by Hadley Finn
Sirona: Nervous as hell. Antsy and can’t sleep. Will call or text. Promise.
Me: See you in a couple.
I don’t rest soundly. I sit in my red chair, doubloon in hand, spinning and twisting it over my knuckles. I sip Kilbeggan, but only two fingers. I need the flavor but not the buzz.
At four o’clock, I shower and put on my blacks. I pocket the doubloon and the knife. I put together the necessities I have and throw a suitcase in the trunk of my car. I remove the tracker for the last time and set it under my tire, ready to obliterate yet another reminder of him.
Then, I put the updated documentation in the glove box and sit in its supple leather breathing deeply to calm myself.
Today. Finally today!
Twenty-Four
I knock on Sirona’s door at half past four and she pulls it open almost shyly.
I raise my eyebrows and lift my chin in question. She nods and pulls the door wide enough for me to enter. She tilts her head to the suitcases in the living room. Two large, two medium. Her whole life in four bags. I nod and grab them, and her outstretched keys, and roll down to where our cars are parked side by side. I slide the four suitcases into my trunk and pray
I keep my head on a swivel. Nothing out of place. No threats.
I head back upstairs and hand her two boarding passes. She sucks in a huge breath. As if it is just now dawning on her what this means.
“Where is Clara’s bag?”
She tips her head to indicate the backpack on the kitchen table. The seriousness of this has rendered her mute.
I grab it and stand there.
“It’s time. Grab Clara and let’s go.”
She agrees and heads to Clara’s bedroom and carries her limply to the kitchen.
“What else do you need?”
She turns her face into Clara’s head, kissing her hair reverently, and whispers, “Nothing.”
I take her keys and lock up her apartment. We walk out and I help her load Clara into her car seat.
“Follow me. Okay?”
“Okay.” Her resolve is back.
She gets into the driver’s seat while I walk to my car and do the same.
Once we’re on the road, I see the unwelcome, but expected, additional set of headlights. We drive and follow the New Orleans roads. We follow a trolley down St. Charles.
When we get closer to her shop I say, “Now” over the Bluetooth connection, and we both turn into the Marriot parking garage and pull tickets. Spiraling upward, we go three levels, waiting on the black Tahoe.
I park and leave my car and walk to her Accord. “New cell phone in the console. I’m programmed in. Leave yours in the Honda. You’ll need to lead us out of here. Make sure you aren’t followed.”
She doesn’t question it and grabs her purse and heads to my Benz.
“Please, Sean,” she begs as she begins to close the door.
I reach up, cupping her face with my hand, my thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. “Promise.”
Climbing in the Accord, I push the seat back to its full distance and adjust the mirror, pulling out and following Sirona.
We get to the street and Sirona turns left at the light while I go straight. The Tahoe is in my sight, and Sirona looks to be home free. But that means nothing to me. I follow her with my eyes as far as I can before heading to the Northshore. There’s nothing there, but I need some distance and to allow Clara to sleep as long as possible.
We drive until after the Tahoe has pulled into a gas station to refill and even longer until Clara stirs in the back seat. I pull over at a donut shop somewhere in Mandeville.
“Morning, beautiful girl.”
“Poppa?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Where’s Mommy?”
“She had an appointment this morning and said I could take you to school. Is that okay?”
She looks confused and I don’t like that one bit, but time to improvise.
“We didn’t get our cupcake last night. How do you feel about donuts?”
“I love donuts.”
No doubt. Apparently, she just loves sugar. It works for me today, so I go with it.
“What’s your favorite?”
“Pink ones!”
“Oh, I should’ve known. Let’s go get one.”
“Yay!”
That was easy.
I spend way too much time trying to figure out how to unbuckle a four-year-old from the harness contraption. She laughs at my attempt and gives good directions when she sees me struggle.
I can’t say we don’t get some looks. A priest in full blacks with a collar and four-year-old in pajamas holding hands should raise more than one red flag. The confusion is comical though, but Clara doesn’t catch on, so we get a forbidden donut and a kolache, one milk and one very large coffee and have our breakfasts.
“Anything special happening at school today?”
She shakes her head until her pigtails whip into her face and the sugar on her cheeks. “I don’t know.”
Well, there’s that. I pass her a change of clothes, an outfit she is none too happy with and shoo her to the restroom to change. She does, but notes her displeasure as she latches the door behind her.
When she emerges, I say, “Guessing we should go. We’re a little far away, since I wanted to come to a special place.”
She tilts her head in confusion but trusts me all the same. “Okay.”
We throw away our trash and proceed back to the Honda. She helps me rebuckle her multi-point harness. Car seat virgins shouldn’t be entrusted with this level of mechanics.
“What’s your favorite movie?” That’s my lead in as we pull out and onto the Causeway heading for Metairie.
“Frozen! It’s about Anna and Elsa and she can make things turn into ice and there’s a funny reindeer and….”
I barely get another word in. I’m given the play-by-play as we head to school.
Thirty minutes later my head is swimming. Who knew that little girls could talk without taking a single breath for that long? The only two words for it are enlightening and terrifying.
I grab Sirona’s phone from my pocket and switch it out of airplane mode. There’s been no way to track it since the parking garage. Now I want to make sure if anyone is tracing her location, that it’s available.
I stop at Wal-Mart to buy an iPad and two pair of AirPods and head to Petites Fleurs.
Twenty-Five
The back door creaks open and the heavy squish of shoes greets me. He’s too heavy to walk silently and too cocky to try. The pace is slow, though, so his confidence is in check. Good to know.
The cooler door opens and he walks in, expectant. He turns to pull the door and while his back is to me, I shove a soaked cloth against his nose and mouth—chloroform—and he collapses to the floor. He fights against my hold and against the rag. I straddle him, fighting to keep the rag in place while not losing the battle to him physically. Three minutes later, he is unconscious. I have less than two minutes before he wakes and starts to fight again.
Quickly and efficiently, I roll him and tie his hands in front of him, my gloves squeaking against the rope. Next come his feet. I need him disabled and want his pain to be of his own doing, well, except for the final blow. That will be all mine.
I attach the hook and use the winch—one that is out-of-place in this cooler of butter and cream—to begin dragging him from his place on his back on the floor to hang from his wrists.
I stuff another cloth in his mouth simply to keep him quiet.
I stand, waiting, turning the doubloon over in my gloved hand. I wait and I stew. Everything I’ve done since I was fifteen is for this moment. The days with my absentee father, my college selection, choosing the seminary, all the bullshit with the hoops for priesthood. Grabbing the right credentials, avoiding the wrong vows, allowing an “associate” of my father to help me land the NOLA assignment.
Thank God—and I mean that. This shit can eat you alive and if i
t took forty years… Hell, I’d have done it. For this moment, I’d have done it, but I’m so glad it wasn’t forty. So glad I can get this poison out of my head and my heart and get on with my life. Take a chance. Choose forgiveness. Begin again.
Soon. So very soon.
I’ll maintain this rage for a few moments more. Fuel for my weary, weary soul.
He wakes and his eyes are the first to show terror. I wish in this moment I could actually smell his fear. I’d bottle it. Make my fucking day!
“Enzo Calabrese. Thank you for joining me.”
He screams and thrashes but finds it useless. His slow moans when he moves bring a smirk to my face.
“Hurts? Move some more. Maybe you’ll dislocate a shoulder.”
Again with the muffled curses and red face. He’s trying to force the rag from his mouth but stops to breathe. He has to use his arms ever so slightly to allow his lungs to fill. It’s poetry. That he’s reduced to this, that he has to choose whether to talk or to breathe. Fucking poetry.
“Never been on the receiving end of your own sick, twisted plans?”
I pace and wait, the patience I’ve employed for twenty years guiding my decisions. I have peace that stills me.
“I’ll remove the gag if you answer my questions.”
The muffled “Fuck you” is evident, but I’m not afraid of him.
“Play nice, you little shit. You scream and this exchange is over.” I yank the gag down, mindful of his teeth.
“Where is she?”
“Sirona? Why do you care?”
“I own her and she hasn’t paid her debt.”
“She has no debt to you.” I stop my pacing to face him squarely. “You, however, have a debt to me.”
“Where is she?”
“If you were to live, you’d find that Sirona Dugas was a ticketed and confirmed passenger on flights to Miami, LA, Seattle, New York, and New Jersey this morning. Five ticketing agents can show she boarded and five manifests record her movement to her corresponding connecting international flights. Whether she — or say, another woman you victimized — were to stop or connect would be up to her, or their, discretion. Again, if you were to live.”
“You fucking piece of sh—”
I shove the gag back into his mouth forcefully, fighting his shaking head, but his extra weight and lack of overall health means he can’t struggle and breathe at the same time. This time I stay in his face as he looks for the door. He thinks he’s still in control but he’s about to learn.
“Your henchman, who was to be here in ten, got your voicemail redirecting him to protect Zera. Kind of me, I’d say. I could’ve let her go down with you—take the fall for your crimes. Instead she’ll soon learn of your generosity, your desire for her to run the shipping business, if she wants it, as it comes back from bankruptcy. The PR shit will be a nightmare, but it will provide her an income with you out of the picture. You living large off the backs of others shouldn’t bring punishment on her.”
I turn my back to him, calming my nerves.
Like an actor in a pivotal scene, I need to keep my calm and remember my lines. I want him to know — need him to understand — and I only get one chance to say what I want to say.
I pull out the doubloon and flip it between my fingers and over my knuckles as I pace in front of him. It calms me. Centers me.
“You won’t be my first kill. God willing, you will be my last. Frankly, I don’t enjoy it. With each, I pray. I ask God to forgive them for their sins, accept them into His kingdom, be merciful on their souls. I want that same forgiveness and mercy for mine, you see…
“With you, that will not happen. I care nothing for your soul. My only wish is that you burn in hell. I hope mercy and forgiveness elude you.”
Lost in my own thoughts as I pace, I fail to see the leg come forward in a brutal kick to my side. His movements loosen the restraints at his hands and he gets more and more leverage. The wiggling, though, causes him to thrash about and yanks at his arms until hollow pops echo in succession through the little room.
He bellows.
On one knee, I grab what I expect is a nearly broken rib. It takes me several minutes to fight for breath and be able to stand again. If I die, I die, but I’m taking this fucker with me.
Clara’s face flashes before my eyes. I cannot die today… I made her mom a promise to get her safely home. And that’s what I intend to do.
I stand and throw a punch right into the spot where one of his arms is no longer connected to his shoulder socket. He screams in pain. My accompanying wince ruins the moment.
“Fuck you and shut up!” I spit out and hold up the doubloon, close enough he can’t fail to recognize it, and he stills. Whether Lady Justice or the court jester is the side he sees makes no difference to me. He is the jester; I am justice.
“I won’t ask because I don’t want to know. And you’re such a lying sack of shit, I wouldn’t trust your answers. But die knowing that I know what you did and that you signed your own death certificate on a hot July night. Claire Goodman is why you hang here, why you’ll die here, and why I won’t think of you another day in my life.”
I grab an ice pick and, without preamble or concern, plunge it into his heart.
“Rot in hell.”
I watch him take his last breath and finally, fucking finally, have peace.
That momentary relief is short-lived since disposing of this fat motherfucker is, even after all my plans, more than I bargain for. And with my chest on fire and my internal organs practically rearranged, my adrenaline will have to provide the fuel for the next couple of hours.
Releasing the hook, I drop his body onto the cold concrete floor. He’s slumped at an odd angle. Dead plus bound plus overweight means his shape oddly resembles one of those fat cat memes people pass around online. I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.
I fish through his pockets and find the keys to his Escalade. I dread this next part. I hadn’t banked on the ribs, so this will suck way more than I could’ve expected.
With agonizing pain, I drag him out, fold him into his SUV, keeping an eye out for onlookers, and jump behind the wheel.
Great swamps are only an hour away. But since I don’t have that kind of time, a back channel or crappy inlet will have to do. He may be discovered sooner, but the same creatures live in both.
It’s the all wrong season for hungry alligators, but there are more than alligators in those waters.
The fifteen-minute drive is filled with regret that I cannot finish this as cleanly as I would have liked and with the dread that I’ll need to haul him again while fighting to breathe.
By the last turn, I exhale. I haven’t passed another living soul for several minutes. In excruciating pain, I move Enzo to the driver’s seat, buckle him in, lower the windows, and drop the car in neutral. Before releasing the parking brake, I force the doubloon into his mouth. I find it more than fitting.
I push the vehicle, choking back a scream of agony, until it hits the water’s edge and floats for too damn long. When the water meets the window sill, the nose dips under the surface, and I’m free.
I walk the two miles back to the main road, stopping at an abandoned gas station, before adding another five, until I call an Uber. The alibi is necessary even if it’s annoying. They drop me off at the rectory to shower and change into my blacks.
Twenty-Six
Back at my office, I chat a little with Evelyn for a few minutes. She and Tom will have all the kids and grandchildren over for Thanksgiving in two days. She is making her famous pecan pie and sweet potato soufflé, while her son is bringing the turkey. Potluck Thanksgiving seems like the way to go
Sirona: Level 2, west garage, A-22.
Me: All okay?
Sirona: Landed in Newark. You okay?
Me: Clara is fine. Exhale.
Sirona: Is this going to work? Sean, I’m scared.
Me: It will work. Promise.
Sirona: Thank you.
> Me: See you tonight.
“Evelyn?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Looks like I have another emergency with my family that requires my immediate attention.”
Evelyn looks confused. Dead mother. Dead father. No siblings. She knows of no family that could present such an emergency, but she’s too kind to ask and just nods.
“What do you need?”
“I can make the arrangements if you can get a priest here for tomorrow morning’s mass and for Thursday Thanksgiving services. Hate to even ask. I know you planned on leaving after lunch tomorrow. Can you bring in a replacement for me? If we can make that happen, I don’t see why you couldn’t take the rest of the week off.”
She nods, still perplexed. “Yes, Father.”
“I’m sorry, Evelyn, but I do wish you a very happy Thanksgiving.”
She smiles and closes the door behind her.
I grab my phone and text Bobby.
Me: Get my email?
Bobby: Yeah. You sure about this?
Me: Positive. Can you make it happen without it tracing back to me?
Bobby: Don’t see why not. When do you head out?
Me: Few hours. Anything I need to worry about before then?
Bobby: Nah, but I’d grab Benadryl.
Me: Explain.
Bobby: Best cocktail to knock out a wired kid.
Me: Oh. This is why I pay you an exorbitant hourly rate.
Bobby: I offered you the friends-and-family discount.
Me: Negative. What I meant to say was thank you.
Bobby: You’re welcome. And Congratulations!
Me: Thanks!
I head to the rectory and change clothes, looking around for one last time.
I study the red chair. My planning companion, my silent comrade for years and years. It was my mother’s from her reading room. I hate to leave it, but, then again, I don’t need it anymore.
I head to the rental car I had delivered while I was with Enzo. I’ve stuffed a too big, too warm coat in my suitcase and Benadryl in my carry-on, and I drive by Petites Fleurs one last time, reading the sign I placed there a few hours ago: Off to Paris for a little vacation and to learn a new recipe or two. Happy Thanksgiving! I head to Fleur de Lis and make my way to the office.