Just listening to this story was taking Ryan’s breath away. Could Chelsea have been saved if Babes had called for help? He could have allowed his mind to go there, but right now he felt only compassion for Babes. The anger was flowing in another direction.
Ryan said, “Did you get a good look at the man who took Chelsea’s phone?”
“Yeah,” Babes said quietly. “I did.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Babes, it would really be helpful—”
“I’m not telling you his name! I told it to Yaz. He made one phone call, and now look what’s happened to him.”
“That’s not going to happen to you,” said Ryan. “Just tell me the man’s name, and come home where it’s safe.”
“I can’t come home. The police will never believe me. They’ll throw me in jail, and then they’ll make me put Kool-Aid on my lips!”
Kool-Aid? Babes was coming unglued. “Don’t get upset,” said Ryan. “Trust me on this. You need to come home. You can’t keep running.”
“I didn’t kill Yaz!”
“I know you didn’t. And when you explain all this to the cops, I’m sure they’ll understand, too.”
“Oh no, a police car! I just saw one turn the corner. They’re looking for me, I know they are. Did you send them?”
“No.”
“You’re tracing this call! Are you working with Emma Carlisle? How could you do that to me? I trusted you! I don’t even have a new hiding place yet!”
“Babes, don’t—”
Ryan stopped himself in midsentence. It was too late.
Babes was gone.
44
RYAN PRACTICALLY FLEW OUT OF THE RADIO STATION TO HEAD for Pawtucket. Two minutes into his journey he pulled a U-turn toward Brookline to pick up Ainsley from school early. The route back to the expressway was a maze of road construction, and somehow they ended up on chic Newbury Street, which turned into a traffic jam straight out of The Twilight Zone. At one end, a naked young woman covered only with body paint was protesting against the fur shops. At the other end, picketers railed against the citywide trend of ice-cream trucks announcing their arrival not with the familiar jangle of bells but the blasting of calliope music from loudspeakers.
Is there anything they don’t march against in Boston?
“Daddy, can I have an ice cream?”
“Not now, Ainsley.”
“I’m gonna tell Grandma you showed me a naked red woman on the street.”
Ryan hit the brakes, got out of the car, and bought two soft-serve cones with chocolate jimmies. The whole time, some creepy instrumental version of “Islands in the Stream” blared at nightclub levels from the ice-cream truck.
Maybe the protesters have a point.
Thirty minutes later they were speeding down I-95. Ryan put in a phone call to the station manager at Action News. The more he thought about Doug Wells’s stunt on the radio yesterday, the angrier he got. He called to make a formal complaint, and the station manager seemed surprisingly sympathetic—Doug had missed an appointment that morning, and he wasn’t answering her calls.
Probably too embarrassed to show his face.
Ryan hung up and retreated into thought. Ainsley was mesmerized by Shrek 24 or some such movie on her portable DVD player. They were well into Rhode Island when Ryan’s cell rang. It was Emma.
“Were you never going to call me?” she said.
“Sorry. I’m driving to Pawtucket. I’m still processing.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Can you talk?”
He checked the rearview mirror. Ainsley had her headphones on, still into her movie. Ryan put the phone aside and said, “Ainsley, which of the Wurster twins did you say you were going to marry—Timmy or Jimmy?”
No response. The Wurster boys drove her crazy. If that didn’t elicit a squawk, she couldn’t possibly hear what he was saying.
“Okay,” he said into the phone. “I can talk.”
“Good. I heard Babes’s call, if you’re wondering.”
“You were listening?”
“No, I was in court. But the police are monitoring your show, and I listened to their tape. I wasn’t the only one who thought Babes might call in again.”
“What do you think?”
“I think the police are going to put a tracer on your phone. If Babes is going to continue calling the radio station, they’ll want to pin down the pay phone he’s using.”
“I don’t think the station will have a problem with that. We all want to find Babes before he gets hurt. But that’s not my point. What do you think about what he told me?”
“I want to know what you think,” she said.
Normally, Ryan wouldn’t have let anyone turn the conversation around that easily. But he found himself wanting to tell Emma how he felt.
“For three years,” he said, and his voice cracked. It embarrassed him.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Tell me.”
He took a breath. “The paramedics told me that Chelsea was conscious when they arrived on the scene. The doctors never came right out and told me, but it was always the unspoken truth that they could have saved Chelsea if she had been brought to the hospital sooner. It wasn’t the impact of the crash that killed her. Every minute counted, and she bled to death.”
“I know,” said Emma.
Ryan checked his speedometer. Too fast. He moved into the slower lane.
“After she died, I took all her belongings home from the hospital. There was no cell phone to be found. She always had her cell with her, especially when she made that commute from Boston to Pawtucket. For three years, it has driven me absolutely crazy that she didn’t have it with her that day. I even checked her billing records—that’s one of the things that blindside you after your wife dies. The funeral’s over, the friends and relatives have all moved on with their lives, and you’re still getting phone records and credit card statements that help you reconstruct everything she did in those final days before she died.”
“That’s so hard, I’m sure.”
“But that’s not my point,” said Ryan. “I checked Chelsea’s phone bill, and the last time she used her cell was around midday, hours before the crash. We always just assumed that she’d lost it sometime that afternoon, because the phone never turned up. It was just one more stroke of bad luck that had led to Chelsea’s death. If only she hadn’t lost her cell phone, Chelsea could have dialed nine-one-one, the paramedics would have arrived in time, and she wouldn’t have died on the operating table.”
“But her phone wasn’t lost,” said Emma.
“Exactly,” said Ryan. “Babes just blew that theory out the window. He saw it with his own eyes. Chelsea had the phone. That drunk took it right out of her hand.”
“So when Babes says the man dialed nine-one-one—”
“Babes completely misconstrued what he saw. He thought that the man was helping her. But the phone records show no call to nine-one-one from Chelsea’s phone. It was a passing motorist who saw the wreck and finally dialed nine-one-one.”
“Which means the guy took Chelsea’s cell phone, and—”
“He did nothing,” said Ryan. “He was standing there drunk, having just run another car off the road, looking down at a woman who was barely clinging to life…and he chose not to help her.”
“He realized he was looking at DUI charges, for sure. Possibly even serious jail time for vehicular homicide.”
“So he took Chelsea’s phone and left. He ran like a coward.”
“He let her die,” said Emma.
Ryan spotted the first exit sign for Pawtucket. They were coming up on the bridge over the Seekonk River, where Yaz’s body was found.
“No,” said Ryan. “He killed her. Because dead people and two-year-old girls in the backseat make lousy witnesses for the prosecution.”
He checked the mirror again. Ainsley was into her movie, but she seemed to sense that her daddy was u
pset.
“Ryan?” said Emma.
He reeled in the anger. “Yeah?”
“It’s a whole new ball game.”
“You got that right.”
45
RYAN RECOGNIZED THE GAUDY HAWAIIAN SHIRT THE MINUTE HE walked in the back door. Seated at the Townsend’s kitchen table was Babes’s friend, Tom Bales.
“Wassup, dude?” said Tom.
Ainsley sprinted off to the bedroom in search of her grandma. Ryan went to the kitchen counter, looked at Tom, and said, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Tom was eating the last few bites of a grilled cheese sandwich. “I just finished the morning shift.”
“The morning shift of what?”
“Looking for Babes.”
Ryan took a half step closer, letting Tom feel his presence. “I’ve been calling you since Monday afternoon. I even went to your apartment and talked to your pothead roommate. Where the hell have you been?”
Tom smiled. “Do you remember that brunette I spotted on the green when you and I were talking last week?”
“The girl with the Tommy Bahama backpack?”
“Yeah, isn’t she cool? We really hit it off.”
Ryan recalled what Tom’s roommate had said about Virgin Tom. “Are you trying to tell me that for three days you’ve been with the Tommy Bahama girl?”
His grin got even cheesier. “Well, I hate to kiss and tell.”
Ryan was deadpan. “I don’t believe you.”
The tone took Tom aback. “It’s true,” Tom said, as he pulled out his cell phone. “I got naked pictures and everything. Check this one out.”
Ryan looked away, not in need of that much proof. The guy did have the unmistakable giddiness of a schoolboy with his first notch in his belt. “Okay, I believe you. Put the pictures away.”
Tom seemed disappointed not to be able to share, but he tucked his cell away.
Rachel entered the kitchen with Ainsley riding piggyback. “Tom has been kind enough to help out while you’re on the radio.”
“Good,” said Ryan, checking out Tom’s shirt again. This one was in various shades of blue, green, yellow, and orange and depicted pineapples, women in bikinis, and just about everything else “Hawaiian.” “Babes will certainly be able to see you coming.”
Ainsley said, “Can I have one of those?”
Ryan hoped she meant the grilled cheese, not the shirt.
“Sure, I’ll make you one,” said Tom.
“Yay!”
That was fine with Ryan. He and Chelsea’s mother went into the den to talk alone. She sat on the couch, and Ryan sat facing her on the ottoman.
“When’s the last time you slept?” he said.
“Seems strange for you to be asking me that question.”
She had a point, but it was impossible for Ryan not to be concerned. Each time he saw her, Rachel looked a little less like herself, a shell of a human being.
“Do you think Babes killed that man?” she asked.
“No. I really don’t.”
She didn’t reply.
Ryan said, “Do you?”
Her gaze was cast in Ryan’s direction, but she wasn’t really looking at him. It was as if she were looking through him. “It’s strange,” she said in a vacant voice. “My first thought was no way. There was no way that my Babes could possibly have beaten a homeless man to death with a baseball bat. But then I started to think about it. All of us—you included, Ryan—have at one point or another witnessed a meltdown by Babes that frightened us.”
“I’ve never seen Babes hurt anyone.”
Her eyes finally met Ryan’s. “I have. Once.”
Ryan was almost afraid to ask. “Go on.”
“It was that night, the night of your baseball game. Babes came out of his room wearing his PawSox hat and his baseball mitt, all ready for the big game. I told Babes he wasn’t going, that you got tickets only for Chelsea and Ainsley. Well, let me tell you. He was out of control.”
“What did he do?”
“I—I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”
“He hit you?”
She shook her head. “He pushed me out of the way. No, pushed is not the right word. He grabbed me and threw me against the wall. I was okay. But honestly, I thought he’d broken my arm. And it was at that moment when I finally realized: Babes is a man. For all his childlike limitations, he was strong enough to really hurt someone.”
“Babes didn’t kill that homeless man,” said Ryan.
“I know you’re right about that. But I’ve been thinking about who really killed Chelsea. Babes took his share of responsibility on your radio show. But don’t I have some responsibility, too? When Chelsea came home that night, she was so stressed. Apparently, the entire faculty had a very upsetting meeting at the school that afternoon. Instead of putting her at ease, I practically ordered her to take Babes with her and Ainsley. Who knows what was going on inside that car when Chelsea crashed?”
Ryan pulled the ottoman closer to his mother-in-law and took her hands in his. Now was not the time to tell her that her daughter, effectively, had been murdered, but he couldn’t let her go down this path of self-destruction.
“Don’t ever blame yourself for what happened. A drunk driver killed Chelsea. Not Babes, and certainly not you.”
Ryan didn’t feel as though he’d uttered anything profound, but he could see the words register on Rachel’s face. Her expression was complex, to be sure—a combination of “Thank you” and “Why hasn’t anyone ever taken the time to take me by the hand, look into my eyes, and tell me this before?” She leaned forward and gave Ryan a hug that told him how much she appreciated it.
Finally, they separated. Rachel wiped away tears. “What’s going to happen to Babes?”
“I’m hoping that he’ll keep hunting down pay phones and calling in to my show, and eventually I’ll convince him to come home.”
“He has his phone card. I’ve been paranoid about making sure he carries one ever since Chelsea’s accident. Just in case he lost his cell.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“But how do we convince the police that he’s not a killer?”
“The hardest thing to explain is the murder weapon. It’s a baseball bat signed by Ivan. It has Babes’s prints on it.”
“His signed bat from Ivan is gone.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. He kept it on the shelf right above his bed. It’s not there, and I’ve turned the house upside down looking for it.”
Ryan reached for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” she said.
“Emma. I want her to get the police out here.”
“What for?”
“Somebody had to steal the bat before using it to kill the homeless guy. The police are better at detecting signs of breaking and entering than we are.”
Rachel gently took his hand, closing Ryan’s cell phone. “I wouldn’t hold out any hope for signs of breaking and entering.”
“Why not?”
“Once, when Babes was in high school, he ran away from home. He came back at three A.M., and the door was locked. He panicked, put his fist through the window, and sliced open his arm. It took nearly thirty stitches to keep him from bleeding to death. Ever since then, we don’t lock Babes out.”
“So the doors have been unlocked since Babes went on the run?”
“Yes. We don’t have an alarm either. We had one about five years ago—for about two days. First time it went off, Babes totally lost it. I’m afraid we couldn’t have made it easier for someone to take Babes’s bat, or anything else he wanted.”
“Okay, let’s go about this another way. Since the anniversary of Chelsea’s death—when Emma got her first tip—who has been in the house? That you know of.”
“Paul and I, of course. You and Ainsley.”
“Housekeeper, repairman?”
“No. No one. Just Tom.”
Tom. “How many times ha
s he been here?”
“Twice. He was here the day of the anniversary, when I asked him to go out and look for Babes. And then again today.”
“That first time he was here—did he spend any time in Babes’s room?”
“I don’t know. I can’t really remember. It’s possible.”
“Where did he go after he was here?”
“Back to Cambridge, I presume.”
“With or without Babes’s signed bat?”
“Oh, come now. You don’t really think Tom would do anything to hurt Babes.”
“He’s been avoiding me for days. He says he’s been with this new girlfriend, but surely he knew what was going on from the news. He could have at least returned my phone calls.”
“I know he’s been avoiding you. He’s been avoiding Paul and me, too.”
“Doesn’t that make you suspicious?”
“Not at all. Tom and Babes have a very special friendship. He’s been avoiding all of us because, if Babes called him, he wanted to be able to say—truthfully—that he had not spoken to his parents or anyone else. That’s the way Babes and Tom have always operated. He’s the one Babes goes to when he can’t go to family, so it’s important for Tom to keep his distance from us.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Of course it does. Don’t let yourself think that way about Tom.”
A flash of color went through Ryan’s mind, as vivid as Tom’s Hawaiian shirts. For an instant he could see the feelings that Tom once had for Chelsea—feelings Ryan had sometimes thought went beyond a mere boyhood crush.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Ryan.
46
THE CHECKER LAY AWAKE, BUT EXHAUSTED.
A deadbolt and chain secured the door to his hotel room. The lights were out, the shades were drawn, but he couldn’t shut off his mind and close his eyes. Normally he would sleep for a day after a contract killing, particularly after lunch in Providence’s Little Italy. But even with a bellyful of traditional red-sauce fare from Angelo’s Civita Farnese, he was restless.
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