“You go,” she says, turning off the engine.
“What are you going to do?”
“There is a back entrance. If they run, I’m waiting.”
“Okay.”
Billie pulls the beanie with the dumb cat ears over her eyes. Her hands are numb. Showdown. She climbs out the car and walks up the sidewalk toward the apartment block. Is this a brownstone? Something historic, expensive. She wonders if Tayla still teaches. Facebook was lean on the details. Professional widow, most likely. Full-time mom to the kids she has left. Fugitive-sister-bitch-harborer.
There’s a lot of activity. Lots of cars passing, a woman in a wheelchair at the bus stop, braids tied up in pigtails, a jaunty red scarf, short-shorts, cleavage popping out of her tank top. A dogwalker scooping the poop of a small and yappy mutt, the shrieks of children in the playground across the way.
Must be nice, Billie thinks, as she passes a gardening-service truck parked on the side of the road, to live in a nice neighborhood, with a nice park, and nice neighbors doing their neighborly things. She startles at movement in the truck, but it’s just the driver, not doing her job, sitting in the cab, jabbing at her cell phone. You lazy cow, she thinks. And yeah, she’s a little jumpy; all these witnesses, and you know how trigger-happy Zara is.
She wavers at the entrance way, considering the options. Another fantasy: get Tayla to let her in, barricade the door. I’m a hostage, there’s a murderer in the car, call the police. Refuge, safety, revenge, ideally seeing Z. get gunned down by an army of cops.
But then she’s out two million bucks. But what is she going to say, to persuade them to let her and her little gangster friend in? Improvise. She’ll think of something. Billie presses the buzzer for Apartment 304. Waits. Buzzes again. She’s sweating in this idiot beanie. The sun bakes down. Oh, for a cool breeze. Isn’t this supposed to be the Windy City? She buzzes again, leans on the button. Gardening-service cow glances over. Billie gives her a little wave. Mind your own damn business.
No answer. Story of her life. Billie tries the other apartments on the same floor. A woman’s voice crackles through. Not Tayla’s. Older. Whiter.
“Hello?”
“Hi…,” Billie starts in, when Zara materializes beside her, grabs her elbow. “I thought you were waiting.”
“Tell her you need help. Tell her to let you in.”
“It’s not her. She’s not answering.”
“Can I help you?” wrong-apartment white lady says.
“Hi, yeah, I’m…I’ve got a package for Tayla Carmichael, but she’s not answering and…”
“Oh, yes, I think she’s taken the dogs to the park. You can leave it on the front step. It’s very safe here.”
“No, I, uh, she needs to sign for it. Maybe you could let me in and I’ll wait for her?”
“Oh no, no, I’m very sorry. You’ll have to come back. I’m sure she won’t be long.”
“What time do you think that will be?”
The woman on the intercom chuckles. “I’m afraid I don’t keep tabs. Good luck.”
“Shit.” Billie kicks the door and the glass judders in the frame. “Ow.”
“We wait.” Zara shrugs.
“Fuck that. It’s a nice day. Let’s go to the fucking park.”
It’s hot. Too hot to be outside gamboling on the grass, walking the dogs, whatever. Leading the search because Zara is hanging back, covering the escape routes. Too intimidating for two of them to corner Tayla, assuming she can find her.
Billie tries to remember what kind of hounds Tayla has. Those floppy-eared dogs—beagles, that’s it. How hard can it be to find a woman with beagles? But the park is huge, with roads winding through the middle, signs to the zoo. In the distance, a black tower with spikes on top juts above the other buildings, like an omen. Mount Doom.
She starts to turn back. Maybe Zara’s right. At least the car has aircon. And then, like a vision emerging from the trees beyond the eco-jungle gym, she sees her: the beanpole woman with elaborate hair twisted up and piled on her head, two teenagers loping beside her, also beanpoles, barely containing the dogs pulling at their leashes.
“Hey,” Billie calls over, a smile in her voice, crossing the distance between them with long strides. Zara hangs back. That’s good. Let Billie handle it. Don’t want to spook her. And look at this bitch, strolling across the grass with her family, oblivious. “Hey, excuse me. Are those beagles? Can I pet ’em?”
Tayla frowns, trying to place her, but her beanie is pulled down low and she’s got her chin tilted down, focused on the dogs. The girls pull up short, prickling with teen skepticism.
“Like, okay?” one snarks.
Billie kneels down in front of them. “Oh boy, I love dogs. Beagles especially. What good boys. Are they boys?”
“No, boy and girl,” one of the twins says. She can’t remember their names, even though she was prowling their mom’s Facebook just this morning. “This is Belle and that’s Sebastian. But they’re really old now, and Seb can only eat wet food because his teeth are going.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Sorry, do I know you?” Tayla says. They’ve only met a couple of times, including at Cole’s wedding, and there was that big family dinner when the Americans flew out to South Africa for a summertime Christmas. But Billie is still offended. She’ll remember her after this. Guaranteed.
Billie looks up. “Wow. I’m hurt. Your own sister-in-law. Clearly that one Christmas together was pretty forgettable.”
“Billie?” Tayla laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “What are you doing here? Is this about Cole?”
“You know it is. Don’t even act like you don’t. Fuck you.” She ruffles the dog’s ears. Nothing to see here, dog enthusiasts unite. “Who’s a good boy?”
“Mom?” Twin #1 says.
“You see that woman behind me, by the trees? Tall glass of menace? She has a gun and she will kill your daughters and your dogs if you even think of causing a fuss.”
“It’s okay, Zola. Do what she says.”
One of the dogs barks at Billie, right in her face. “Whoa there.”
“No, Sebastian,” Twin #2 yanks him up on his leash. She’s almost crying. Good. They need to know who’s in charge.
“There’s a good boy,” Billie says. “Good girls, too. Where’s Miles? All you have to do is tell me and no one gets hurt.”
“Mom!”
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine,” Tayla says. “They’re not here. I haven’t seen them.”
“Pull the other one.”
“No. Really.”
“The police are looking for you,” Twin #2 says. “All of you. They came to the house. They say you’re in big trouble.”
“Sofia, let me handle this! It’s true. They’re looking for you. I told Cole to turn herself in.”
“So you have seen her.”
“No, she emailed me, from some other address. I found it in my spam folder, after the police came. I mailed her back and told her to turn herself in. It’s crazy, what she’s doing. It’s not good for Miles. It’s dangerous. I talked to a lawyer, she says it could be a landmark case. She said they would remand Miles into our custody while we wait for the case to be heard. He’d be safe.”
“Oh, I bet you’d love that. Everyone wants a piece of boy.”
“But she never replied. I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen them.” Tayla’s voice cracks, her chin is wobbling, although she’s trying to hide it. Think of the children.
“You’re lying.”
“We’re not lying!” Feisty Twin shouts. The tone of her voice sets the dogs off. One of them jumps up at Billie, barking, teeth bared. She shoves it down, but the beanie comes half-off her head.
“Control your fucking animals!”
“Billie. I don’t know what’s going on, but you need help. You’re hurt. And Miles is in danger.”
“You’re putting him in danger. All of you. Just tell me where he is.”
The do
gs are snarling and barking now, the twins barely holding them back.
“Hey!” someone yells. Billie looks up. The gardening-service truck has pulled up on the verge, the lazy cow in overalls climbing out, a gun in her hand. “Don’t move!” she yells again.
“Fuck you,” Billie says and yanks one of the teenagers by the arm, toppling her to the grass. The dogs go crazy, the woman who is not remotely a gardener, not at all, is still yelling “Hey!” and also “FBI, stop!” but Billie doesn’t look back and there are kids and dogs and other innocents between her and the gun, and she’s sprinting, fast as she can, back into the trees, back toward the road and the car.
Driving. Where to? To the place Zara is going to kill her. Away from the cops. The FBI. The fucking FBI. How could she have known? It’s not her fault. Zara should have known. She’s the one who’s the war criminal. Maybe she could make a grab for the gun. Get the steering wheel, crash the car. But they’re speeding on the highway. They might both die. She can’t have that. She’s not going to die. Not today. Not after all of this.
“Slow down,” Billie says, keeping her voice even.
“You fucking stupid.”
“I didn’t know, okay? How was I supposed to know?”
“I should never have listened.”
“No one’s following us. Not yet. There would be helicopters. But we have to switch cars. We have to do that now, Zara. They would have watched us going to the apartment. They’ll have our license plate.”
“You stupid fuck.”
“I know, I know. You can kill me later. But you know I’m right. We have to do it now, Zara. Now.”
She’s never been part of a carjacking before. Zara gets out of the car at the lights, leaves it running, puts her gun up to the window of the Prius next to them and yanks the driver out. It’s all Billie can do to keep up with her, jump in the back seat before she pulls away. The sensible thing would have been to stay put, stay behind, walk away and disappear into the mean streets of the Chi. But here she is. Zara behind the wheel. Stupid fuck indeed.
“Zara.”
“What.”
“Zara, listen to me,” she says, talking in slow and measured tones, as you do when dealing with rabid retard bitches. “It’s not over. Calm down. Slow down. Last thing we need is to be pulled over for speeding. Give me the phone.”
“Why?”
“So I can navigate. We want to get out of here. Probably change cars again. I’m not going to call the cops, but I can guarantee that woman we jacked is, and she’ll give them her license plate, and then we’ll be fucked. But we are not fucked yet. Not by a long stretch.”
Zara’s hands are still white-knuckled on the wheel, but the speedometer drops down to a sensible fifty-five.
“You stupid fuck,” she repeats.
“Yeah. Okay. Fine. But listen. It’s not like it was a trap. They weren’t waiting for us. They’re not after us. Think about it, okay? They don’t even know about you and me. Me, maybe. If Cole is there and she told them. But, listen, they don’t care about me. What am I? I’m an accessory. Or maybe she blamed the whole boynapping thing on me. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Because if they had her and Miles in custody, they wouldn’t give a shit about me. They don’t know about Mrs. A. They don’t know about you and Rico and the rest. I’m not the one they want. They want Miles. And if they had him already, they wouldn’t be watching Tayla’s apartment for him to show up with his mom in tow. Do you see?”
“And so what?”
“I’m trying to explain to you that they’re not in Chicago. They haven’t made contact with Tayla. Not yet.”
“So?”
“So-so-so. Goddammit. I’m saying they’re not here yet, and all we have to do is get to them first.”
Zara barks a laugh. “That is all?”
“We have to be patient.”
“No. No more. We are done. This is done.”
“What, you’re going to kill me?” Billie snipes, but her heart is hammering. “Hard to do in the middle of the highway. Or do you want to try to get out of here on your own? Traffic jams are a bitch when you’re trying to escape the feds.”
And then the phone dings, and Billie screams.
“Fuck! Holy fucking shit and Jesus Christ!”
“You’re trying to make me crash,” Zara accuses.
“Get over yourself. Guess who got mail?”
47.
Cole: Mortified
She walks through the grounds, past the new section of the academy, where the modern glass atrium has been glommed on to the side of the traditional building, the cozy chapel, the open-air auditorium. It’s the kind of school she wished they could have afforded to send Mila to, and was simultaneously glad they couldn’t. Proximity to obscene wealth makes you selfish and self-absorbed and gross.
But not a murderer.
Not now, Dev.
Past the swimming pool, the soccer fields, the goddamn polo fields. She crouches behind the empty stables. She must tell Mila about the stables. She’ll want to see them, even if there haven’t been horses here for years. She uses the safety pin from her Speak to click the tray out of Chastity’s phone, inserts the sim card, and reboots the device. Searching, the display says. Searching.
Two bars of signal. She was hoping for 4G, but beggars (thieves) have to be happy with what they can get.
She logs in to the email account she set up at Kasproing what feels like a million years ago. Concentrating to get the right configuration of symbols and letters and numbers and capitals. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Forgetting the damn password, getting herself locked out now, at this point on the goddamn ladder. Still thinking in Church doctrine.
Scores of emails from Kel. She skims them. Variations on where are you. You’ve gone dark. I’m really worried. Please send me a note. Anything. She swipes through a quick reply.
Hey!
I’m here. I’m in Atlanta, heading to Miami. We should be there in a few days. Undercover with a church group. You’d love them, proper crazy, believe if we all say sorry loud enough God will forgive us and bring back the men. Church of All Sorrows. Look them up.
They’ve got some big get-together at the Temple of Joy in Miami Beach. I’m getting my hands on some cash, but I’m scared it’s not going to be enough.
We need to arrange for passage from Miami—big port, it’s got to be better than NYC? Let me know as soon as you can.
Love you. So close.
xxxC
She sends it. The satisfying swoosh of a missive dispatched through the data signals, the masts, through the sky, across continents.
The phone pings with notifications. New matches! You’re a catch! Not so chaste after all, Chastity. Or maybe she never turned off her visibility.
Let she with a log in her eye not cast the first stone.
She can’t stand the waiting. Fuck. Gingerly, she logs into her old email. Risky, she knows, if the feds spot her log-in. But when her in-box finally opens, she almost weeps in fury. Another fucking email from Billie.
And another one and another one and another one, a whole screen’s worth. Fucking monsters. Impersonating her dead sister. Fuck you, feds.
Except. The subject lines. The tone.
Yo Motherfucker!
Bzatch. Where are you at?
Major Tom to Ground Cole-trol
She clicks on one at random.
Hey motherfucker, WTF you hit me for? Takes more than one tire iron klap to the head to take me down. Okay, I get it. I was out of my mind. I was desperate to get you both out, I didn’t hear you. Your concerns are totally valid. I would never take Miles’s choice away from him. I was going to send for you. I fucked up real bad. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me know you’re okay, where you are.
She’s sobbing with relief, hard hiccups bursting up through her chest. Billie’s alive. Alive. She’s not a sister-slayer. No Cain and Abel.
Another mail.
Ahoy.
Where are you?
Want to ditch this party? I’m getting real sick of America. It’s not for me.
In case you think I’m still in custody, a ward of the state? Do you even know me?
I bust out right after you did. No thanks to you.
Damn girl, you got a mean swing on you. You take up golf in the burbs?;)
But I deserved it. I see that.
You were right. Never thought you’d hear me say that, huh?
You were right. I was wrong.
Happy now?
So here’s the sitch.
I stole a bunch of medicine from the clinic at Ataraxia, sold it. I got enough cash dollah to get us on a plane or a train or a boat or whatever you like.
Sisters in blood and drug-trafficking! Same boat!
No catch. No cost. This is me making it up to you. For what I did.
What do you say, Coley?
Forgive and forget and let’s blow this joint together?
xBx
It’s hard to type the reply through her tears, her hands shaking.
Give me a phone number. I need to hear your voice.
I thought you were dead. I thought I’d killed you.
You forgetting what she did to Miles?
Shut it, ghostguy.
You’ve no idea.
Jesus. I’m so glad you’re alive.
We’re fine. We’re both fine. We’re in Georgia, heading to Miami. Meet us there? Two days. Kel’s arranging passage. Talk to her, she’ll tell you what’s going down.
I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to use a phone again.
Of course I forgive you.
If you forgive me for trying to bash your brains out.
Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Cxxx
Another whoosh. Of redemption. She feels weak with the sudden lifting of the weight.
No replies come, although she hangs around until she can’t wait anymore. Evening prayers. They’ll miss her. She’s going to have to hold on to Chastity’s phone for a little while longer. She jabs it off as she walks back, the Sisters already singing, their voices floating out into the night. Trying to hide her elation, her relief. She wants to tell Mila, but when she gets back to their room her daughter is sprawled out across the bed with teenage abandon, making snuffling puppy dog sounds.
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