Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Hard to believe, now that she’s so sluggish, that she used to wake before dawn without an alarm on Saturday mornings. She’d go for a long run, shower and change, and go back out for bagels and coffee to bring home to Jeremy—all before he raised an eyelid.

  She misses having that kind of energy. She misses running, too, she thinks wistfully as she heads gingerly toward the bathroom, feeling like she’s going to throw up any second.

  Yes, and she misses her old strong, lean body—a body she could count on not to betray her.

  Always athletic, she kept up her morning runs—though at a much less intense level than usual—through much of her first pregnancy, with her doctor’s blessing. When she lost the baby, she questioned everything she had done—including exercise.

  The second time she was pregnant, she didn’t run at all—and miscarried anyway, early on.

  There was no question that this time, she would take it easy. Dr. Courmier—a fellow marathon runner—was empathetic, but absolutely ruled out vigorous physical exertion. She suggested that Lucy try yoga, which Robyn swears by—and brought up again last night when they were talking about how Lucy needed to relax.

  “Do you not remember that I tried a couple of classes with you, and hated it?” Lucy asked.

  “You might like it better now,” Robyn told her, but Lucy seriously doubts that.

  She’s not a yoga person. She’s just not. Sitting there, stretching and chanting, not even breaking a sweat, she couldn’t seem to clear her mind as she was supposed to. She kept thinking about all the interesting, productive things she could—should—be doing instead. It stressed her out.

  She flips on the bathroom light, wondering if she’s actually going to make it through the morning without throwing up for a change. She’s feeling queasy, but if she can manage to brush her teeth and get some food into her stomach . . .

  As she starts to reach for her toothbrush, a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over her and she turns abruptly toward the toilet instead.

  Vomit, flush, brush, rinse . . .

  It’s all good. Pregnancy hormones.

  Only about two months to go.

  Back in the bedroom, she glances at Jeremy, still in bed asleep. She didn’t hear him come in last night. It must have been late.

  His dark hair is sticking up in tufts here and there as though it got wet in the rain and dried that way, and his jaw is shaded with razor stubble. But he’s no longer snoring.

  Is he asleep?

  “Jer?” she whispers.

  He doesn’t stir.

  She pulls on a robe and walks out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Jeremy’s eyes snap open the moment Lucy leaves the bedroom.

  “See? I told you he wasn’t really sleeping,” Chaplain Gideon gloats.

  “I knew that. I could tell he was just pretending.” Sitting in front of her computer, watching the action in the Cavalon apartment a few floors above, she works the mouse, expertly zooming in so that the screen shows a close-up of Jeremy’s face.

  His expression is troubled.

  Ah, so maybe he, too, is a prophet.

  Maybe he senses the coming apocalypse.

  Or maybe he’s just thinking about his troubled past.

  She zooms out on that image and zooms in on another: Lucy in the kitchen.

  She’s just standing there between the counter and the stove, resting a hand on her rounded stomach.

  Judging by the dreamy expression on her face, she isn’t thinking about the past, and she hasn’t a clue that the future will be anything but happy.

  As she waits for the toast to pop up and the teakettle to whistle, Lucy allows herself to imagine what her mornings will be like this spring, after the baby is born.

  Will she be so exhausted from late night feedings that she’ll want to sleep in?

  Or will motherhood energize her to get up early and hit the winding pathways in Central Park?

  That seems much more likely. When this burden of worrying and waiting has finally been lifted, she’ll be her old self again, raring to get up and go. Will she take the baby with her, strapped into a jogging stroller?

  Probably not at first. It’s probably not good for a newborn to be out when the weather is still raw and chilly. Or do they need fresh air?

  I don’t have a clue.

  She hasn’t allowed herself to think beyond the pregnancy. She can’t bear to read the next chapter in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, let alone research what comes after the baby is born: motherhood, caring for an infant . . .

  Maybe it’s time, though.

  Maybe she can at least picture herself just like all those other moms she sees—moms who go contentedly about their daily lives with their healthy babies in tow.

  The phone rings, breaking into her pleasant thoughts. It’s early for a Saturday morning phone call. Too early.

  Lucy thinks of Ryan as she goes to answer it. He’d been in the back of her mind all day yesterday. And, after the phone call to Mom in Florida, Sadie had been in her thoughts as well.

  Well, one thing is for sure—no college kid is going to pick up the phone to call family at this hour on a Saturday morning.

  Not unless something is wrong . . .

  Lucy picks up the phone and, in the next terrible moment, learns that something is, indeed, very wrong.

  Not, however, with her sister. Not this time.

  The moment she heard the ringing telephone blast over the computer speakers and saw the way Lucy’s expression transformed from peaceful to concerned, her heart started racing in anticipation.

  Now, as she watches Lucy rush toward the bedroom clutching the phone, she edges her chair a little closer to the computer screen and rests her chin in her hand, like a courtside fan leaning in for a better vantage.

  Though the other end of Lucy’s conversation was of course inaudible, she can tell by the look on Lucy’s face that this was no chatty morning call.

  No, it’s clearly bad news.

  And I’ll bet I know what it’s about.

  Someone must have found the body.

  If Brandewyne gets on Meade’s nerves in New York—and she sure as hell does—he should have considered what it would be like to spend five hours with her in a car, stuck in traffic.

  Then again, even if he had anticipated this living hell, there’s not much he could have done to avoid the situation. They had to drive up here to Bridgebury today, where they’re going to interview various prison officials who had survived the deadly earthquake.

  “I would kill for a cigarette,” Brandewyne announces for what seems like the hundredth time, tapping her fingernails on the armrest between them as Meade stares in frustration at the brake lights strung out ahead of them on Interstate 95.

  He thinks about pointing out that the exit is just a mile away. But at this rate, it could be an hour before they reach it.

  Instead, he says, “Maybe you should just quit. It’s not good for you.”

  “No . . . really?”

  It occurs to him, hearing the sarcasm in her voice, that he might just get on her nerves the way she gets on his. Hard to imagine, but he supposes that could be true. When you spend a lot of time with someone, it’s inevitable. His long-wed parents bicker all the time, but their marriage works.

  Then again, they love each other.

  Meade and Brandewyne most definitely do not love each other. They don’t even like each other, unless Brandewyne is concealing a secret well of affection for him.

  And yet . . .

  And yet, like an old married couple, when they’re actually working together as a team, they do manage to get things done.

  After the print match came back, they spent a sleepless night together at the precinct, digging up old press clips on the suspect, and tracking down the names and
addresses of pretty much everyone who had known her personally. There’s a trove of information, and they might just get somewhere with it if they can pinpoint someone from her past who might have been willing to help her if she really did escape last year.

  If she really did?

  She did.

  Absolutely. She must have. Fingerprints don’t lie.

  And the quake is a clear-cut connection to Jollston, who wrote a book about it. There must be some motive for murder there—well, in the killer’s twisted mind, anyway, though Meade isn’t entirely convinced that’s all there is to it.

  He lifts his foot from the brake and lets the car roll forward along with the cars in front of them, then jams the brake again as traffic stops moving abruptly.

  “There are going to be people who need to be warned that she’s alive,” he comments to Brandewyne, still tapping her nails. “People she might go after the way she did Richard Jollston.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s the only one who wrote a book about that earthquake.”

  “No kidding.”

  She shrugs. “Just saying.”

  “Yeah, I know, but . . .” Meade keeps going back to the surveillance camera image of her fleeing the crime scene in that weird, flowing cloak. “I have a feeling things might be a lot more complicated than they seem.”

  “Aren’t they always?” Brandewyne asks, and he nods in agreement, inching the car toward the exit up ahead.

  Most days, Marin loses time.

  She’ll be sitting right here in her favorite spot, in front of the window, and it’s as though she blinks and the sky behind the city skyline goes from sunny blue to starry black, or from starry black to sunny blue—or at least, milky gray, as it is today.

  Sometimes, she’ll learn from the staff that a visitor was here with her, yet she finds that she can’t remember the visit—even though she was reportedly right here and wide awake the whole time. Scary, the way she forgets so easily; the way her mind plays tricks on her these days.

  Sometimes, she swears she’s glimpsed Garvey here with her—though everyone swears that’s impossible. They say he’s dead. She’ll never see him again.

  Deep down, she knows that’s a good thing—not that he’s dead, but that he’s out of her life forever. Yet there were times, even after all he’d done, when Marin missed him desperately. Garvey was always in control. He always knew what to do. When he was gone, leaving Marin alone to raise their children . . .

  I just didn’t know what to do. Ever. About anything.

  And now—there’s nothing she can do. Locked away from the world, she’s helpless.

  Really, there’s only one person Marin longs to see . . .

  Why doesn’t she come?

  And why, when I ask for her, won’t anyone tell me where she is?

  “So . . . which one was Miguel?” Lucy is asking gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside Jeremy.

  Which one was Miguel.

  Not is.

  Was, past tense, because Miguel, the baby-faced young man with the quick grin and missing teeth and fatherhood dreams, is dead.

  According to Cliff Sutter, Jeremy’s boss, who just called with the news, Miguel’s body was found on West End Avenue just a few blocks from here—not far from the coffee shop where he’d eaten his last meal.

  But of course, Cliff didn’t mention that part, because he didn’t know about it—yet.

  Jeremy knows, though. He knows exactly what Miguel ate: cheeseburger, fries, Cherry Coke. He knows because he was there. With Miguel. He was there as Miguel ordered his food and ate and talked . . .

  He was there right before Miguel died.

  Numb, Jeremy pictures him, lying facedown on the sidewalk in a pool of blood . . . or was he faceup, his eyes fixed and vacant? Was there a pool of blood, or did it wash away in the rain?

  So many questions . . .

  How long before it comes out that Miguel spent his last hours with Jeremy Cavalon?

  Is it better to tell someone now, or wait until the police come knocking at his door, asking questions?

  Does he start with telling Lucy? Or Cliff? Or does he go straight down to the precinct and talk to the police? Where is the precinct? He doesn’t even know. How would he know?

  Feeling Lucy’s hand on his arm, he flinches.

  “Sorry,” she says, “I know this is hard.”

  She has no idea how hard.

  His thoughts are spinning, his stomach churning.

  Who saw him with Miguel? The coffee shop waitress, the other patrons—it was pretty crowded last night. The whole damned neighborhood was crowded; it’s the last weekend before Christmas.

  Out on the street afterward—it was late. Really late. Not as crowded. Who might have seen them together then?

  Even if no one had seen them, there are Miguel’s phone records. They’ll show that he received a call from Jeremy.

  He should have told Lucy last night when he got home that he’d met Miguel after work. But she was asleep. And even if she hadn’t been . . .

  I wouldn’t have told her.

  “Jeremy? Are you okay?”

  “I need to get up there,” he tells his wife. “Up to the center. The other kids—they’re going to be upset when they find out.”

  “You should go.”

  He nods. He should go.

  And yet, for some reason, he can’t seem to make his legs start moving. All he can do is sit here and think about Miguel and wonder what he’s going to tell the police when they come knocking.

  And they will.

  They’re going to start asking questions, even just routine questions, and they’ll investigate his past, just a routine investigation . . .

  And then the red flag will go up, and God only knows what will happen.

  “Lu,” he says, turning to her—but she’s already up, on her feet, running. Running to the bathroom, where he hears her getting sick, and it’s his turn to call, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she calls back weakly, after another minute or two. “I’m fine.”

  Then she gets sick all over again.

  Jeremy sits there listening, and then he hears a high-pitched whistling sound and his blood runs cold. It takes him a moment to realize it’s the teakettle.

  At first, he thought it was . . . sirens.

  That’s crazy, of course, because the teakettle sounds nothing like sirens, and anyway, it would be hard to hear actual sirens from way up here, with these thick walls, and anyway, it’s not like they’d be coming for him . . .

  Yet.

  Ryan sits at the kitchen table in the house where he grew up, eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. If you took away his morning beard and the fact that the house is empty and silent, this could be unfolding fifteen or twenty years ago.

  Except, fifteen or twenty years ago, Ryan Walsh didn’t know what it was like to feel so anxious and lost. And this gabled Queen Anne Victorian on Elm Street in Glenhaven Park was a happy, busy home back then, with a normal family living here.

  Normal.

  What the hell does that even mean anymore?

  He doesn’t know what it means—but he does know what it doesn’t mean: a grown man eating Cocoa Puffs and wondering if the woman in his life actually even exists.

  At times like this, Ryan desperately misses his father.

  He needs a confidant. Someone who knows him well, a straight-shooter who won’t get all caught up in worry and emotion . . .

  Someone like Lucy, really.

  But not Lucy.

  Because when it comes to him, Lucy gets all protective and territorial. And if he tells Lucy about his suspicions about Phoenix, and they turn out to be unfounded—then Lucy will always harbor a shred of doubt about her.

  What does it matter? It’s not as though she’s ever going to meet
her, right?

  Right?

  Ryan shoves the last spoonful of cereal from his bowl into his mouth and chews glumly.

  Yesterday, he was absolutely convinced he had to break things off with Phoenix. Last night, he even thought about how he would go about it, and how he would pick up the pieces and move on.

  But this morning, when he woke up in his lonely bed in his childhood bedroom, he had second thoughts.

  If she really is who she claims to be—despite the fact that Ryan can’t find any trace of her in any Internet search engine, nor in the public records he accessed for a fee—then why break up with her?

  Why not just work on getting over his own insecurities—insecurities that have obviously cost him the ability to trust another human being and have a healthy relationship?

  After all, he’s not the first man to ever fall in love with a woman who seems too good to be true.

  Ryan grabs the cereal box and dumps what’s left in it into his bowl, including the chocolaty dust from the bottom of the waxed-paper liner.

  He needs to talk to someone else who’s been there—or at least, someone else who’s fallen in love with a woman, any woman.

  So where is he supposed to turn?

  He has casual male acquaintances, but none he would call a friend.

  There’s always Sam, he supposes—but he’s too far away, and too close to Mom. Ryan doesn’t want to involve her in this.

  And then there’s Jeremy—the closest thing Ryan’s ever had to a brother. Jeremy’s right here in New York. And Ryan has a feeling that if he asks his brother-in-law not to talk to Lucy about this—because he doesn’t want to cause her any undue stress while she’s pregnant—Jeremy won’t tell her.

  Yeah. He’ll call Jeremy. At least it’s a start.

  Riding the local train up to the Bronx, Jeremy stares absently at the overhead subway map and remembers what it was like when the man he knew as Papa—the man who had tormented and nearly destroyed him—died.

  It was an awful lot like this.

  Fifteen years ago, in the immediate aftermath, Jeremy had the same terrible feeling of guilt, the same panicky fear that he was going to be incriminated by the police.

  That was different, though, in so many ways . . .