The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle

by Jennifer McMahon

  Reggie needed to go, to get away from the sweet, boozy smell. She couldn’t bear to see the wrecked, squalid little room any longer. She turned and walked out without a word, leaving the key in the door, unable even to face Dentures.

  “WANNA SEE SOMETHING?” TARA asked. She was in the backseat with Reggie this time along with the cans of beer Sid had stopped for at Cliffside Liquors, where they never blinked at Sid’s fake ID. Charlie was up front playing copilot while Sid smoked another joint.

  “Watch it, man,” Charlie warned. “You’re drifting into the other lane. You’re way too wasted to be driving!”

  “Relax,” Sid told him. “Like I said, I’m lucky as shit. And this car, she practically drives herself.”

  Reggie was feeling grateful that none of them had said any more about her mother or her trashed little motel room.

  Tara had been chattering at Reggie since they left Airport Efficiencies—trying to cheer her up, she guessed. Reggie was taking her advice, forcing a beer down, thinking it might take the edge off. Make her skin stop crawling a little. She thought of the roach and the sound it made scuttling along the tile floor.

  Sid turned up the radio. “I love this song!”

  It was The Who doing “Pinball Wizard.”

  “Well?” asked Tara, voiced hushed and conspiratorial as she leaned toward Reggie. “Do you wanna see or what?”

  “Sure,” Reggie told her, taking another good slug of beer.

  Tara’s face was lit up, expectant. She couldn’t wait to show Reggie this thing, whatever it was.

  Tara rolled up the long, safety-pinned sleeve of her dress to reveal the pale inside of her forearm. Reggie squinted in the dim light of the car to see that it was covered in scars. Strange designs: neat rows of little raised white scar-tissue horseshoes, like the world’s smallest pony trotted there, following the blue trail of her veins. These weren’t like the delicate etched lines Tara had on her legs from the razor blade. This was something else entirely.

  “Eohippus,” said Reggie, remembering something she’d learned in biology about the tiny ancestor of all horses.

  “I did it with a lighter,” Tara whispered, the words hot against Reggie’s good ear.

  Reggie bit her lip as she studied the scars on the soft and vulnerable-looking underside of Tara’s forearm. Her own skin started to itch in that now-familiar way—the yearning to cut, to feel the tease of the blade against her flesh just before she pushed it in. She thought of the safety pin in her pocket and wanted to open it up, see how deep a scratch she could make. She knew that it would make everything else go away, and she needed that now more than ever. She wanted it and hated herself for wanting it. It was all one big fucked-up contradiction, like thinking Tara’s scars were awful, but being jealous of them at the same time.

  Tara smiled. “Do you want to touch them? You can.” And, without another word, she reached for Reggie’s hand and guided Reggie’s fingers down to her scarred arm. When the fingers made contact, Tara inhaled sharply, like the touch hurt, and Reggie jerked her hand away, only to have Tara push it back down.

  “It’s okay,” Tara whispered as Reggie’s fingertips worked their way gently over the bumps and ridges of scars. “I want you to.”

  Chapter 31

  October 21, 2010

  Brighton Falls, Connecticut

  REGGIE CAUGHT HERSELF RUNNING her fingers over the scars around her prosthetic ear—a nervous habit she thought she’d broken long ago.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened earlier with my mom,” she said as she and Charlie walked across the parking lot toward the neon-lit front doorway of Runway 36. She’d already apologized several times, but no matter how much Charlie said it was fine and not to worry about it, she remembered the way he’d backed out of Vera’s room, baffled and frightened. Vera’s screaming seemed to go on forever—she clenched the bedclothes, rolled her eyes madly. She was breathless and hoarse by the time Reggie and Lorraine managed to get an Ativan under her tongue. After many minutes of hyperventilating and ragged sobs, she’d drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, she seemed to have no memory of the incident.

  “It’s no problem, really,” Charlie said. “I’m sure it’s unsettling to have a stranger pop in, after all she’s been through.”

  “Between the illness and the meds we’ve got her on, she’s pretty loopy.”

  Charlie nodded. “You have any luck reaching that social worker?”

  “Yeah. She wasn’t much of a help. She gave me the name and number of the shelter, though. I put in a call and was told Sister Dolores is the one in charge, but she’s not working today. She’s going to call me back tomorrow.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Shall we?” he said, eyeing the dimly lit doorway of Runway 36 with trepidation.

  The door was thick steel and had several dents in it, like someone had been at it with a battering ram. There was an awning overhead with a flashing red neon airplane—Reggie was sure if she looked at it too long she’d have some kind of seizure.

  The entryway of a building was supposed to draw you in, offer a welcoming transition between the outside world and the inside. The experience of entering the building influenced the way you felt once you were inside.

  The only way to make the doorway to Runway 36 less welcoming would be to drape it in barbed wire.

  In the parking lot off to the right, there was a small group of people smoking. One of them was a girl with a high-pitched pig-squeal of a voice who kept saying, “He never knew what hit him! I’m telling you, he NEVER knew what hit him!”

  “Let’s do it,” Reggie said, yanking the heavy door open and stepping through first.

  Not much had changed. The place was still dark and stank of beer and cigarettes, although smoking in restaurants and bars was now illegal. Reggie checked the pool table in the middle of the room and was slightly disappointed to discover that it was newer and no longer shimmed with old phone books. The red-vinyl-covered barstools had been reupholstered in black vinyl. The place was crowded, and it seemed to Reggie as if everyone had stopped what they were doing to stare at her and Charlie.

  “I don’t have a warm, welcoming feeling,” Reggie whispered, leaning toward Charlie.

  He put his arm around her. She knew it was meant to feel reassuring, but really, it just felt heavy. “I guess we don’t look like regulars,” he said in a low voice. He smelled like Listerine and sweet aftershave. She noticed he’d showered and shaved before picking her up, which seemed a little too I’m-thinking-of-this-as-a-date for her comfort level. She gently pulled away from him, leading the way toward the bar.

  Reggie remembered following Sid across the room twenty-five years ago—his swaggering walk, the way Tara bounced along beside him; how their visit to Runway 36 had led them to the horrid little room at Airport Efficiencies.

  Where would it lead them this time?

  Irrational as it was, Reggie thought of turning around, walking back out before she had a chance to find out.

  But then she thought of Tara. Tara, tied up in some god-awful dungeon, being shot full of morphine, her right arm ending in a mass of bandages.

  But that wasn’t the Tara that scared her. No, when she closed her eyes, she saw the thirteen-year-old Tara, dark eyes glimmering, pissed off and self-righteous, saying, “I guess I’m fucked if it’s all up to you.”

  “I’m trying!” Reggie said out loud without meaning to.

  “Hmm?” Charlie said from half a step behind her. The music was loud enough that he hadn’t heard.

  “Nothing.”

  Behind the bar was a sweaty fat man and a rail-thin woman with frizzy dyed red hair.

  “What can I get you?” asked the woman.

  “You have Beck’s?” Charlie asked.

  The woman frowned. “The only thing in bottles I got is Heineken.”

  Charlie nodded. “I’ll have one of those.”

  “Make it two,” Reggie said, knowing it wasn’t wise to ask about the wine sele
ction.

  Behind the bar, up above the liquor bottles was a big-screen TV. It was tuned to a cable news channel, but the sound was off. Reggie saw a shot of downtown Brighton Falls, then Monique’s Wish. Reggie felt her breath catch in her throat. It was so like stepping back in time, seeing her home on the news. Only this time it was Tara’s face that filled the screen. It was a terrible picture—slightly out of focus and Tara was looking far off into the distance, squinting a little.

  The frizzy-haired woman brought two beers and greasy-looking glasses.

  “You know a guy who calls himself Rabbit?” Charlie asked, pushing the glass aside and taking a sip from the green bottle. Reggie could tell he was enjoying this. Hunting down a serial killer was a whole lot more exciting than selling condos and little ranch houses with remodeled kitchens and nice yards for the kids to play in.

  The woman squinted at him. “You two cops?”

  Charlie laughed, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a card. “Nah. I’m in real estate.”

  She took the card and studied it. “And what? You wanna sell Rabbit a house or something?”

  “Or something,” Charlie said, smiling slyly. This was so not the Charlie that Reggie knew. He was far too suave.

  She took a tentative sip of her lukewarm beer. It tasted like skunk piss. Maybe she would have been better off with the house wine in the giant screw-top bottle.

  The fat bartender lumbered over. “Quit yanking his chain, Evelyn,” he said. He looked at Charlie. “You want to talk to Rabbit, there he is.” He nodded his head and they turned to see who he was looking at. There was a skinny, grizzled-looking man at a booth by himself eating a burger. His gray hair was falling into his eyes and he had ketchup on his chin.

  “Thanks,” Charlie said, dropping a twenty on the bar and wandering toward the booths.

  “Talk about luck,” Reggie said. This had been easy. Almost too easy. She didn’t like it when things seemed to fall into place so effortlessly—it made her suspicious.

  “Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “So far so good. But maybe you should do the talking. I think you’ve got a better chance with this guy.” Reggie nodded. Charlie stayed a step behind, letting Reggie take the lead.

  “James?” Reggie said, standing over the man in the booth. “James Jacovich?”

  He looked up, nodding. He held what was left of the burger in his hands, which shook slightly. His fingernails were long and filthy. He hadn’t wiped the ketchup off his chin. The skin on his face was thin and sagging and the whites of his eyes looked yellow. Here he was at last—the mythical Rabbit: creative genius, director of plays, the man who had connections.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, voice barely scraping out through his throat, as if it hurt to talk.

  “May I sit?” Reggie asked, eyeing the stained booth with trepidation.

  “Free country,” Rabbit said.

  Reggie took a seat. Charlie remained standing by Reggie’s side of the booth so he wasn’t breathing down the guy’s neck.

  “My mother’s an old friend of yours. Vera Dufrane.”

  Rabbit took another bite of his burger and chewed slowly and messily. Reggie could see he was missing most of his front teeth. She tried to imagine him twenty-five years ago, wondered if he’d ever been handsome.

  “She’s back, you know? Alive. Did you hear?”

  He nodded, finished chewing, and swallowed. “I might’ve heard something like that.”

  “You wouldn’t remember the last time you saw her, would you?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I’m an old man. You expect me to remember something that far back?”

  “See the thing is, I saw my mom the day before her hand was left on the steps of the police station. She was at the bowling alley. I saw her get into a tan car with a broken taillight. And I’m pretty sure it was your car.”

  He shook his head. “Wasn’t me. I told the cops a million times.” He went back to his burger, dismissing her.

  “Rabbit,” she said, voice low and soothing. “My mom used to talk about you all the time. I remember the way she’d get all giddy, singing even, when she was getting ready to meet you somewhere. I don’t know much about what went on between the two of you, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: she loved you.”

  He put down his burger and studied her a moment. Then he cleared his throat and in a soft voice said, “I wasn’t anywheres near the bowling alley that day and I’ve got witnesses to prove it. Vera didn’t want nothing to do with me. Truth is, we were on kind of rocky ground even back before I got arrested.”

  Reggie nodded in the most friendly way she could manage. “Why was that?”

  “She had this friend. This little gal named Candy.” He wiped his face with a napkin, just smearing the ketchup around. “And I guess I had me a sweet tooth one night.” He gave Reggie a lecherous grin. “You wouldn’t know it now, but I had a way with the ladies.”

  Reggie nodded, thinking he was right—she wouldn’t know it, had a seriously difficult time imagining it.

  “Vera was real pissed when she found out. Shit, it weren’t like we were married or anything.”

  “But you saw my mom again once you got out of jail, right? Before she went missing?”

  “Yeah. When I got outta jail we went out once or twice, but she dumped me. I was trying real hard then. You know, to get all cleaned up. To start over, I guess. But some people, they don’t get second chances.”

  A bell rang in Reggie’s brain. “Second Chance,” Reggie said. “Does that mean anything to you? My mom had it written on a scrap of paper years ago.”

  He laughed. “It was the name of that old social work program for people just out of prison. They gave ’em a place to stay, buddied them up with some upstanding citizen. Stability, they called it. Supposed to be swayed by these great role models. Show you how good your life could be.”

  “And you were in this program?” Reggie asked.

  “For a time. I lived in this house with four other guys. We had meetings and programs and got our piss tested to make sure we weren’t using.”

  “And you were paired up with someone in the community? A good role model?”

  “I sure was. He saved my ass until he couldn’t anymore. He had a drug problem once himself, but had gotten clean. He was my NA sponsor. He had this big old house with an in-law apartment over the garage and he’d let me stay there when I was having a tough time. I was there when Vera went missing. So I didn’t take her. And I had proof. An alibi.”

  “Sounds like he did a lot for you. What was his name?”

  Rabbit looked down at the wrecked remains of his burger, like the answer was there with the crust of stale bun and congealing grease. “It was the car dealer. You know . . . the guy who used to do all the commercials with the chicken.”

  Reggie glanced up at Charlie, whose eyes popped open in a holy-shit look.

  “Bo,” Rabbit said. “His name was Bo Berr. A helluva good guy.”

  DAY THREE

  Chapter 32

  June 22, 1985

  Brighton Falls, Connecticut

  REGGIE SLEPT UNTIL JUST after noon, drifting in and out of a dream in which she was searching for her mother and wound up back at Airport Efficiencies. The room was wrecked, but there, in the center of the bed, was a package wrapped in brown paper. With trembling fingers, Reggie opened the package. Inside was a wooden box with a neatly lettered label saying second chance. Cautiously she lifted the lid and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Looking up at her was a lifeless miniature version of Vera, pinned to a piece of Styrofoam amid a row of cockroaches.

  Reggie sat up in bed, blinked at the clock, listened to the sound of kitchen chairs scraping against the floor, the low murmur of voices. She was supposed to have met Tara, Charlie, and Sid at the Silver Spoon for breakfast. They were going to eat, then ride out to the bowling alley to look for clues. Reggie wasn’t sorry she’d slept in. She didn’t really want to face the others, to have to discuss Airport E
fficiencies or her mother or anything at all. She just wanted to sleep. She rolled over, closed her eyes, and saw her tiny mother impaled on a pin, cockroaches beside her.

  “Fuck,” Reggie yelped, opening her eyes. Her skin felt prickly. The urge to cut, strong. Maybe, maybe she’d do it with a pin.

  No.

  Reggie stumbled out of bed and padded down the hall and stairs in her T-shirt and sweatpants. She’d go down to the kitchen, get some juice, and pretend things were okay. That her mother was just away but would be back anytime. That Reggie was just a regular girl with no secret longing to slice herself up with razor blades and pins.

  Reggie’s ankle was still sore, but she could put more weight on it, her walk returning to almost normal. As she approached the kitchen, she could hear Lorraine talking. She was relieved Lorraine was up and out of bed. Reggie was starting to worry about what she might do if her aunt decided to never leave her room again.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Lorraine was saying weakly. “I keep thinking there must be some mistake . . .”

  “The fingerprints were a match, Lorraine. And the scarring.” George. His voice was tired and shaky. “But I know what you mean. I keep thinking it’ll be like all the other times—she’ll disappear for a couple of days, then come waltzing back, all smiles, acting like she was never gone at all.”

  Reggie moved closer to the door, walking on tiptoes.

  “It’s my fault.” Lorraine’s voice crumbled.

  “You can’t blame yourself,” George said, low and soothing. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “If we hadn’t fought . . .”

  “She would have left anyway. You know how Vera was,” George said. “Is. I mean is.”