He tried to lift his head, and his steely eyes narrowed in evident pain. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He let his head fall back on the pillow, and I raised my hands in surrender.
Jack’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “I lied.”
I sat there, silent.
He wheezed and sucked in a deep breath, twisting his head sideways. I thought he might stop talking, but he turned back to me after a moment. I leaned in even closer. “Dark in the lumberyard, and me and my partner split up … Big motherfucker, but I knew what I was doin’. I waded in … got knocked on my ass … one punch.”
“You were doing your job, Jack.”
He looked at me like I didn’t get it. “Slammed me into the fence.”
I raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. His voice had become so delicate that I was concerned he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
He raised his head slightly, trying to edge closer to me, and I saw the pain register in his eyes. “Fought with everything I had … he was chokin’ me, and I was dyin’.”
His eyes beseeched me, and I wanted to say that it didn’t matter. He deserved the benefit of every doubt. There was no better man than Jack, and no one who would have fought harder.
“Bastard dropped me, run off when my partner started yellin’. But it was too dark for him to know, right? I ran into the street … fell on purpose … said I twisted my leg. Fuck, I was big Jack Corrigan, understand?”
I nodded, almost imperceptibly, wanting this to be the end of whatever he was confessing to me.
“I lied … the chief … the paper, everyone …”
Maybe that explained why he’d beat the shit out of anyone who crossed into Lakewood who he felt didn’t belong there. Showing all his cop buddies how tough he was. Trying to prove it to himself, again and again.
I pulled my chair as close as I could. “Jack—”
“Never told no one, not even in confession.” He shook his head. “Got my ass beat, covered it up.” He inhaled deeply, gathering his strength, and said, loudly and clearly, “The difficulty in life is the choice. Wrong choice … fuckin’ kill ya.”
“You taught me that, Jack.”
He waved weakly, his hand trembling. Quoting George Moore on his deathbed. He reached over and placed his shaking hand on mine.
I’d like to say that Jack passed away surrounded by his family, at peace at last. But he died that night, around three in the morning, all alone with his monitors and his tubes and the choices that clawed at him all the way to heaven or hell. Arlene had been wrong. None of us gets away with what we’ve done.
47
Marilyn’s had been the only congratulatory phone call after my acquittal, and even then, our conversation had been terse and awkward. I knew that she had to see me as a walking asshole, just not a murderous one. Reporters had phoned, but I’d referred all of them to Arlene.
The one person I burned to hear from didn’t call. I forced myself to wait a full day after my acquittal before dialing her number. From the table in the kitchen, where we used to chat over coffee, my hand wavered as I gripped the cell. I desperately wanted Cathy to pick up and not, when she noted the caller ID, simply hand the phone to her Valkyrie sister. Cathy did answer, after two rings, and I began yammering before she had a chance to change her mind. “Please don’t hang up. We need to talk about Molly; that’s all.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Congratulations on the verdict.”
“Thanks.” I might as well have been talking with a stranger. “You hear about Jack?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry. The obituary was nice.”
I remembered Jack growling at me, Your wife and kid had to see that shit. “He always liked you.”
“That was mutual.”
“Molly, too.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed, cleared my throat. “Cathy, please. I need to see her.”
That uncomfortable silence swarmed back over the line, and then Cathy said, “Her sister, too, John?”
“I wish you hadn’t been in court.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered. The newspaper made a headline of it. Molly read it.”
“I’ll talk to her, tell her what an idiot I was.”
“I think she knows that.” She sighed. “Most of the city does.”
I deserved the crack. Nothing she might say would be out of bounds. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, Cathy. That’s not why I’m calling. But I need to see Molly.”
“Do you think that’s what she needs, John?”
“This will be on your terms. I’ll come over there, sit with both of you.”
“She got into another fight when the kids piled on about your intriguing sex life. They suspended her. The principal said she was sorry, but they’d already reprimanded her and didn’t have a choice.”
“Was … was she hurt?”
“Physically, she’s fine.” Cathy exhaled sharply. “I’m seeing a counselor, someone the lawyer recommended, a fresh perspective from Father McGraw’s. Molly’s going with me next time.”
“No argument.” Her words made me recall Arlene’s stolid handshake after the jury had pronounced me not guilty. Don’t forget about professional counseling. I think you need it.
“That’s big of you, John.”
“Please, don’t make this any harder than it is. Can you just ask her if she’ll see me?”
“I’ve discussed this with my lawyer. You’ve got rights, but I’m asking you not to push visitation now. She’s pretty mixed up, and you need to give her time.”
“I would rather have lost the trial than lose her.”
“A tad late to don the shining armor.” Cathy paused, as though choosing her words carefully. “If she wants to meet, will you quit the booze, completely?”
“You know—”
“Answer the question, John.”
“Yes, anything.” That was all I could say, and there was nothing more to discuss. “I’m sorry, Cathy.”
Her voice broke. “I’ll let you know.”
The call was over; bright icons filled the screen on my cell. The clock above the sink read nearly two o’clock. I supposed that there would be plenty of lame sitcoms and old movie reruns on television. I strolled to the counter by the sink and looked out the window at the bright sunshine and green grass. A couple of yards over, kids were kicking around a soccer ball while a Labrador gave frantic chase. My eyes wandered to the clock again.
Fuck it. I could not spend the rest of my life avoiding the public and worrying about a serial killer lurking in my basement.
The Tam O’Shanter would be a comfortable place to initially show my face, to gauge the reaction of Timmy and Karen when they saw me stroll through the door. And it was as good a place as any to begin keeping the promise that I’d just made to Cathy.
I cruised down Detroit, my front windows down and the warm spring breeze tickling my hair. The street seemed somehow refreshed: the restored façade of the INA building, the colorful pennants strung through the parking lot of St. James Church, the new coffee shop where the hardware store had been for about a hundred years. I breathed deeply of the fresh air and searched for a parking spot near the bar.
Tim and Karen were stocking shelves, preparing for the after-work regulars, when I came in from the light and entered the time capsule that was the Tam O’Shanter. Posters still lined the wall, the Wurlitzer pumped out some Pink Floyd, and the long wooden bar gleamed. Tim was crouched, unloading a case of liquor on the floor. He straightened upon seeing me and nudged Karen. “Hey, look who’s back.”
Karen, wearing a clingy blue top and a delicate golden chain, smiled. She didn’t come around the bar for an embrace, but she did reach for a mug to draw a beer.
I waved her off. “Just a Coke.”
“Really?” She froze for a moment and then grabbed a glass from behind the bar and a can from the cooler. “That’s on us.”
I wanted to believe that they were glad to see me
, but the complimentary drink seemed about as far as they were willing to go. Sliding onto my seat, my gaze drifted to Oyster’s vacant one.
Tim turned and leaned on the bar. “So are you … the case is over, right?”
“The prosecutor could appeal, but my lawyer says we’re in good shape. All that stuff that came out at the end, about Jennifer.”
“That was pretty wild.” He nodded and looked at the TV, then back at me. “So what do they think happened, you know, to her?”
I shrugged. “Everyone suspects that Jennifer had a backup plan, with the Andar Feo. If things ever backfired—which they did—she could certainly pay whatever they demanded to get her out of the country. Drug cartels have the best smuggling ops in the world.”
“Jesus, her own brother.” Karen stood and pretended to arrange bottles on the bar back, but the labels were already facing out, just the way she liked. “How’s your daughter handling everything?”
They had to know that Cathy and I were Splitsville, so they didn’t ask about that. And her question was delicate. She probably wanted to use more direct phrasing: How’d your teenage daughter handle the situation when she found out you’d screwed two sisters, a live one and a dead one? I mean, I know she was alive when you …
Months ago, I would have poured my heart out to her then sympathetic ear. Now, her question seemed to be simply about an object of curiosity: me. “We have to work things out, now that the case is over.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen, fourteen pretty soon.”
“Grow up before you know it, right?”
“Right.”
We were all quiet, and I took a gulp of pop. Karen held up a menu, which I declined. Tim finally broke the silence. “You going back into practice?”
“Not sure. I’ll have to figure something out.” There was no reason to mention that the bar association would probably yank my license for sleeping with a client.
“Well, good luck, whatever you do.”
“Thanks.” I took another swallow and shoved the glass away, not wanting to be at the Tam anymore and not even caring to finish the Coke. Even though Karen had said the drink was on the house, I left a couple of bucks on the bar. “We’re good,” I insisted, when they began to protest.
After a couple of steps, I stopped short, thinking again of Karen screaming in the alley. Without saying anything, I turned for the back door. Tim nodded, then looked away, but neither of them said a word.
The Dumpster was in the same place, shoved tight against the chipped brick wall. Exactly in this tight and littered lane, my life had begun to unravel. The days of tipping a cold one with Bernie Salvatore were over. No more gruff and lifesaving bullshit from Jack Corrigan. The aroma of Cathy’s chicken casserole would never welcome me home, and I might even lose the pleasure of Molly’s endearing smile.
The difficulty in life is the choice, Jack had said. I’d made some dumbass choices, no question. But I had not clawed my way past the Butcher and Jennifer and weathered a trial with my life on the line, for nothing. Jennifer could not be permitted to define me, to allow the despicable and desperate man in that courtroom to shape anyone’s lasting memory of John Coleman. That much, I owed my Molly.
I turned and kicked a stone along the asphalt, considering whether to seek some closure and head to Great Lakes, maybe even make a pilgrimage to the alley where I’d been bushwhacked. The gray rock clattered along the littered asphalt before coming to rest against the brick wall, and then my cell buzzed. Cathy had texted me. She still skates Thursdays at 5:30. Pick her up and take her to the park for a couple of hours, okay?
I floated all the way to my Buick.
48
On Wednesday night, someone flicked on the lamp on my night table. I was lying on my side, facing away from the light, and sensed a presence behind me. The bedcovers were pulled tight against my chin and I found it impossible to move them. My heart was pounding, and beads of clammy sweat gathered on my brow.
“Hello, John.”
I would recognize that voice anywhere.
She had invaded my home.
Raw anger sparked me to cast aside the blankets and roll over. I gripped the sheets and braced myself on one clenched hand. A glance at the alarm clock told me that it was three in the morning.
“Miss me?” Jennifer wore jeans and a sweatshirt, plain gray. She was smiling that smile of hers, the one that I had never been able to resist. A rugged man who wasn’t smiling stood near her, closer to the foot of the bed. I thought I recognized him as one of the Andar Feo guys who’d been outside the Alley.
I drew myself to a sitting position and folded my arms across my chest. “Get the hell out of my house.”
Jennifer shrugged, then turned and sat on the side of the bed. She adjusted her position on the blanket so that she faced me, one leg on the floor and the other tucked beneath her. “Comfy mattress. Don’t mind, do you?”
“I’ll call the police.” I eyed the phone on the nightstand. Could I make it through 9-1-1 before the guy slipped a knife in me?
She spoke, over her shoulder, to her companion. “Dice que va a llamar a la policia, Pedro.”
The man she’d called Pedro stalked to the foot of the bed and glowered. I didn’t reach for the phone.
“That’s better.” Jennifer spun fully onto the bed and crossed her legs. No more than three feet apart, we studied each other across the bed. Pedro remained at the foot, like the apex of a triangle. “We only want to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Just a few questions, John. Be polite.”
I calculated the distance between us, wondering whether I would be able to lock a chokehold on her before Pedro could intervene. “You ruined my life.”
She laughed, raucously, looking from the still unsmiling Pedro to me. When she quieted, and the room was again still, her face grew serious, and she said, “No. Let’s be clear. You ruined your life.”
“Jesus, Jennifer. We had a one-night stand. What you did to me—”
“You had more than a one-night stand with Martha.”
Perhaps I should have been at least somewhat surprised, but I wasn’t. Jennifer had played me before we even met. I spent all the time I could with Martha … we were so close … “You knew all along.”
“I knew everything. You did ruin her life. Killed her.”
I shifted closer to the headboard. “Oh, for … it was cancer.”
“Stress causes cancer, John, or didn’t you care?”
“You’ve got this all wrong.” She was as looney as the Butcher. “It was just …”
“No, I think I’ve got it pretty much right.” She leaned back and braced herself with her arms. “What you did was the main reason I chose you, you know.” Her lips pursed, then teased into a wicked smirk. “Once a cheater, always a cheater. No challenge, really.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was parched. “To think that I cared about you. When they found that girl, I called, scared that it might have been you. Those photos you showed me, after Frank was killed … I was worried.”
She chuckled. “Oh, those! Not a bad photographer, am I? And slipping one of me into the packet was a damn shrewd move, don’t you think?”
She’d played us all for suckers. Me, the cops, all of us concerned that the big, bad Andar Feo might play crisscross on Jennifer’s face. “Your own brother, Jennifer?”
“C’mon, Mister Lawyer. You think I’m going to confess, fall on my knees, beg forgiveness?” She flashed that big, pearly smile. “Of course, you did like me on my knees.”
We’d all been puppets, dangling from strands of her vicious web. I thought of little Mary, the dreg. “You forced that waitress to tell you where Frank was, then had her killed, too. After that, you just needed to wait for me to meet with him, to walk into your fucking trap.”
“My, aren’t we the chatty one.” Her hazel eyes twinkled. “You probably would have done fine in prison, you know. Some young stud mi
ght have even found you some whipped cream.”
I stared, wanting nothing more than to smack her smirk into the wall. Pedro cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I glanced from him to Jennifer and said, “What the hell do you want from me?”
“Just a few answers, John.” Languorously, she hinged her upper body forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “By the way, is this the side of the bed where Cathy used to sleep?”
She then spoke in Spanish to Pedro; she must have repeated what she’d said to me, because he grinned, exposing a row of stained teeth. I glared at him, my eyes mere slits. But said nothing.
“We’ve read the court file. Nice website, very user friendly.” She intertwined her fingers. “What else did your investigators find, John? I have some nervous friends.”
So that’s what her visit was all about. I shook my head. “We gave everything we had to the judge. My life was on the line, remember?”
“Quite well, in fact.” She looked at Pedro, then back to me. “Are you positive, John? Nothing more?”
“I swear.” I watched Pedro focus on Jennifer, as if waiting for a signal from her. Then he shifted his weight again.
Jennifer pursed her lips and then said, “And what about me? If they try to tie me to what happened to Frank … you wouldn’t help them, would you?”
“For Christ’s …” I took a deep breath. “Why haven’t you just killed me?”
She unlaced her fingers and sat up straight, her hands on her thighs. “We had that discussion, but I persuaded them not to. I don’t think you’re going to cause any problems for us, John. And who knows? I might need you someday, to do something for me or my friends.”
“No fucking way.”
Jennifer tilted her head. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’d burn in hell before I helped you.”
She turned to Pedro and said, “El photo.”
Never taking his eyes off of me, he reached into his back pocket and then extended his arm in my direction. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a picture of Molly. Someone had used bright-red ink to draw markings that resembled fish gills on her cheeks. The words Andar Feo were scrawled across her forehead, and an x had been drawn over her left eye.
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