by Mike Pace
Dave’s face lit up as he relived the events of a few hours earlier. “Then all hell broke loose. Gino stands, turns over the table. Cake, drinks go flying everywhere. The girls are screaming. And Gino, he’s waving this note back and forth.”
“What was it?” asked Tom. He didn’t want to believe he might know the subject matter.
Dave continued. “Apparently, Rosie was having an affair.” He exchanged glances with Gayle, who looked away. “With a woman. The note was Rosie telling the woman she was ending it. Somehow, Gino discovered the note before Rosie delivered it.”
“So he starts screaming these vile, vile things at her,” said Gayle. “Rosie and I, we’re covered in cake and ice cream. We try to protect Angie and Janie, you know, get them out of the room. Gino grabs Rosie’s hair and yanks her back. David tries to intervene, but Gino’s a big man and he hits David and—”
“I slipped on the ice cream,” said Dave. Tom figured if Gino Battaglia hit anybody full force they’d go down, ice cream or no ice cream, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
Gayle continued through her sobs, pausing frequently to catch her breath. Her eyes glazed over, and Tom could see she was reliving the horror.
“And then he, he holds Rosie’s head by her hair in one hand, and he punches her in the face with his other. Oh my God.” She dropped her head into her hands.
“That’s enough,” said Dave.
Gayle continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I think she went unconscious with the first punch. But Gino, he kept hitting and hitting, and I was screaming at him to stop and screaming at the girls to go to their rooms. I jumped on his back, but he knocked me off and kept hitting her, and after a while, she didn’t have a face anymore. And the blood, everywhere the blood, and her cheek, there was this skin flap, and you could see her cheekbone, and he kept smashing and—”
Dave wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, cutting her off. She buried her face into his shirt, her shoulders heaving violently with each sob.
“The girls didn’t see all of it, but they saw enough,” said Dave.
Tom ignored his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. “My God. Gino, did he say anything else?” asked Tom.
“Don’t think so,” said Dave. “He just had this strange look on his face at the end.”
Gayle pulled away from Dave and reached for a paper towel to blow her nose. “He stared at her, this bloody rag doll, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he broke down and cried like a baby. Sat right there on the floor, rocking her back and forth until the cops came. It was like he’d just snapped out of some kind of trance.”
Tom felt his phone buzz again. Maybe it was Jess, wondering what happened. He pulled the phone from his pocket. The screen showed a video of a young couple waving.
Oh my God. Chad and—
A text message flashed over their picture: “Scratch one.”
“Tom, what’s wrong?” asked Gayle. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Tom hit the “return call” button. Nothing happened. The smiling couple continued to wave. He turned off the power, but the video remained.
Another text: “Two weeks.”
Then the screen went black.
CHAPTER 9
Tom lay on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Physically and mentally exhausted, he knew he needed to sleep, but the churning in his brain wouldn’t allow him. Besides, part of him was afraid to sleep. What would he dream? What would he see? Who would he see?
He had to talk to somebody. But who? And what could he say that would sound believable? That one was easy—nothing.
He immediately considered the option that the cell phone message had been another hallucination. But he hadn’t suffered any head trauma, he’d been wide awake, and hadn’t ingested any weird drugs other than a few Irish beers and some Greek liqueur. And what if there was just a tiny possibility he wasn’t hallucinating, and his daughter might actually die in two weeks? Would that be enough to do something? To take the threat seriously? What if there was only a 1 percent chance the Chad & Brit show was real?
His back stiffened and he rolled over onto his side. Logic. He was an attorney, trained to examine a problem logically. Okay, for the sake of argument—arguendo—assume there was some chance he hadn’t been hallucinating. After all, who could’ve predicted Rosie would’ve been driving that morning, and that Gino Battaglia, who’d never shown anything but love and respect for his wife, would mash her face to a pulp shortly after the passing of the deadline. What, then, would he be prepared to do to save his daughter? Could he kill someone about to murder Janie? Of course, any parent would do that without hesitation. Could he kill a stranger about to murder any innocent child? Absolutely. Again, not an issue.
The sound came from behind him. He rolled over and saw his alarm had gone off. Sunday morning was the one day he didn’t set the alarm, but he’d never gotten around to turning it off the night before. Giving up on sleep, he shuffled into the shower, turned on the hot water to only a few clicks short of scalding, and remained under the spray until the hot water faded to cold.
Tom was as tech addicted as everyone else under forty, and satisfied his daily news fix by tapping into online publications from his phone, iPad, or—that dinosaur of technology—the computer. The only exception was Sunday, the one day he didn’t have to get up before dawn. On those mornings, he enjoyed eating a huge, leisurely breakfast with the Washington Post spread out across the kitchen table.
But this morning was not one for guilty self-indulgence. He barely nibbled at a piece of dry toast, and only drank his coffee because he needed the caffeine jolt to concentrate. He completely ignored every story in the paper except the one about the Battaglia murder leading the front page of the Metro section under the headline: “Construction Co. President Charged with Beating Wife to Death.”
The article was sketchy—not much lead time between the murder and the morning edition, but it did include Gino’s mug shot. The photo was strange: rather than coming across as a TV Mafia enforcer, which he actually resembled in real life, the man appeared frightened and confused.
He broke his habit and tapped on his iPad to read the Post’s latest edition. Gayle was quoted liberally, and there was a picture of her holding Angie, face away from the camera. A statement from Ralph Ziti, the company’s lawyer, lauded Gino as a model husband, father, and citizen, and hinting this may have been a case of temporary insanity brought on by post-traumatic stress from Gino’s heroic turn in Iraq, or poorly prescribed medication for his back pain. Nowhere could he find any reference to a pleasant preppy couple from hell who forced Gino to kill his wife simply because his scatterbrained brother-in-law had negligently forgotten to slaughter a complete stranger before midnight.
Tom’s cell buzzed. He grabbed it, simultaneously fearing and hoping he’d see Chad’s face on the screen. He needed to talk to him, discuss alternatives. Negotiate. Most importantly, he needed to confirm that Chad and his companion were real. Well, maybe “real” was the wrong word. The only thing worse than confirmation they were authentic would be uncertainty. Then what would he do? Go out and kill a complete stranger on the off chance that if he didn’t, Satan’s disciples would kill his daughter? Asking himself the question was beyond surreal. But what was the answer? What would he do?
The call wasn’t from hell; it was from Arlington, Virginia.
“How is she?” asked Tom.
“Janie’s hanging in there,” replied Gayle. “But Angie keeps asking for her daddy. God, to have to witness that—”
“What can I do?”
“Dave and I need to go deal with the coroner and the funeral home. Can you come and get the girls? You’ll need to take Angie home to get some clothes. She’ll obviously be staying with us.”
“Be there in forty-five minutes. Any word on Gino?”
“A bail hearing’s scheduled for tomorrow. We’re sure the judge will keep him locked up. You’re a lawyer, what do you think?
”
“I don’t do criminal, but sure makes sense to me.”
Tom picked up the girls in Virginia and the ride back to the District was quiet. He’d been unsure how to deal with Angie. Should he act cheerful to try to keep her mind off the horror she’d witnessed? Or appear somberly sympathetic?
In the end, he decided to take his lead from her. She’d elected to remain silent for most of the forty-minute trip, although over the last few miles she’d been drawn to the video game Janie played on her Nintendo. When he and Gayle had been together, he’d imposed a strict rule against video games in the car, or, even more so, at a restaurant. But now, he was thankful for the diversion.
Scratch one. He couldn’t get those words out of his mind.
“Janie, who were the two girls who rode with you guys when you went to the museum a couple of weeks ago?”
“Uh, Abby Jackson—” She turned to Angie. “Who else?”
“Emma 2,” replied Angie.
“Two Emmas?”
“We have four Emmas in Ms. Allen’s class. Emma Stein’s Emma 1, and Emma Wong’s Emma 2. Why do you want to know?”
Tom used his right hand to punch the names into his iPhone notes app while keeping his left hand on the wheel.
“You’re not allowed to text while driving, Daddy,” said Janie.
“You’re right, honey.” He quickly finished inputting Emma 2, then made a show of putting the phone back in his pocket.
When they arrived at Angie’s house, Tom used Gayle’s key to unlock the door, then entered the large, two-story colonial with Janie and Angie following close behind him. He’d been in the Battaglia home on Rittenhouse Street on numerous occasions when he’d been married, and was familiar with the layout. He stopped in the foyer.
“You girls go on up and get Angie’s clothes. And don’t forget her toothbrush and bathroom stuff.”
Angela only made it up two stairs when she froze.
“Angie?”
“Maybe you should come with us,” said Janie.
He was such an idiot. “Of course.” He followed them up to Angie’s room and made a big show of checking her closet and looking under the bed. He offered the most reassuring smile he could muster. “Everything’s fine.”
“How long will I be gone?” asked Angie.
Very good question. “I don’t know, honey. I’d pack for three or four days. We can do a wash, or we can always come back if you need more stuff.”
“I think my suitcase is in my mom and dad’s room,” said Angie.
“I’ll get it, sweetie.”
Tom walked down the narrow hallway and entered the master bedroom. In the closet, he saw several suitcases of varying sizes on an upper shelf. Among them was a small pink case covered with pictures of the Muppets.
When he reached for the suitcase, his elbow caught the corner of one of the larger suitcases, moving it aside, revealing a small, polished maple box.
He pulled the box down and opened it. A silver pistol rested snugly in a green felt cut-out.
Tom didn’t move. The words, “Ruger GP100” were engraved on the barrel.
He heard the girls in the hallway.
“Daddy?”
Tom stuffed the gun into his pocket, grabbed the pink Muppet case, and exited the room.
CHAPTER 10
He’d been sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the draft due diligence agreement on his computer screen for hours. Katherine O’Neil wanted it first thing in the morning, and Tom needed to finish his redraft so she’d see it in her computer inbox when she arrived. But while his eyes faced the document, his mind focused on the Ruger lying next to the laptop. He knew next to nothing about guns.
Strike that. He knew nothing about guns.
He’d shot a 12-gauge once when his cousins had taken him duck hunting the previous December. He’d frozen his ass off in a rickety duck blind, blowing rain and sleet, conditions his enthusiastic cousins said were perfect for ducks. As Tom had explained in as clear a logic as he could muster: that’s why they’re ducks and we’re not. It had been misty, so when Estin said, “There’s one!” he’d shot at what he thought was a flying duck. His cousins had laughed so hard he thought they’d knock down the damn blind. Seems he was shooting at a passing airplane on its approach into BWI airport.
Tom had never held, much less fired, a handgun. He’d grown up in a suburb of Baltimore, a safe, middle-class community with wide streets, shady trees, and good schools. He supposed the Second Amendment gave people the right to have guns in their homes, and when he thought about it, believed the idea of everyone turning in their guns for some violence-free Utopia was naïve. But he rarely thought about it. Now, he had to think about it.
Scratch one. What if the one had been Janie? What if the next one’s Janie?
Then again, what if the whole Chad & Brit show wasn’t real, and Rosie’s death had been a coincidence? Coincidences happened, hence the need for the word. And here he was contemplating how to shoot a Ruger GP100 so he could kill a perfect stranger.
He’d looked up the weapon online and learned it was a double-action model, meaning he wouldn’t need to fan the hammer with his palm like the gunslingers in old TV westerns. Just point and shoot. Snuff out a life. Easy peasy.
He knew he needed to talk to someone, but who? Zig? Zig knew of his bridge vision, but any suggestion that the vision might be real would result in his friend informing him in no uncertain terms he was bonkers—stress from Rosie’s death, pressure at work—and take away his shiny Ruger.
And then, what if two weeks from now he’d get a hysterical call in the wee hours telling him Janie or Angie or Emma 2 was dead? No, he decided he couldn’t tell a soul. He would actually have to contemplate killing another human being. But, not knowing whether Janie or one of the other three girls was on deck, he’d also have to make sure he didn’t get caught because he might have to kill again.
Tom Booker, serial killer.
Okay, okay. Think logically. As his Georgetown professors used to say, think like a lawyer. Could he take a chance with his daughter’s life? No. He rubbed his fingers down the barrel of the Ruger. He now had the means, and he had the motive to kill, to save Janie. But did he have the balls?
He picked up the 5 x 7 framed photo on his desk. Halloween, two years earlier. Janie’s face filled the frame. She wore a Hello Kitty costume. Eyebrow pencil-applied whiskers, a wide grin with a missing front tooth. Eyes sparkling with life.
He’d have to find the balls.
And a victim.
CHAPTER 11
Over the next ten days, Tom felt like he was wearing someone else’s body. He attended Rosie’s funeral, focused on his legal work, and had beers with Zig at Napoleon’s where they gossiped about their coworkers.
On Saturday, he took Jess out to dinner where he was charming and appeared interested in her every word. She looked sexy in a low-cut blouse and a short, yellow miniskirt. He’d barely taken a sip of his beer before she began rubbing first his thigh, then his groin under the table. She appeared perplexed, even hurt, when he didn’t respond.
“Sorry, just a little self-conscious.”
“No problem,” said Jess. “I can wait. A little while.” She giggled.
It was after midnight when they left the restaurant. They’d barely gotten out of the parking lot before Jess was bent over his lap, tugging at his zipper. He gently lifted her up.
“Too distracting.” His attempt at a laugh was pathetic. “You don’t want to cause an accident, do you?” Don’t you know, driving distractions kill? “Let’s wait till we get to your place.”
“Maybe I can’t wait that long.” She kissed him, plunging her tongue down his throat. His view completely blocked by her head, he heard a horn blaring.
Bright headlights lit up the car’s interior. He was driving in the oncoming lane. Swerving hard right, he just missed a head-on with a huge sedan. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Sorry, but let’s just cool our jets he
re. We’ll be at your place soon, then we—”
He saw her slowly rubbing her hips back and forth on the car seat. Jesus, was she going to masturbate right here in the car? Was this the way girls acted in Oklahoma?
“I got a better idea,” she said. “Let’s go to the Lincoln Memorial. It’s faster.”
“Faster?”
“Just do it, silly, or—” She made a move to bend over his lap again.
“Okay, okay.”
Given the hour, it took little time to reach the memorial and find a parking space on Ohio Drive.
Her skirt devoid of pockets, Jess carried her cell phone in her left hand, and took his hand in her right, then led him up the marble steps to the memorial.
“Expecting a call?” asked Tom.
She winked. “Photo op.”
“Is the memorial open?”
“Twenty-four hours,” responded Jess. “On-site rangers leave at 11:30. After that, it’s just routine patrol.”
“And you know this how?”
She responded with a grin.
When they reached the memorial, she gently tugged him toward the Lincoln statue.
“Stand there, in front.” Tom complied, and while she fussed with her phone to take the picture, he looked up into the sixteenth president’s face. From the sharp angle, it was as if God himself was staring down at him with an expression of weary disapproval. He whispered, “I have no choice.”
“What did you say?” asked Jess.
“Nothing.”
“Then smile.”
She took the photo. “Come on. Don’t know when the next patrol’s going to swing by.”
Tom looked around. No doors, just four walls, each bearing Lincoln’s famous words. “Come where?”
She led him behind the statue. From the front, Tom had assumed the statue was positioned flush against the wall, directly beneath the words: In this temple, as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever. But there was a gap between the wall and the back of Lincoln’s chair—more of a throne—consistent with the artist’s view of the memorial as a temple. A draped robe fell from Lincoln’s shoulders down the back of the chair.