“It was her,” Reggie said, remembering all the phone calls over the years, the strange breathing on the other end, the sense she’d had that the person on the other end was on the verge of speaking.
“But how did she finally escape?” Reggie asked.
Tara laughed raggedly.
“He let her go. I guess it got to be too much—keeping her there in secret all those years. And of course she wasn’t a beauty queen anymore, she was sick and crazy, more work than ever. Lorraine was needing him more and more, starting to ask questions about all his trips. He dropped her off at the homeless shelter himself, swore that if she breathed a word about him or who she really was, he’d come after you.”
The thought of the lengths her mother had gone to in trying to protect her astounded Reggie; the idea that love could run so deep. Vera had sacrificed her own life, her own sanity, to save her.
Reggie heard her cell phone ringing. She turned and saw her leather messenger bag tossed on the floor on the other side of the building, near the sliding door. Totally out of reach.
Reggie tested the strength of the duct tape that bound her wrists together on the other side of the iron pipe. There was no way she could break it. What she needed was something sharp. Her eyes went to the tools laid out on the metal tray about five feet from her: scalpels, a saw, metal trowel, propane torch, clamps, and bandages. It was a bold move on his part, leaving them out in the open. He’d done it to scare her, give her a prelude of what was to come. But he’d made a critical error in judgment. If there was one thing Reggie was good at, it was geometry, spatial relations, visualizing the radius of a circle. She saw patterns other people didn’t, invisible lines, planes of trajectory. She knew the tray of tools was not out of reach.
The phone stopped ringing.
Reggie began to shuffle in a clockwise motion, feet pushing her along, butt lifting, bound arms pivoting around the pipe. Her whole body hummed with pain. She tried to lift her head to watch her progress but couldn’t manage it. She pushed onward, slowly, carefully.
She thought of spirals and curves, the orbit of planets. The way Len told her she had Neptune in the twelfth house; that it was what made her a great architect, but also had the potential to bring her to the brink of madness.
She thought of the way her mother always used to say that everyone was connected by invisible string; that we were all bound to one another in ways we could never even begin to imagine.
She felt those strings now, binding her to her mother, to Tara, to the other women Neptune had killed; women who had looked up at this same ceiling in their final moments on earth.
It was slow going, writhing and bucking along like a bug stuck on a pin, but finally she made contact. Her right foot hit the tray full of tools with a satisfying metallic clank.
“What are you up to, Dufrane?” Tara had lifted her head again and looked at her with one eye open, the other mostly closed with swelling.
“Making the impossible possible.”
“Huh?”
“If I can just move these, get the saw, knife, or scalpel to where I can reach it with my hands, then I can cut myself free.”
Tara made a hissing sort of laugh. “Ironic.”
“What is?” Reggie said, resting a second.
“The idea of being saved by a blade.”
Carefully Reggie used her foot to edge the tray and everything on it clattering toward her across the cement floor. She writhed and contorted, pulling the tray closer to her body. When it was close enough, she rolled over onto her right side, her injured hip screaming in pain as it grated against the rough concrete floor. She pulled her knees toward her chest to keep the items corralled as she spun like the crooked hand of a clock. Ticktock. Ticktock. She’d done almost half a turn, was at the eleven o’clock position, about as far as she could go without hitting the wall.
There, just to her right, was another fruit crate—El Diablo Oranges, São Paulo, Brazil. A red devil was smiling out at her, pointing his pitchfork in her direction.
Old Scratch.
She knew she’d only have one shot. She studied the trajectory, picturing the invisible line between the saw and scalpel on the tray and her bound hands. At last she took in a breath, and with the force of her whole body, she kicked up with her knees, knocking the tools off the tray. She hit the scalpel perfectly, sent it skidding across the cement and heard it hit the metal wall. She couldn’t turn and see it, and only prayed it hadn’t bounced out of reach. The saw had come closer, too—she could just see it by twisting her head viciously, but it looked out of reach. She shoved herself back toward the wall and began feeling behind the pole. Her fingertips just grazed the edge of the saw but couldn’t move it closer.
“Shit!” she said and she tried to stretch them, imagining her body made of elastic. But it was no good. She gave up and began to search for the scalpel, fingers doing a frantic spider-crawl along the reachable edge of the wall behind her. Where the hell was it?
Her fingertips danced over the floor, searching. At last she felt it: a slender cylinder of cold metal wedged between the floor and the wall. She worked her fingers to the end, only to discover it was the wrong end when she grabbed for it and felt the sting of the blade.
Just like that, she was thirteen again, sitting in the attic with Tara, who was holding a razor, wet with her own blood. She remembered the guilty pleasure at feeling such relief when Tara drew the sharp edge across her own skin: this exalted moment where there was nothing else in the world but her and her pain: no mother held by a serial killer, no secret longing for Charlie, nothing. Just the pain and the way it drew her deep inside herself, to a place of perfect calm.
Reggie allowed herself to run her fingers over the edge of the scalpel once more, feeling the kiss of the blade, emptying her mind of everything else, which was such sweet relief.
“How’s it going there?” Tara asked.
“I’ll have us out in no time,” Reggie promised.
She took a deep breath and reached for the handle of the scalpel, fingertips sticky with blood. She fumbled with the scalpel until she managed to get it at the right angle to cut the tape. It was a tedious process, even with a sharp blade, the awkward, upside-down stabbing and sawing motion. At last she made it through and her hands were free.
Her phone was ringing again.
She sat up, scuttled across the floor to her bag, and answered.
“Reggie,” Len said. “I’m here with your aunt. Where the hell are you? We were about to call the cops.”
“Listen carefully. You need to call 911. Tell them Tara and I are being held in an old Quonset hut a couple miles west of the airport. It’s owned by Monahan Produce. George Monahan is Neptune.”
“Oh my God, Reggie,” Len said.
“Hurry,” Tara said, giving Reggie a desperate glance. “I think I hear a car.”
Reggie froze, listening. There it was, the faint buzz of a motor, getting closer.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“I love you, Reggie,” he said.
“I love you, too. And I’m sorry, Len. I’m sorry for always being so scared, for pushing you away.”
“Not the time for a tender moment, Reg,” Tara interrupted. “He’s almost here!”
“Reggie, I—” Len said.
“Call the police. Tell them to hurry.” She hung up.
She heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
“Do you have a knife or something in there?” Tara asked.
Reggie rummaged through her bag, pushing aside the wooden swan, her sketchbook full of Nautilus drawings. She grabbed a fountain pen, thinking it might be better than nothing, then saw that there, at the bottom of the bag, was the large screwdriver.
“Hurry,” Tara gasped. “He’s here.”
Reggie slid the screwdriver across the floor to Tara. “It’s all I’ve got,” she said.
Tara reached awkwardly for it with her left hand and tucked it inside her black motorcycle boot.
&nbs
p; Outside, a car door opened and closed. Footsteps approached.
Reggie scooted back and grabbed the tools and bandages, threw them onto the tray and pushed it back to where she thought it had been.
There was a metallic thumping sound as he worked to unlock and unlatch the door.
Reggie grabbed the scalpel, slipped it into her sleeve, then lay back down, hands over her head, around the pipe, the sliced duct tape pushed back together.
The door opened and light spilled in, Neptune’s shadow long and enormous in the center of it.
“Miss me, ladies?” he asked, voice booming like a clap of thunder.
Chapter 44
June 24, 1985
Brighton Falls, Connecticut
“I STOPPED BY YOUR house and your aunt said you were out on your bike.”
Reggie stood with her hands on the handlebars, the bike placed protectively between her and Stu Berr. He wore a blue polyester sports coat that was too tight in the shoulders and didn’t button. She could see a gun in a holster strapped to his left side.
“Have they found her?” Reggie asked. “My mom?”
Stu shook his head. “Not yet.”
Reggie nodded, looked down at the pedals and chain of her bike, the toothed chainwheels and front derailleur.
“Is that what you’re doing out here?” Stu asked. “Looking for her?”
Reggie gave a timid shrug. “I wanted to find her first. I thought,” she said, looking up at last from the gears of her bike to meet his eyes, “that she’d want it that way.”
Stu nodded and looked at her for what felt like a long, long time.
If he hadn’t come to tell her about her mother, then he’d come to arrest her for killing Sid. She waited, wondering if he’d handcuff her or if she’d be allowed to get into the car on her own. She tried to imagine Lorraine’s face when she heard the news: your niece and her friends killed a boy last night. She felt almost sorry for Lorraine, having to live all alone in that big, stone house now, only ghosts for company.
“Reggie,” he said at last, “I know what happened last night. In the parking lot at Reuben’s.”
“Oh,” Reggie said, the word a hollow sound.
“Early this morning, Charlie broke down and told me the whole story.”
Stu ran his fingers over his mustache and studied her a minute, like he was contemplating what to do next.
“Are you going to arrest me now?” Reggie asked.
Stu blew out a long, slow breath. “No, I’m not.”
“We shouldn’t have left him like that,” Reggie said, tears coming. “Just lying there dead. What happened was an accident, but we shouldn’t have run away. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m the reason everyone was fighting. If I hadn’t told Charlie—”
Stu interrupted her. “He’s not dead, Regina.”
She looked up, wiped at her eyes, heart fluttering with hope. “You mean he’s okay?”
Stu gave her a grave look. His face had aged so much lately. Dark baggy circles hung under his eyes. “No,” he said. “His head was badly injured. There’s nothing the doctors can do.”
“So he’s going to die?”
“I don’t think so. But there’s a good chance he won’t be able to walk again. Or speak. He’ll never be the same, Reggie. Do you understand?”
Her chest went from feeling light and fluttery to having the sensation of a wrecking ball smashing into it. “It’s worse than being dead,” she mumbled.
Stu didn’t answer. They looked at each other a minute, neither of them speaking. Reggie imagined Sid in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and oxygen, head wrapped up in a huge white bandage like a swami—a pot-smoking mystic on a transcendental journey he’d never wake up from.
And it was all her fault.
“Here’s the thing,” Stu said, his voice low as he leaned closer to her, his breath coming faster now. He smelled like stale sweat, coffee, and cigarettes. Reggie was sure he hadn’t slept last night and was probably still in yesterday’s clothes. “No criminal charges are going to be pressed. The police investigation will say he was alone in the parking lot when he tripped and fell.”
“But that’s not what happened!” This wasn’t supposed to be what cops did. They were the good guys. They were supposed to uncover truth, not tell lies.
Stu nodded. “Isn’t it bad enough to have one life ruined?” Stu asked.
“But we were all there!” Reggie objected. “If we hadn’t left him, if we’d gotten him help right away . . .”
He held up his hands in a stop gesture. “What’s done is done,” he said, voice firm and full of authority. “Now here’s what I need from you. Are you listening, Reggie, because this is important?”
She gave a weak nod.
“I want you kids to stay away from Sid. And from each other, too.”
“But Charlie—”
“No buts. My son is going to have a normal life. He’s going to high school in the fall. He’ll work his ass off to get good grades, maybe play a little ball, get into a good college. I’m not going to let his life be ruined by this.” Stu bit down on his words, grinding them up and spitting them out.
“It’s best if you all take a little break from each other right now,” he continued. “And with all that’s happened with your mother, I think you need to spend some time at home. Your aunt needs you.”
“Does she know about what happened with Sid? Did you tell her?”
Stu shook his head. “Like I said, there’s nothing to tell. Sidney tripped and fell. He was alone in the parking lot. He’d had a couple of drinks and smoked a little pot. He hit a rough spot in the pavement, lost his balance, and fell backward. Accidents happen. Do you understand?”
Reggie nodded, but the truth was, she didn’t understand at all.
Was it really possible to reinvent the past this way? Reggie thought of the years of lies she’d listened to about her mother, how eager she must have been to believe them when the truth seemed so obvious now. Shouldn’t she have been suspicious when her mother never invited her to any of her plays, never let Reggie meet any of her eccentric theater friends? Maybe what it came down to was that people believe what they want to believe.
“And you’re not going to contact Charlie or Tara for a while, right? No visits, no phone calls.”
“Right,” she stammered.
“Good girl,” he said. “Can I give you a lift home?”
“That’s okay, I’ll ride back.”
She got on her bike and pushed off.
“Reggie,” he called, and she hit the brakes and looked back at him. “Neptune’s other victims, their bodies were found very early in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m just saying, maybe it’s a good sign that your mother’s body hasn’t turned up yet. Maybe this time it will be different.”
Reggie hated him just then. It seemed the cruelest thing a person could do—to invent hope where there was none.
“Maybe,” Reggie said, and started to pedal back home.
Chapter 45
October 23, 2010
Brighton Falls, Connecticut
REGGIE TURNED HER HEAD and watched as Neptune carried two grocery bags over to a small wooden table near Tara. Whistling, he pulled a white cloth out of one of the bags and used it to cover the table. He set a place for one with a plate, knife, fork, spoon, and crystal wineglass. He moved slowly, methodically—smoothing the napkin, checking the distance between plate and glass, polishing the fork till it shined. As a finishing touch, he added two silver candlesticks with red candles, lighting them with a box of matches drawn from his pocket. He ignored Tara and Reggie completely.
When everything was perfectly laid out on the table, he opened the bag, pulled out a large plastic container, and opened it. As the smell wafted out, Reggie’s stomach somersaulted and she tried to breathe through her mouth. She stared, fixated—like someone who sees a terrible accident but can’t look away—as he gently pulled off the
lid of the container to reveal a boiled lobster dinner, which he moved carefully onto the plate; lobster red and steaming, little white potatoes on the side.
“Almost time, my love,” he said to Tara. She had her chin on her chest and eyes closed. Then he glanced toward Reggie and seemed to study her a moment.
She hadn’t had time to arrange the tools neatly or cover her wrists properly. Had he noticed?
No. He simply smiled, went back to the lobster. He cracked it open, slicing the carapace down the center, exposing the meat. Then he drizzled it with melted butter from a smaller container. When he was finished, he licked his fingers, packed up the containers, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Perfect,” he said, looking to Tara. “Don’t you agree, darling?”
She didn’t lift her head. He walked over, crouched down, and lifted it for her, peeled open her eyelids, making her look.
“Lobsters are incredible creatures,” he told her. “They’re able to regenerate appendages lost in battle.”
Tara kept her eyes blank and doll-like, but somewhere in there, Reggie was sure she saw a little spark of terror.
“They molt regularly, growing a new shell and eating the old one.” She seemed to twitch a little here. “They molt five or six times in the first season, and as adults once or twice a year.”
“The lobster,” he said, taking out his pocketknife, “is an expert at transformation.”
Tara looked right at Reggie and rolled her eyes.
He worked carefully, cutting the tape that bound her to the pipe. “Stand,” he commanded.
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a lobster fan,” she said.
“Move, bitch!” he said, grabbing hold of her arms and jerking her to her feet, where she staggered and swayed. He puppet-walked her over to the table, propping her up in the chair. He took out a roll of silver duct tape and used it to bind her ankles to the chair’s front legs.
“Tonight you dine like a lady,” he said. “Tonight you will be redeemed.”
“Thanks, but seriously, lobster’s not really my thing,” she told him. Her voice only trembled slightly.
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