The River Killings

by Merry Jones

  “But there are police here, Shu Li. You can’t stay. They’ll find you.”

  She shook her head. “No. Yo hep. I know yo hep. Yo Shu Li seestah.” She touched her heart, met my gaze, and instantly I was back in the van, chained, half-dead, beyond hope, looking up to see those same dark, glowing eyes. Shu Li had rescued me. She’d saved my life. We were connected, and I couldn’t turn her away.

  “Shu Li,” I tried to explain. “You killed people. Agent Ellis. And a man dressed like a priest—”

  She nodded. “I kiw, yes. I kiw aw dem. Find dem. Kiw dem.”

  She seemed to be bragging about it. I thought of Harry and Tony. “But you didn’t kill the men in the truck?”

  “Shu Li save yo, but men dead awready. I cut faces.”

  The Gordo had gotten to them first.

  Shu Li grabbed my arm. “See. Ma seestah. Ma peepow kiwd. Yo know. Yo ahmost kiwd, too. Shu Li hep yo. Now, yo hep Shu Li.”

  “But there are laws. You can’t just kill people, even if they’re bad.” Why was I even trying to reason with her? She barely under stood what I was saying, and besides, the subject was moot. She’d already killed half a dozen people. Nothing could change that.

  “Shu Li stay heeh.” She swallowed a chunk of orange. “Ma peepow come by in tomow mownee.” She looked at me without a trace of doubt, completely confident that I would help her until the morning. Oblivious to the untenable position she was putting me in.

  But I was acutely aware of it. I was on the line. I had to choose between aiding and abetting a killer and informing on her. Shu Li had put herself above the law, and in doing so had become as much a criminal as those in the cartel. Hadn’t she? And, oh, Lord, if I hid her, wasn’t I condoning her crimes? Participating in vigilante justice? Becoming part of it? Legally, I could be prosecuted for helping her. Sent to jail. I pictured bars, a narrow cot, a tiny window. Oh, God.

  I watched her finish off the orange and dig into a pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream, amazed that this petite creature could pack away so much food so quickly. I wondered when she’d last eaten. And what I was going to do with her. Hiding her from the police was bad enough. But I’d also have to hide her from Molly and Nick. And I was the one always pressing for openness and honesty. Stressing the importance of trust. How hypocritical it would be to keep Shu Li secret. But I couldn’t tell Nick about her; Shu Li would be arrested, found guilty of multiple murders, maybe sentenced to death. What was more important, upholding the law and being honest with Nick or protecting someone who’d saved my life?

  Male laughter rumbled in the living room, barreled along the hall, past the office where Shu Li was hiding. It sounded like the men were wrapping up their visit. I listened closely, heard the one named Pete promise to buy Nick a cheese steak when he came back to work. Then Al told Nick not to count on it; Pete would never pay for a cheese steak. He was too cheap even to put an occasional dollar in the office coffee pool. The guys bantered, insulting one another as partners do. And on their way out they stopped to thank me for my hospitality.

  “You’re doing a great job looking after this son of a bitch.” Al grinned, pointing at Nick. “Pardon my French.” His breath smelled of Budweiser.

  “Yeah, he’s almost back to his old obnoxious self,” Pete ribbed. “And we have you to thank for that.”

  Nick smiled. “Yes, you do. Zoe takes good care of me.”

  “What do you see in this guy?” The third one—I still didn’t know his name—frowned and put a boozy arm around me. “You’re way too good for him, sugar. When you figure that out, give me a call. I’m still available.”

  “Back off, Walt.” Nick stepped in. “Zoe’ll never be that desperate.”

  Walking them to the door, I laughed at their sorry barbs and hugged each good-bye, thanking them for dropping by. Then, as soon as Nick went up to bed, I hurried to my office and opened the door. Shu Li was huddled on my old reclining chair, already sound asleep.

  NINETY-FIVE

  I LAY AWAKE ALL NIGHT WORRYING. IMAGINING WHAT-IFS. WHAT

  if Molly were to see her? What if Nick were to find her? What if her vigilante friends were seen coming into the house? What if they didn’t show up? What if the cartel came looking for her? Or the FBI?

  I thought of calling Susan, but couldn’t involve her. She was a lawyer, could lose her license if she helped hide a criminal. Besides, Susan had no ties to Shu Li. I was the one who owed her. The problem was mine alone.

  All night, images haunted me. Countless dead women floated past me in the river. Slave chains cut into my ankles and wrists. The faces of Shu Li’s victims stared vacantly into the beyond. And Nick turned his back as prison bars slammed in my face. But by seven, when Molly’s clock radio blared the morning traffic report, I’d figured out what I had to do.

  I got up quietly, letting Nick sleep. I looked in on Molly, gave her a good-morning kiss, helped her pick out which shorts to wear. I packed her camp bag with a bathing suit and towel, made her lunch, put out cereal and milk for her breakfast. Waited with her for the camp bus.

  “What’s in my lunch?” she wanted to know.

  “Turkey sandwich.”

  “What else?”

  “Granola bar and an apple.” “But I want an orange.”

  “We don’t have any oranges.” Shu Li had eaten them.

  “Yes, we do—”

  “No. Sorry. I ate the last one last night.” Now I was lying not just to the cops and Nick, but also to Molly.

  “Mom, why? You know I like oranges in my lunch.” “Sorry. I had a craving.” Another lie. “A what?”

  “I was just hungry for an orange.”

  Molly complained tirelessly, unable to accept our fruit situation. When the bus finally came, I was relieved to hug her goodbye; for a while anyway, I could stop lying. I brought in the newspaper, and listening to make sure Nick was still asleep, prepared a breakfast tray of coffee, eggs, juice and toast. Silently, I carried the tray to my office and opened the door, ready to talk to Shu Li.

  Except that I couldn’t talk to her. Shu Li was gone. The reclining chair was empty, the window opened wide. Her people, whoever they were, had already come for her. I stood at the door holding the tray, feeling oddly lost. Then, fighting tears, I carried the food upstairs to Nick, letting him believe that I’d fixed him breakfast in bed. Another lie.

  NINETY-SIX

  MY MIND WAS ON SHU LI, SO I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE WOMAN in the blue car until I saw her twice in one day. Once, on Saturday morning, she was walking slowly along our street. She looked familiar, and I thought she must be a new neighbor. But then, when I dropped Molly off at Nicholas’s birthday party, I saw her again.

  She sat in her blue car pretending not to watch Molly kiss me good-bye. I pretended not to notice her. But as soon as Molly was safely inside, I looped around to the back of her car, ready to confront her. This was the stranger, had to be the woman who’d been following Molly for weeks. I was sure now that Molly hadn’t made her up. The woman gazed at Nicholas’s front door, didn’t see me storming up to her window from the rear, my blood surging, poised to attack. Whatever she was—a kidnapper, a child molester—I’d have her arrested and jailed. After I tore her hair out. She’d be sorry she’d ever laid eyes on Molly Hayes.

  “Hey!” I shouted at her, an arm’s length from her door. “You. What do you think you’re—”

  She turned to face me, lips parting, stunned. And I froze, gaping. She was young, more girl than woman, really. I knew her face, the strawberry curls, the fair skin, the round eyes widening in surprise.

  “Oh, gosh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She reached for the ignition, trying to start the car.

  I was speechless, stunned. She was almost gone by the time I shouted, “No …wait.”

  She stopped, though. And for a few intense and awkward minutes, she stayed to talk.

  NINETY-SEVEN

  HER NAME WAS ROSE.“I WAS ONLY FIFTEEN,” SHE EXPLAINED.HER eyes darted away, beginnin
g to fill up. “Too young to keep her.”

  She said she hadn’t wanted to bother us, had meant us no harm. She hadn’t realized she’d been seen. She’d only wanted to know that Molly was happy. That she was okay. Rose was about to get married and move to colorado, but she said she hadn’t been able to leave without finding out about Molly, so she’d searched and managed to learn where we lived, intending to come see Molly only once. But then she couldn’t help herself. Once she’d seen her, she had to see her again. And again. She couldn’t stop herself. She drove past the house at odd hours, watched her in the playground at school, at the pool in camp. Now, looking at me through Molly’s eyes, speaking with Molly’s pouty lips, Rose apologized for worrying me, thanked me tearfully for taking good care of Molly. She didn’t call her Molly, though. She called her Katrina, the name she’d given her at birth.

  I should have found out more about Rose. I should have invited her for coffee, or at least asked her last name, learned whom she was marrying, who Molly’s birth father was. But the contact began and ended so quickly I had no time to figure out how to handle it, let alone what to say. By the time I’d thought of half the things I wanted to ask her, she was gone, almost as if she’d never been there. Except that she had been. I’d wondered about her for almost six years—who she was, if she’d make an appearance, how I’d react. Now I knew. I’d recognized Rose’s undeniable resemblance to Molly and watched the unmistakable pain in her eyes.

  I’d sensed her desperation, her need to glimpse her child, even from afar. Rose was no longer a concept; she was real now, and I worried that, however subtly, my awareness of her would change my relationship with Molly.

  But Molly seemed not to notice anything different. She bounced through early summer, sprouting new front teeth, losing others, learning to swim and ride a bike, shooting basketballs, making new friends, growing taller. She was apparently comfortable being Molly, unconcerned with either of her mothers, more interested in playing capture the Flag.

  Days passed. And although Rose had stopped following Molly, she was still with us, gradually integrating herself into my thoughts, becoming a constant, even endearing, presence. I hadn’t told anyone about her; I’d kept her to myself, thinking of her occasionally throughout the day at odd times, when Molly’s lips puckered in a certain way, when she shook her curls. Rose seemed to be invisibly, permanently with me, and somehow, amazingly, that felt okay.

  NINETY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT SUNDAY, I THOUGHT OF ROSE AS I REHEARSED MY little speech, but no matter how I phrased it, the words seemed stiff and inadequate. From the kitchen window that morning, I watched Nick teach Molly to ride a bike, and I heard her shriek and giggle as she wobbled on training wheels. I told myself that we were already a family; we would weather whatever life brought. It didn’t matter what I said or how I said it; the impact would be the same. But I couldn’t bring myself to begin, and the day passed with me saying nothing. When Susan and her family arrived for a Sunday barbecue, I was still mentally juggling sentences, planning and revising what to say.

  Susan and I mashed ground beef into patties, sliced veggies to grill, and Susan complained how lazy her girls were, how they were old enough to help but didn’t, never set a table or washed out a sink. I heard the cadence of her voice but wasn’t really listening. I was picturing the future, the way my little world was about to change. Nick was outside, manning the grill, making small talk with Tim, and feet thundered upstairs where Molly and Emily played. Julie and Lisa lay prone in front of the television watching some teenage reality show. And while Susan danced with food, I drifted, thinking about Rose’s wedding, imagining my own. It would be in August, small and intimate, including only half of the police force and dozens of colleagues and close friends. I wondered what I’d wear, what would be appropriate, how much I would show by then.

  And there it was again: the truth. There was no escaping; I’d have to make my little speech. I stood in my house, surrounded by the people I loved most, nervous and tongue-tied, knowing that it was time. I couldn’t wait anymore.

  Out back, a gentle breeze blew the wind chimes on my patio. Tim opened a beer for Susan, guffawed at something Nick said. Nick turned as I opened the sliding door, and suddenly I felt woozy. I swayed, steadying myself with Nick’s pale blue gaze.

  Then, knowing that I was carrying more than just a tray of burgers, hoping I could keep my dinner down, I headed out back to join the others. I thought about the name Oliver, and wondered whether Molly would get her wish.