have. I seen plenty of guys like you in jail, too. You know what happens to boys like you in jail, Babes?”

  Babes blinked twice, much harder than usual.

  “The really big men steal packs of cherry Kool-Aid from the prison kitchen,” said Yaz. “Just for you. Do you like Kool-Aid?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Well, it’s good that you do. Because they’re gonna love you. See, they don’t mix it into a drink. They take the pure powder and smear it on your lips. Gives them a bright glossy red color. You didn’t like it very much when I touched you on the lips, did you?”

  “No,” Babes said firmly.

  “I know you didn’t. But here’s the thing. In jail, you have to take off your clothes every night and go into the shower with a bunch of other naked men. And what do you think happens when a nice-looking guy like you walks stark naked into the shower with those beautiful cherry red lips?”

  “I’ll wash it off.”

  “No, you won’t,” Yaz said, laughing. Then he turned serious. “Because if you do, they’ll beat the living hell out of you. Some of those men have been in jail a very long time. They want those lips. They want ’em real bad.”

  “Shut up!” said Babes, as he covered his ears.

  Yaz smiled. “It’s okay. I won’t touch you again. I won’t lay a finger
on you. So long as you stay here in the crypt and don’t go anywhere, you’re safe. How’s that sound?”

  Babes didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t say another word the remainder of the day. He just listened to his radio, ate the rest of the turkey loaf that Yaz had given him, and took a bathroom break when Yaz decided it was time.

  At dusk, Yaz lit the candle on the bench. The hours were passing slowly—partly because he had nothing to do, but also because he was eager with anticipation. Blackmail had a way of getting his adrenaline flowing. He’d done some con before he was homeless. Years ago, it was a Medicaid scam that had landed him in jail on fraud charges. He hadn’t realized how much of the game was still in his blood.

  He couldn’t be late for his meeting. The only way to check the time was on Babes’s cell phone, but he needed to conserve the battery. He waited as long as he could, turning it on and off every so often to check. At 10:40 P.M., the time had finally come.

  “I’m going out,” said Yaz.

  Babes was silent.

  “I know you’re not crazy enough to run,” said Yaz, “but I have to tie you up just in case.”

  Babes didn’t resist as Yaz bound his wrists and ankles with the strips he’d torn earlier from his blanket. The bindings were probably sufficient to keep him from going anywhere. A little fear would be all the insurance Yaz needed.

  Yaz went to the stack of Babes’s baseball cards on the bench. By the light of the candle, he sorted through them until he found the one he wanted: Carl Yastrzemski.

  “My namesake,” he said, showing it to Babes. Then he held it over the lit candle.

  “Stop!” said Babes.

  The corner turned black and then burst into flames.

  “No, don’t!” Babes shouted.

  Yaz pulled it out of the fire and blew out the flame, but the corner had burned off.

  Babes was angry and in tears. “What’d you do that for?”

  Yaz came close. He was trying to make eye contact, but Babes wouldn’t—couldn’t—look at him directly.

  “I’m taking the cards with me,” Yaz said, as he stuffed them into the deep pockets of his army coat. “If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll burn every last one of them.”

  “No, don’t burn them! I’m not going anywhere!”

  Yaz smiled. “Good dog, Babes. We’ll teach you to roll over yet.” He blew out the candle and headed out into the night, leaving Babes alone in the blackened crypt.

  38

  RYAN HAD A VISIT FROM IVAN AROUND 10:30 P.M. THE RED SOX road trip was over, and he was back in Boston for the next eight days.

  Had it been the off-season, Ryan might have hired a babysitter and headed over to the Beantown Pub, across the street from the final resting place for Samuel Adams and two other signers of the Declaration of Independence, the only place to enjoy a cold Sam Adams within a stone’s throw of a cold Sam Adams. As it was, the two men drank a couple of nonalcoholic beers in the living room while Ryan brought Ivan up to speed.

  “So you heard nothing today?” said Ivan.

  “Nada. Jock and I did the rest of the show as normal. Every time the phone line lit up, I thought it might be Babes. I spent the rest of the day with Chelsea’s dad, driving around again, searching. Even went out toward Sabin Point in East Providence this time. There’s a flock of geographically confused parrots up on the wires that Babes likes to watch—not up close, of course, since all that squawking can set him off sometimes. Saw the birds, but no Babes. I’m honestly running out of places to look.”

  “Have you tried organizing the community, getting a group search going?”

  “That would be a great idea if the police didn’t have an arrest warrant out for Babes. Neighbors have a way of not wanting to get involved when you’re looking for a wanted criminal.”

  “I see your point,” said Ivan. “I’m not the starting pitcher again for at least two more days, so I can help you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” said Ryan, grateful for the offer.

  “In the meantime,” said Ivan, “you gonna tell me about the elephant in the room?”

  “What elephant in the room?”

  “The dead one. What the hell is that smell?”

  “Oh, that,” said Ryan. “It’s a scented oil called Summer Safari. It’s supposed to help my insomnia. Aromatherapy.”

  Ivan chuckled the way only a best friend could. Ryan didn’t dare tell him that some insomniacs swore by sniffing dirty socks before going to bed.

  “You want aromatherapy?” said Ivan. “Let yourself get close enough to a woman to breathe in her perfume. It’s time, dude.”

  Ryan looked off to the middle distance, peeling the label off his bottle. “What do you think of Emma Carlisle?” he said.

  Ivan did a double take. “In what way do you mean?”

  “Just as a person. What do you think of her?”

  “Did something happen while I was gone?”

  “Not what you’re thinking. I’m just getting to know her better.”

  “Really? Let’s hear it, dude.”

  Ryan sighed, not sure how to explain. “It’s funny. About six months ago, I went to Boston Brewery for dinner. I was by myself at the bar, watching ESPN. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Emma with some of her friends. It looked to me like she was about two dart tosses away from setting a record for the most bull’s-eyes under the influence of four cosmopolitans. It was the first time I’d seen her just being herself, not doing anything having to do with…you know. I thought about going up and saying something. But then I thought, no, she’s out having fun. I’m her work. So I watched for a few minutes, figuring maybe she’d see me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She hit another bull’s-eye and some guy came over and gave her a big hug and a kiss. And I left. But it’s weird. Every now and then, I find myself thinking about that night, and for the first time since Chelsea’s been gone, I sort of…wonder. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Do you think it’s too strange, her being the prosecutor and all?”

  Ivan considered it. “I’ll answer that question, but only if you promise not to take it the wrong way and get pissed at me.”

  “All right. That’s fair.”

  “If you’re going to go this route,” said Ivan, “I think you should make sure of something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t ever make her feel like a walking reminder of the worst day of your life.”

  Ryan suddenly thought about this morning at the studio, Emma leaving in such a hurry. She’d practically run to the elevator after his on-air soul-baring, gone before he could even say a word to her.

  Ryan raised his bottle in salute. “Thanks, Ivan. You’re a pretty smart guy. Some of the time.”

  Ivan tipped his bottle back at him. “You’re welcome, dude. All of the time.”

  The whine of speeding cars on the interstate told Yaz that he was near the drop point. It was a familiar sound to him. Before he found the crypt, he’d lived beneath this bridge where I-95 crossed over the Seekonk River.

  Ten thousand dollars. It was a nice piece of change. Ten grand would buy him plenty of first-class beatings—one for each bastard who’d ruined his life. Slow and painful was the way he wanted them. His ex-wife would be first. The bitch never smiled, so what did she need teeth for anyway? Next on the list was the little Puerto Rican stud who was banging her. Battery acid on the balls for Mr. Hot Nuts. His wife’s divorce lawyer—now there was the guy who’d really put Yaz on the street. That one called for some real creativity. Yaz could still see that stuffed prick standing in the courtroom so smugly, all decked out in his Ivy League bow tie, red suspenders stretching over his fat belly, his thumbs in his belt loops. Always with the thumbs in the belt loops. The son of a bitch was going to have a hard time doing that with no thumbs. Yaz was loving this game. The old con artist in him was back, with the emphasis on artist.

  He s
topped directly under the bridge. The two-mile walk from the cemetery had winded him slightly, and even with the anticipation driving him, he needed a moment to catch his breath. It was dark in the shadow of the formed concrete, but the city glow provided just enough light for his eyes to adjust. The place hadn’t changed much. His old shopping cart with the broken wheels was right where he’d left it. The remnants of cardboard boxes were strewn about, tattered remains of homes for the homeless.

  A man emerged from behind one of the massive concrete pillars. Yaz’s adrenaline was pumping.

  “Looks like I’m right on time,” Yaz said to him.

  The man didn’t answer. He walked straight toward Yaz in silence.

  “Did you bring the money?” said Yaz.

  No reply. The man was ten yards away and approaching steadily, a discernible confidence in his step. Yaz couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he was much bigger than Yaz had expected.

  “You better have brought the money,” said Yaz, but his voice betrayed him—it cracked, exposing his concern.

  The man kept coming. Yaz saw no bag or briefcase—nothing to carry the cash in—and his concern quickly turned into fear. Instinct told Yaz to run, but before he could move, the man closed in and struck him with a club that he’d concealed behind his arm or torso. The low and lightning-quick blow took Yaz’s legs out from under him.

  Yaz screamed with pain and fell to the ground. It felt as if his kneecap was broken.

  “Don’t, please don’t!” said Yaz.

  “Where’s your buddy?” the man said.

  It was definitely not the voice Yaz had heard on the telephone. This guy was a hired professional, and Yaz knew he was in serious trouble.

  “What friend?” said Yaz.

  Again the man whacked him with the club, a direct blow to the left shin. Yaz screamed at the sound of his own leg breaking. The man stood on the broken bone, sending Yaz into near convulsions.