“Do you really think it’s a good idea to do that with all that’s—”
“I just need some information. I’ll go through it real quick, in and out, okay? If I go in through your account, no one will ever know.”
“What is it you’re looking for?” she asks.
“I want to read his file again, what’s the big deal?”
“Well, if you tell me exactly what you need, I could go in for you and—”
“Goddamn it!” Rage explodes through me with no warning, and I grip the steering wheel with such force my knuckles go white. “Enough with the interrogation, I need your fucking help!”
“Jesus,” she says. “Calm down.”
I struggle to maintain my composure but everything is raw and fierce, coursing through me and beyond my control. “I—look—I don’t have a lot of time, understand? Either you’re willing to help me or you’re not. Which is it?”
“Of course I’ll help you if I can. Take it easy. I know you’re having some issues right now but I—I mean—why would you speak to me like that?”
Deep breaths, one after another, slowly weaken the anger. “I’m sorry. Really, I am, I’m sorry. But I need to see that file.”
“Okay, but I’m not in the office,” she confesses. “I’m in the field and on my way to an appointment. But when I’m done I can—”
“Got your laptop with you?”
“Of course, but listen—”
“Where are you? I’ll meet you.”
* * *
Once on Mass Ave., I follow it to the Harvard Bridge and cross the river into Cambridge. Sheets of rain soak the city, casting everything in a blurred murkiness.
It’s becoming the norm, but nothing feels right.
After a few blocks, I find the street Marianne said she’d be waiting on. A narrow street populated by brownstones, it’s a better neighborhood than I’d anticipated. Sometimes they are. Her Mazda is parked near the corner, but there are no available spaces, so I flick my lights at her, then turn and grab the first space I can find on the cross street.
Hurrying back through the rain, I slip into the passenger side of Marianne’s car, drenched and out of breath. She waits for me behind the wheel in a skirt suit and an ankle-length raincoat, her red hair pulled up and back into a stylish nest on the top of her head. The car smells like cologne and baby powder.
“Excuse me, do I know you?” she says through a smirk.
I give her a look, then glare at the radio, which is playing a local sports talk show.
She takes the hint and shuts it off.
“Some rain, huh?” she says, her smirk morphing into a pleasant smile.
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Not like you left me a whole lot of choice there, bud.” Marianne continues to smile but I can tell she’s uncomfortable. “As if I wouldn’t see you, don’t be silly.”
“I’m sorry I got so upset on the phone. I just—I’m stressed out of my mind.”
She puts a hand to her cheek and does her best Jack Benny. “No!”
I shrug, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven, I’m just playing.” She taps the crystal on her wristwatch. “But like I tried to explain, I’ve got an appointment—unscheduled—and have to get in there.”
“Can you leave your laptop?”
“No, Cam, I cannot leave my laptop. I need it for work.” With a light laugh, she gathers a leather satchel containing her computer and slings it over her shoulder along with her purse. “Give me about twenty minutes, then I’ll be back out and we can—”
“What’s the job?”
“Change-of-address dodger,” Marianne says through a sigh. “Real charmer, an investment broker with a foot fetish and a habit of groping women’s feet in public. He’s also a sexual sadist with a handful of arrests for domestics and a history of physical and sexual violence toward his special lady friends. From what I can tell, he buys his way out of most charges and troubles, but even someone with his bucks can’t avoid the sex-offender rap once he’s been convicted. Even follows his big-shot pompous ass, as it should. Anyway, he’s quite the piece of work, but I won’t be long, promise.”
“Want me to come in with you?”
“Well, let’s see. You don’t technically work for the department at the moment, so it’s not only unethical but illegal for you to be present. And if anyone found out, I could, and probably would, lose my job for allowing you to be there. Other than that it seems like a great idea, sure, let’s go for it.” She shakes her head. “Seriously, you really need to pull it together. This is not the Cameron Horne I know.”
You have no idea.
When I don’t answer, she aims a fire-engine-red fingernail at a brownstone a few doors down and says, “I’ve got to get in there. Sit tight, I’ll be back soon as I can.”
I sit alone in her car awhile, listening to the rain and the vague traces of voices in my head. My leg bounces nervously and I can feel my body begin to perspire. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so alone.
Though I tell myself not to, I climb from the car, dash across the sidewalk and up the stairs to the brownstone Marianne entered just moments before. Except for rain sounds, the city is quiet. I look back at the empty street, the cars and other buildings. Something is watching me, something close. I can feel its eyes crawling across my skin, its thoughts burrowing into my head. I open the brownstone door and step into a small foyer, leaving the rain and the ghosts concealed within it behind me.
To my right is a staircase, to my left a short hallway leading to a door that stands ajar. I listen a moment, hear Marianne’s voice, and follow it to the doorway, moving quietly as possible.
Through the cracked door, I see a kitchen and a living room beyond, nicely and expensively designed and decorated. Marianne stands on one side of a large island with her laptop on and open and her paperwork spread out across the counter. A well-dressed man in a suit and tie, who appears to be in his early thirties, stands on the opposite side of the island looking uncomfortable and annoyed. A few feet away, sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, a waif of a woman in her early twenties watches quietly.
“Exactly how long is this going to take?” the man asks.
Without looking up from her laptop, Marianne eventually replies, “Soon as we get the necessary paperwork completed, Mr. Westbrook, I’ll be on my way.”
“Well if you could hurry it up, I’d appreciate it. I’ve got a great deal of work to do and several important appointments today.” The man shakes his head and sighs. “I simply don’t have time for this nonsense, for God’s sake, I—”
“You’re well aware of the rules and laws of the Commonwealth pertaining to your situation, Mr. Westbrook,” Marianne says, finally making eye contact. “You’re required by law to notify our department when you change addresses. You chose not to comply with that when you moved into your new home. As a result, I had to track you down and come to you unannounced to update your information. That’s not my fault, it’s yours. Now you can either cooperate and we can get this done quickly, or you can continue to be unnecessarily hostile and I’ll be happy to turn this over to—”
“Hostile?” Westbrook says, his anger growing. “How am I being hostile?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” she tells him.
Westbrook leans on the counter, closer to her. “And I don’t appreciate being harassed by you people for something that took place a thousand years ago I wasn’t even guilty of. Can you appreciate that, Ms. Feeney?”
“No one’s harassing you,” Marianne says, returning to her paperwork. “I’m just doing my job.”
“You believe this crap?” he says to the woman in the chair.
She says nothing, just stares straight ahead with her blank doe eyes. Petite and mousey, the woman is barefoot, dressed in yellow Capri pants and a sleeveless top, and looks tired and stressed well beyond someone of her meager years should be.
&nbs
p; “I’ve got things to do,” Westbrook snaps, “and have to get to work, so we need to move this along or I’m going to get my attorney on the phone and—”
I push the door the rest of the way open and step through into the kitchen.
Westbrook looks at me, incredulous. “Who the hell’s this guy?”
I flash my ID and drift toward Marianne, but before I can say anything she announces, “This is my associate.” And then, turning her back to them and glaring at me says, “I thought you were going to wait in the car.”
“Decided to join you,” I say with a smile, holding Westbrook’s beady-eyed stare throughout. “Good morning, Mr. Westbrook.”
“Yeah, good morning, come right into my house uninvited, feel free.”
“The door was open, sir,” I tell him.
“The door to the street wasn’t.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it.” He turns to the woman again and jerks a thumb in my direction. “See what I mean now about these people? They think they can do whatever they want because they have some three-dollar ID from the state. They think they can treat me like scum because of a false charge from years ago.”
“That would be a conviction, Mr. Westbrook, not a charge,” I remind him. “And as Ms. Feeney said, we’re just here to do our job. So I suggest you let us do that and we’ll be out of your hair sooner than later, all right?”
“Sure, tough guy, do your thing.” Westbrook anxiously straightens the cuff links on his shirtsleeves. “Let them feel like big bad officials,” he says to his girlfriend. “Most of these clowns are two or three IQ points away from being meter maids, for Christ’s sake. End of the day, I make what they make in a year every thirty minutes or so.” He laughs, congratulating himself on what he apparently believes is his devastating wit, and though his girlfriend remains silent, a slight smile bends her thin lips as well.
After giving me another annoyed look, Marianne returns to her paperwork and asks Westbrook to sign some forms. Meanwhile, I move deeper into the kitchen for a better look at the woman in the chair. She avoids eye contact with me, looking down at the floor before I get too close. I wonder how many times Westbrook has beaten her, humiliated her, sexually assaulted her, hurt her. Why would she stay with someone like this? Why would she allow him to do these things to her?
I notice her feet are bruised and covered in scabs from what appear to be bite marks. I crouch down in front of her but she still refuses to look at me. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“None of your goddamn business,” Westbrook says. “Don’t answer him, you—you have no right to interrogate her—you’re not here for her and she’s under no obligation to speak to you or answer your out-of-line questions, got it? I know my fucking rights, pal. She’s none of your concern. Leave her alone or I’ll file a complaint so fast it’ll make your empty head spin.”
“Calm down, Mr. Westbrook,” Marianne says evenly but with enough force to gain his attention. “And don’t threaten us or I promise you things are going to get a whole lot more complicated for you, understand?”
I nearly allow a proud smile. “Are you all right?” I ask the woman.
She nods but says nothing.
“It won’t get any better,” I tell her, “only worse. You know that, don’t you?”
“Did you just—did he just—what the fuck? Did he actually just say that?” Westbrook stomps his way toward us. “Listen up, pal, I—”
I stand, turn and face him. “Back up.”
He stops but holds his ground.
“I said, back up.” I stare deep into his arrogant, beady little eyes, and he stares back. Within seconds, he sees something that makes him understand upsetting me further would not be a good idea, and he returns to his position behind the counter.
“Okay,” Marianne says, barely able to contain her anger, “I think I’ve got this well in hand so, why don’t you just wait for me outside? I’ll be done here in just a moment.”
I walk closer to the island, closer to her but also closer to Westbrook, who still stares at me, but with far less arrogance and aggression than before. There is something else in those eyes now. Fear...uncertainty…
How’s it feel, asshole?
Westbrook grimaces, and it’s obvious he wants to look away from me, but for some reason, can’t. He reminds me of a child that has just learned that the monster under his bed is not only real but far worse than he’d ever imagined.
You see it, don’t you? You see this thing inside me.
Suddenly I feel Marianne’s hand on my arm, gripping it tightly. “Go ahead outside and wait for me in the car, please.”
“Hey look,” Westbrook says, stuttering as his entire demeanor changes, “I didn’t, ah, mean any offense, okay? I’m all about cooperating here. I’ve just got a busy day ahead of me and I wasn’t expecting all this and—you know what, though?—that’s not your fault or problem, so I apologize if I’ve offended either of you in any way or made this more difficult than it needs to be. I’m happy to cooperate fully so we can all get on with our day. You guys are just doing your jobs. I’m sorry for being so difficult. I was out of line.”
Marianne furrows her brow, glancing from him to me, then back again. The only person in the room who looks more confused and stunned is Westbrook’s girlfriend.
“Thank you, Mr. Westbrook,” Marianne finally manages. “I just need your signature on a few additional documents and we’re done here.”
I lunge for Westbrook, grab him by his overpriced shirt and throw him to the floor. I pummel him, gleefully slamming my fists into his face as he cries and begs me to stop. As he curls into the fetal position in an attempt to protect himself, I kick at him, blasting the point of my shoe into his ribs and back. He grunts and tries to crawl away, but I’m on him, choking him from behind and pulling him closer so I can sink my teeth into the side of his neck. Ripping and tearing a chunk of flesh free in a bloody spray, I spit it out on the kitchen floor, then throw him forward onto his belly. While he weeps and pees all over himself, I find a wooden block storing knives on the counter, slide free the largest blade in the bunch, then turn him over so I can slit his stomach open and yank free everything inside. I want to feel his wet organs squish and pulsate in my bare hands, I want to feel his warm blood flow and drip between my fingers, I want to taste it and wear it on my skin. I want to show him his own guts, to hold them up to his face as he wails in agony and horror at his own vivisection and—
“Stop,” Westbrook says.
The sound of his voice snaps me out of my dream—or whatever it was—and I see that he has now moved farther away from me. His back to the refrigerator and his face tangled into a scowl of terror and confusion, he reaches into his shirt and pulls free a small gold cross he wears on a chain around his neck. His fingers slowly stroke it as he stares at me with horror, like everything that played across my mind’s eye played across his as well. He’s seen Hell. And I’ve shown it to him.
“Christ Jesus,” Westbrook mutters.
“You really think He hears your prayers?” I say evenly. “He doesn’t.”
Trembling and nearly in tears, he whispers, “What the hell are you?”
The desire for violence recedes and I can feel my body relaxing, my mind returning to me. “Just a public servant a few IQ points away from being a meter maid,” I answer with a faux smile, “remember?”
“Mr. Westbrook,” Marianne says through obvious confusion, “are you all right?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No. No, I—I don’t think I am.”
I turn back to the woman in the Capri pants. “If you stay with this man, eventually he’ll either cripple you or kill you. You don’t need to be degraded and abused like this, and whatever he tells you, what he’s done and will do to you has nothing to do with love. Ms. Feeney’s going to leave you her business card. If you need her, let her know and she can get you help or get you away from this piece of shit, okay?”
Pale as
a ghost, the woman nods but says nothing.
Marianne stands there frozen, mouth hanging open. “I’ll be in the car,” I tell her, and then looking back over my shoulder at Westbrook, add, “Be a good boy, sign your papers and forget about the rest of this. Or I’ll have to come back for another visit.”
Westbrook nods rapidly, still clutching his cross.
Outside, I stand on the steps, light a cigarette and smoke it in the rain. The rain is cooling and sobering, and like coming down from a drug high, I slowly return to…to what? Normal? I’m not even sure what that is anymore.
A car glides down the street, rolling slowly past the brownstone. A boxy sedan, the windows are tinted black and don’t allow me to see inside, but my reaction to the car is instinctual, primal. Whoever is inside that sedan is there for me.
At the corner the car stops…waits…then turns, vanishing into the rain.
It has no license plate.
Just as I take my final drag and flick the cigarette away, Marianne emerges from the brownstone door behind me. Without a word, she pushes by me and stomps awkwardly down the steps to the street.
“Marianne—”
“Just get in the fucking car,” she says without stopping.
I follow her down the steps and back into her Mazda. The minute we’re inside she turns the heater on low, and I realize how cold the rain has become. I wipe water from my eyes and wait as Marianne, seething, stares straight ahead at nothing. As she struggles to put her anger into words, her ample chest rises and falls with a rapid cadence, and her normally pale complexion is flushed bright red.
Finally, she turns to me, her emerald eyes ablaze but her tone surprisingly soft and calm. “Cam, are you out of your mind?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, I don’t think it’s funny at all.”
She shakes her head as if hoping to dislodge something. “Why did you do that? Why did you even come in? Why would you risk my job like that? We’re talking about my job, Cam, my livelihood. If you want to ruin yours, that’s your business, but why would you try to destroy mine along with it?”
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