He ran. It was too hard; he was too exhausted. He wasn’t going to make it. Nowhere to hide. Then there was a ladder, really just rungs set into the wall leading to a hole just big enough to squeeze into. He climbed. He went in headfirst, no way to turn around. If he was caught up here he’d have no way to protect himself. He pulled himself several feet into the black shaft. He was sure he couldn’t be seen from below and hopefully it was too dark in the tunnel for the blood to give him away.
He lay still, listening to his heart beat. The slap of feet on cement echoed down the shaft, close now, heavy, even breathing right below him. Then there was something else, a vibration, a distant rumble. Air started to stir around his ears. Then a stiff breeze blowing from his feet past his head. The rumble grew louder. His ears popped. Then he understood. He was in one of the pressure relief ducts. It must run all the way to the other track. When the trains came through at high speeds it gave the air somewhere to go. He inched forward. The duct sloped gently up. The noise grew louder and the wind was now rushing past him. Then the train was hurtling by just behind him with an angry suddenness and the walls seemed to shake and the roar of the wind through the duct was deafening. And then, just as suddenly, it was over and the train was receding and a light breeze was pulling back the other way, drawing fresh air that smelled faintly of the sea past his face.
He had to keep going forward. His ears strained in the darkness. If he let his imagination go he could almost feel Qhaywaan crawling up the shaft behind him. Fighting down the panic he used his elbows and the bent tips of his toes to worm his way through the narrow enclosure. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. A clew of worms, a slither of snakes, a bed of eels. After running flat for a while the shaft pitched down as he inched his way forward. Then, like a newborn coming into the world, he finally squeezed out of the pressure duct on the southbound side. The tunnel was quiet, several miles south rescuers were putting out the fire. They would find Maman’s body, so badly burned her true cause of death would never be known. He walked on along the track and after what seemed like only a few minutes he saw a gray light up ahead. Twenty minutes later he walked out of the tunnel mouth. The sun was just rising in Folkestone. It was Palm Sunday.
74
BUZZING
Stephanie glanced at her notes. She was lecturing on Hawking radiation. She’d given this lecture a few times, and for the most part it flowed even though her mind was completely preoccupied. Reina had come in late, causing her a few minutes of panic, but as she’d taken her seat she’d flashed Stephanie a quick thumbs-up. She had the fake ID.
* * *
The body was covered in nasty welts and burns. Some of the burns were ringed with black, scorched flesh. When she was found, her eyes were wide-open. A pair of underwear was balled in her mouth, most likely to muffle her screams. Her blond hair was tangled and knotted as if she had twisted from side to side for some time. She was spread-eagle. Her hands were tied to the bedposts with black stockings and her ankles were bound with leather cuffs chained to the bed frame. The first detective on the scene at the Marlboro Street brownstone, Delguidice from Homicide, was puzzled by the stockings as he had found a second set of chained leather cuffs tucked between the mattress and box spring at the top of the bed.
The ankle restraints were only intended to keep her centered; her legs were kept fully spread by a steel rod attached by a second pair of leather anklets. Another steel rod extended up from the spreader, terminating in an inserted conductive dildo. The genital region was horribly burned. “Christ Almighty,” Delguidice said, shaking his head. This wasn’t kinky sex gone wrong; someone had deliberately tortured this girl to death.
Herron’s hood snagged on the yellow police tape as he stooped under. “Hey, Scott, what do you got?”
“Not sure, it’s pretty fucked up. Lieutenant said you knew the place.”
“Yeah,” Herron said. “Parrish. Dead guy, couple months back. Kept his mistress here on the company dime. I think the company still holds the lease.” He walked around the bed to see the girl’s face. “Damn, Scott. I think I know your girl, too.” Think, shit. He’d know that body anywhere. It was the blonde from Prenn’s place. No question.
It didn’t make sense. Maybe the widow found out? No, that was crazy. No way she did this. It was him. Herron felt it in his gut. He didn’t know why but he knew his guy. Prenn must have snapped. Fucking loony tunes. He was a killer. When he didn’t get what he want he lashed out.
“Scott, let me know what you get for prints. I think I know who did this. In fact, I’m pretty sure. Call the lieutenant. He’ll give you the story. I’m going to pick the bastard up.”
* * *
Just like on TV: small room, big mirror, table and a couple chairs. Alex watched the cop in profile in the mirror. Fischer was talking, calm, controlled. The cop looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. He kept trying to ask Alex questions directly but Fischer kept swinging him around. He was probably the best and certainly the most expensive criminal attorney in Boston. The cop was saying something, a question, but Alex didn’t hear him. He saw the expectant face, spit in the corner of his mouth. He could feel the hostility. The guy wanted to reach across the table and grab him. It didn’t matter, nothing did. His ears were buzzing, a low constant sound. He couldn’t hear anything the cop was saying or, for that matter, Fischer’s responses; it was all a dull distant murmur.
He had to figure this out. Breathe. The Bolshy was dead. Sam. Had to be. And framing him for it, but why? Eventually the cops would find Vanessa and then he’d be in even deeper shit. She’d have him killed. Pimp’s first commandment.
“If there’s nothing else, Detective,” Fischer was saying, making a show of pushing his papers together and stuffing them into his briefcase.
“Mrs. Parrish? She find out, tell you to end it hard?” That came through. Alex looked quizzically at the detective; his mouth started to open.
“Alex,” Fischer said, forcefully pushing his chair back, “we’re done here. Detective, if you decide you have cause to charge my client with a crime, perhaps you’d be so kind as to call my office. Otherwise...” Fischer looked into the mirror. The cop kept staring at Alex. Neither said a word. Alex got up and followed his lawyer out of the station. None of it made sense. His head started to spin as they walked down the steps of the precinct building. Fischer caught his arm.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sorry.”
Fischer studied him for a second. “Go home, Alex. Get some sleep, have a meal, take a shower. You look like shit. If anything happens, I’ll let you know. I don’t think they’ll try anything like that again. They’ve got nothing and no business dragging you in. Let me take care of the police. You take care of yourself.”
And then his lips were just moving. And there was only the buzzing.
75
THE BAD THINGS
It was so obvious. It was almost silly. Stephanie stood in the CVS aisle shaking her head. The shelves were full of baskets, green plastic grass, eggs of every impossible hue and bunnies. Candy bunnies, fluffy stuffed bunnies, chocolate bunnies, some solid some semi and some completely hollow. The rabbit with its prodigious reproductive vigor was a pagan symbol for spring, fecundity, rebirth; the symbol that had been appropriated and laid over the Christian story of Christ’s rebirth and the implied renewal of the soul through faith. Easter. That was the when. Jordan had put rabbit protein in the DNA sample because it would be impossible to miss.
She had a date. A date with her husband on Easter Sunday, just a week away. It was a date she was not going to miss. She just had to figure out the where. The phosphorus had to be the key. Unless Simon had missed something, that was the only other big flag in the sample. She needed to dig, she thought as she pulled up to the house.
Alex’s car was parked out front.
Her heart started to race. Calm down, keep it
together.
He was smoking a cigarette. She’d never known him to smoke before. Ever. He ground it out in the street when he saw her car.
“Jesus, Alex, you look terrible. Are you okay?” she said, straining to sound calm. He did look bad. Drawn, exhausted. “Come on in. I have to put this stuff away.” He followed her into the house, looking around warily. As she busied herself putting the groceries away he paced the kitchen, then suddenly grabbed her by the arm and turned her to face him. His eyes were red rimmed and swollen.
“Are you fucking Simon? I need to know.” His voice sounded raw and dry.
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Stephanie. There isn’t any time. I would have loved to keep everything slow and easy but it’s too late.”
She was scared but she struggled to keep herself cool and affected an expression of utter bewilderment.
“Alex, what are you talking about? You’re freaking me out a little.”
He was close, towering over her, his grip tight on her arm. “I saw you with him. A couple of days ago at Sunny’s. After you left I talked to him. He said you had just run into each other but he was lying. And I could tell he was nervous. Like he knew about us and was afraid to tell me you were seeing each other.”
“Alex, listen to me. Simon is just a good friend. There has never been anything more in our relationship. I felt like I owed him something, an explanation or an apology for all my hysteria around confirming Jordan’s DNA. He was a mensch—he really hooked me up. I know he was up late rushing that through for me. Anyway, I just wanted to get him lunch and let him know how much I appreciated it.” Alex was about to interrupt but she cut him off.
“And yes, I think he is a little intimidated by you. You make him nervous. So I’m not surprised if he got a little flustered.”
He wanted to believe her; she could see it in his face. But he was struggling. And the grip on her arm wasn’t getting any looser.
“What did you mean when you said there wasn’t any time?” she said.
“I was arrested this morning.” Stephanie’s eyed widened. “Someone I used to know was killed and I’m being framed for it.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “But that’s ridiculous. You didn’t do anything.” She tried to make it sound more like a statement than a question.
“It doesn’t matter. I think I know who did it and why. If I go to jail, I’m dead. If I don’t, I’m dead.” He laughed, a humorless chuckle. “I’m pretty fucked.”
“But that’s crazy,” she protested. “Go to the police, tell them what’s happening.”
“It won’t make any difference. These people can get to me anywhere. These are powerful people. I did a deal with them a while ago and it went wrong.”
“This is about money?” she cried. “I have money—what do you need?”
That little laugh again. “No, it’s not about the money. I can’t really explain it.” He looked into her eyes. “It’s complicated. I need to disappear, just drop off the grid. And I will. But listen—” he took a deep breath “—I want you to come with me.”
Holding both of her arms now. Desperate.
“Alex, slow down. Please. You’re scaring me. You’re talking crazy. Whatever has happened, you can fix it. I know you can. And you know I care for you but this is all just happening. I need time.”
She flinched as he slammed his open hand on the birch cabinet. She heard the tinkle of bottles inside.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Pleading. “You have to listen to me. There isn’t any more time. I wish there was. This is it. Sometimes you have to take the leap. I’ll make you happy, I promise.” A pause. “I need you, Steph.”
He leaned to kiss her. Behind her she heard the steady drip of what smelled like sesame oil from the cabinet onto the granite countertop. What would he do if she refused? She buried her head in his chest and put her arms around him. Think. Think. His lips brushed her hair. His hands encircled the small of her back, pulling her closer, then sliding inside the waistband of her skirt. She could feel him pressing against her and his heart hammering beneath her cheek. He roughly pushed the skirt down and pulled the cotton aside. His breathing was raw. She felt numb with fear and revulsion, paralyzed. She didn’t think she could stop it now. This man she’d known almost half her life, who was somehow responsible for her husband’s kidnapping or whatever the hell it was, was going to rape her in her own kitchen.
She eyed the knife block by the fridge. She couldn’t. She sank to her knees in front of him.
He tried to pull her back up. She looked up at him. “No, I want to.”
She took him in her mouth. He groaned and leaned back against the island. His fingers lightly twisted in her hair.
Her mind divided in three. While one part performed the motions that she hoped would buy her the time she’d need and another lay curled up in the dark like a little girl with her hands over her eyes waiting for the bad things to go away, a third part of Stephanie’s mind, calm and detached, began to trace the faintest outlines of a plan.
76
CASH
Zoe Cameron couldn’t understand what was going on. The freeway was absolutely gridlocked. Cars were backed up for miles, it looked like. She had to get back to Paris. She was going to take the first train. It was Eric’s birthday tonight. She absolutely could not miss it. He was the cutest guy she’d ever seen, let alone dated. They’d met at a house party at Sonia’s. He had this shy smile and that adorable French accent. And he’d liked her. It was crazy. It was absurd trying to start a relationship with someone who lived in another country but, ooh la la, it was hot, too.
She tried to tune in to the radio station that the signs said had up-to-date Eurotunnel information but the radio in her piece-of-shit Nissan was worthless. She’d thought about getting a new one but what was the point of having a radio worth more than the car you put it in? All she could get was good old BBC1. They were playing Akon. She loved him. He was adorable.
She didn’t hear the car door open and nearly fainted when the bum got into her passenger seat. He was filthy and smelled so bad she almost threw up. His face was swollen and cut and there seemed to be bits of blood all over him. He had a beard and was dressed in typical bum clothes; nothing fit and it was all gross. He stank of smoke and BO and, worst of all, his right hand looked melted or something. A horrible smell was coming from it, too. Zoe thought maybe he was a leper, though she didn’t really know if there were such things anymore.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed.
“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. American accent.
“Get out of my car! You can’t just hop in people’s cars whenever you like.” She was going to go with bitch. Weren’t bums usually crazy and more likely to be scared of you if they could see you weren’t scared? Then she saw the knife. Long and wicked looking. And, worst of all, covered in blood. Wet blood.
She started to cry. “Oh, no, please...”
“I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need a ride.”
“Whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Zoe.” Sniffling. Looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
“My name is Jordan, Zoe. I need you to make a U-turn. We’re going to London.”
* * *
Alex tried to pull away but she held him. And then he came with a moan of disappointment and a shudder and the rage seemed to melt away. He tried to raise her face but she pressed it to his stomach. He lowered his head and she heard him sobbing softly into her hair. “God, I have loved you.”
She stood up and hid her face in the curve of his neck. “I just need a couple of days, Alex. I need to get some things together.”
“All right. Two days.” He turned her face to his. His eyes were shining, manic. “We
’re going to be okay. All of us. I promise you.”
She nodded, then took a deep breath. “I know.”
* * *
He was telling her the whole story. Alex, the kidnapping, Tokyo, Paris, Calais, even the killing in the tunnel. She had been rapt, asking for clarification occasionally but mostly just listening. The time had flown. They were in the suburbs, Darenth, just south of London. Almost there.
He’d eaten an apple, the only food she’d had in the car, and now his stomach was in turmoil. He’d had nothing to eat and now he was violently cramping. It felt like appendicitis, like someone was stabbing him in the gut with hot knitting needles.
“Pull over please, Zoe. I have to get out for a second.”
She swung onto the sandy shoulder and braked. He opened the door and half fell out of the car. The side of the road fell off to a drainage ditch. He retched as he slid down the hill. Nothing came up but bile mixed with a little blood. Pink foam clumped in his beard and ran down to the dirt in viscous strings. He was struggling to clean himself when he heard the door slam. He looked up to see Zoe lock it from inside. He saw his reflection in the window. He looked completely deranged. She hadn’t believed a word. Come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t have, either. She mouthed, “I’m sorry,” as she pulled away.
* * *
Two new voice mails. The first was from Vanessa.
“Alex. I hear the police have let you go. It doesn’t matter. You are a dead man. You understand?”
It was business for her. Alex understood. If she couldn’t protect her girls how could she justify her piece? No point in trying to protest his innocence; it wouldn’t make any difference.
Exit Strategy Page 27