The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  My head swiveled toward Jennifer. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t. But they would.”

  I looked down at the plain maroon blanket and rubbed the palm of my hand across my forehead.

  “The way this works is pretty simple,” Jennifer said. “We don’t want to hear that you’re helping the authorities, and we never want to see you on a witness stand. Ever. Understand?”

  I dropped my hand from my forehead and nodded, not looking at her.

  “Good. And if I ever ask you for anything, anything at all, you had better think very carefully about your answer.” Her weight shifted as she slid off the bed. She turned and rested one hand on her hip. “I remember reading about your father, how the Butcher had described him as hapless. Must be genetic.”

  My fists gripped the blanket so firmly that my arms quivered. “If you ever touch my daughter, I swear to God …”

  “Oh, I know, John. You’d hunt me down and kill me and all of that.” She nodded to Pedro, who stuffed the photo back into his pocket. “By the way, we already cut the phone line to your house. I’ll need your cell, just in case you decide to do something stupid.”

  For some reason, I thought about the letter from the Butcher, shelved in the bureau against the wall behind them. “Charging, in the kitchen.”

  “Mind if we take a couple of bottles for the road? Where’s your liquor?”

  She was provoking me to tell her to get fucked, which I knew was exactly what she wanted. No doubt, she would enjoy watching Pedro knock me around. I managed to swallow and said, “Upper cabinet, by the sink.”

  She walked to the foot of the bed, near Pedro and bit her lower lip. With a nod to him, they both turned toward the door. Then she paused and rested her hand on the doorknob. “Just so you know, your buddy, Oyster, my dear old dad, molested me when I was a kid. He started when I was four.”

  And then she was gone, their footsteps pattering down the stairs. I wormed down in the bed, my head sinking into the pillow. I thought about Frank and Oyster, his melancholy eyes. Mostly, though, my mind was laser-focused on the threat to my Molly. Several minutes passed before I staggered into the bathroom and threw up.

  49

  I called Bernie Salvatore first thing in the morning, from a pay phone at a Dairy Mart a couple of blocks from my house. There had been no point in calling the night before, as I’d known nothing about their vehicle, their destination, or anything that would have been remotely helpful to the police.

  And, maybe, I’d simply been too afraid for my daughter to make the call.

  Bernie pulled into the driveway only minutes after I’d returned from the convenience store. With a curt nod, he brushed past me and checked the doors and windows. Helping me out, just like the days on the playground or the football field.

  “No sign of forced entry.” He led the way from the back door into the living room and sagged onto the couch. “Either a damn good lock picker or she has a key.”

  “Jesus.” Another consequence of dropping my key chain on the shelf in her apartment. I dropped into the chair across from Bernie. “She could have made an impression.”

  “Change the locks, John.” He raised his hands, palms up. “Unless you want her to drop by again …”

  My head snapped back, surprised. “Hey, c’mon.”

  “Sorry. Too soon.” He lowered his arms. “I understand her concern about a new investigation into Frank. No doubt, she’s at least an accessory, but proving it …”

  “What if they make a case and subpoena me?” My eyes drifted to some photos framed on the fireplace mantel, one of Molly just after the adoption. “What about my little girl, Bernie?”

  “Don’t know what to tell you.” He rubbed his chin. “Not what you wanna hear, but nobody can watch anybody twenty-four/seven. But I really don’t think you gotta worry too much.”

  “If you’d seen that photo.” I cupped my hands and breathed into them, then leaned back in the chair. “I’m supposed to take her skateboarding after school. I’ve been looking forward to that, still am, but now …”

  I shuddered.

  Bernie gave me a moment before he said, “They sent you a message, okay? And if there’s nothing else you have to tell us, anyway …”

  He held my gaze. I shook my head.

  “I don’t think you’re on their radar screen anymore. The Andar Feo knows that the DEA, and their friends across the border, will take a fresh look at everything now. Frankly, it’s Jennifer who should be worried.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t imagine the ice maiden fretting about anything. “We know who she is. If the DEA boys find her and she rolls over and tries to cut a deal for herself … she’s a helluva bigger threat to the Andar Feo than you.”

  “But she has ties with them, way back.”

  “That’s not how they think, John. Odds are good they’ll make her wire transfer her fortune into one of their accounts, and pretty little Jennifer will just disappear. Which, you ask me, is how it should be.”

  “Maybe so.” I pictured a knife slicing into that sweet face. “But I don’t see it. She’s damn smart.”

  “And they’re damn brutal.”

  “But if she lives, Bernie, and calls me? Tells me to do something?”

  Bernie crossed his legs and stretched an arm along the back of the sofa. “There’s only one right answer, John. You get ahold of me.”

  “But—”

  “You call me right away.” He spoke very calmly, firmly. “If I have to drive Molly to Saskatchewan myself to protect her, I will. Don’t try to play Lone Ranger; you saw how that worked out.”

  “If anything ever happened to her …”

  “It won’t. I won’t let it.” Bernie swung his arm away from the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “On the phone, you told me that Jennifer knew about you and her sister.”

  “She never let on.” I pressed my finger into the coffee table glass and traced a meaningless pattern. “When that came out in court, you know, I blamed you.”

  He mulled that over for a minute. “Suppose I can see how you might. But I never knew for sure and didn’t see how it mattered. A rumor was all I’d heard.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Bernie. Sorry about a lot of shit.”

  “Yeah.” He stared at the coffee table, as though he were imagining the figurines bursting to life. Then he ran a knotty hand over his face and turned his attention to me. “I was going to call you anyway. I’ve got some good news. You’ll wanna tell Cathy.”

  “I could use some.”

  He reached inside his jacket and handed me a folded piece of paper. “This came in yesterday, and it’s been authenticated. You deserve to see it before we release it to the press.”

  I unfolded the paper and recognized the handwriting immediately.

  For one of Cleveland’s finest, it was disarmingly easy to pay a visit to Mr. Corrigan’s shabby little home. Someone should have counseled him about his Irish taste for cheap swill. Kessler’s—how cliché.

  I pictured Jack, a mere shadow, curled in that tight hospital crib. We’d busted our asses late into the night after we’d talked to Haskins in San Diego and learned the truth. Jack had promised to “kiss some Kessler’s” before going to bed.

  “It was postmarked a couple of days after Jack died,” Bernie said. “Read the rest.”

  You should know that I’ve now won the game 108 times, beginning with my thirteenth birthday when I first confirmed that my power over cats and dogs extended to people. Poison is not as satisfying as the protocol I used to follow, but we must all adapt with age. Give Mr. Coleman my congratulations. He won his little case, and I’m going to allow him to live a long and miserable life. I’ll beat you, all of you, and I’ll see you in Hell.

  “The bastard.” I tossed the letter on the table.

  “‘I’ll see you in hell’—talk about a cliché.” Bernie folded the letter and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

  “Jack suffered at th
e end, Bernie. It’s not right.” I wished that Torso had poisoned my bottles instead. Let Jennifer choke on the liquor she took from me.

  “Course it ain’t right.”

  “Without him … they’d have found me guilty, Bernie. Jack, he …” My throat was so husky that I could barely speak.

  “At least you’re in the clear. That’s something.”

  “Jack said you can’t figure these sick fucks out. What if it’s a trick, to get me to let my guard down?”

  “Whaddya gonna do? Jump off a bridge? If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” Bernie leaned back into the sofa. “Focus on seeing your daughter tonight. Guess Cathy’s getting some counseling?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked around the living room as if to check that everything was as he remembered it and then abruptly stood. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Bernie … I appreciate you comin’ over. I really do.”

  “What I do, I do for Cathy and Molly.” He bobbed his head a few times and then said, “You fucked up too much.”

  “I never wanted this to happen. Ever since we got Molly, I tried to change.”

  “Guess you shoulda tried harder, John.” He headed for the door.

  “Bernie, wait a minute.” I stood and walked after him. “Can we get together sometime, just to talk?”

  He opened the door, hesitated, and turned to face me. “I gotta think about it, John.”

  I followed him outside and stood on the stoop as he backed out of the driveway, without a glance at me. I stepped back inside the quiet house, turned my gaze to the crucifix on the mantle, and mouthed a silent prayer for Jack.

  And for me.

  50

  I made sure to pick up Molly at five thirty on the dot. Cathy stood behind her, holding open the aluminum screen door as Molly sidled out. She clutched her pink skateboard and looked like she’d just bitten into a sour apple. Cathy followed her, circling around to the driver’s side, while Molly dropped her board in back and clambered into the passenger seat. I reached for my daughter, and a perfunctory embrace was my reward.

  Cathy ran a hand through her hair. “They just ran a special about that letter from the Torso Murderer. Thanks for calling me.”

  “We’ll be able to sleep a lot better. And I promise to start focusing on our … situation.” Situation seemed like such a convenient word.

  “We should wrap things up with the lawyers. Have her back around seven thirty, all right?” She reached for her ear.

  “Promise.” I shifted into reverse.

  “Mom told me about Mr. Corrigan,” Molly said as I drove away. “He was always nice to me.”

  “I’ll miss him. And boy, did I miss you.”

  Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, as though she were fighting back tears. “It won’t ever be the same again, will it?”

  My little girl, cutting right to the chase. “No, honey, it won’t, not between your mom and me. It doesn’t have to be different for us, though.”

  “But it will. Mom says you’ll have to sell the house. Uncle Carl says we can stay as long as we want, but Mom’s been looking for an apartment for a while. I’ll be going back and forth.”

  “You’ll be loved wherever you are, Molly. That’s what matters. We both still love you.” I prayed that my choice of words was correct and wished for a damn script to follow. There was one question I was afraid to ask, but it had to be done. “Do you still love me?”

  Her fingers toyed with a strand of hair, and she stared through the windshield. “You’re my dad. But you hurt Mom, real bad.”

  “I know that, Molly. I’m trying … I am changing.”

  “Don’t people always say that when they’ve done something wrong?” She looked away from me, out the passenger side window. “That’s what they taught us at church.”

  “But I mean it. There comes a time—”

  “Can we just go to the park?” She folded her arms and sank into the seat. “I need to think.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and fixed my eyes on the pavement. We soon turned into the traffic circle, just inside the park entrance, and looped past a serpentine stone wall to the parking lot nearest the skateboard run. Molly popped out, grabbed her board, and sprinted away. A couple of other kids were gliding around the ramps, and she joined in seamlessly. I sank onto the lowest tier of the bleachers. My intended heartfelt discussion was taking a backseat to a pink skateboard.

  Most of her companions had departed by half past six. With only a couple skateboarders left on the skateboard run, Molly finally allowed herself a water break. While she took a long slurp from her bottle, I said, “We need to talk some more, you know. I promised your mom we’d be back by seven thirty.”

  She puffed out some air. “I need the practice.”

  “C’mon. Five minutes, then you’re back out there.”

  Resigned, she took a seat and leaned her board against the bench between us. I thought about Jack, being direct, and dove in.

  “Mom said you’re going to see a counselor with her. That’s a good decision. You remember I had to do that, after what happened with my dad.”

  “Yeah, but it seems weird. Talking to a stranger about private stuff.”

  “That’s okay. They can step back and take a fresh look at everything.” I didn’t tell her that some of my counselors had been decent, some for shit, and too many had been eager to dispense medications. “What about school? I know about the suspension, the fighting.”

  She clasped her hands between her knee guards. “It’s better, now that the trial’s over. But some kids say you got away with it.”

  There were surely adults who wondered the same thing. “You have to ignore people like that, Molly. There’re always people out there who want to upset you.”

  “I guess.”

  “We’re all going to move on from this. Whatever you’ve heard, whatever people say, just give me the chance to prove to you that I can still be a good dad. That’s all I ask.”

  “Some kids, after their parents’ divorce, say their dads don’t see them when they should.”

  “That won’t be me, Molly. I’ll be there for you, promise.” I wanted to say so much more, and I really needed a hug. But I sensed that she was beginning to feel pushed, and when that happened, she and her pink skateboard would vanish in the other direction. I simply said, “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She stood up and grinned. “Now, can I go skate?”

  “You sure you don’t wanna go home? It’s getting chilly.” The wind had picked up, and we heard the gathering waves crashing against the break wall.

  “I’m fine out there.” She nodded toward the run and then paused and eyed me. “But if you want to leave …”

  “Lemme grab a coffee, and I can hold out for a while. Want something?”

  “I’m good,” she said, already wheeling toward the ramps.

  I strolled over to the refreshment stand fashioned of rough-hewn planks and situated between the tennis courts and the pool. An uninspired coffee cost about a dollar more than it was worth, but at least it was warm. I held the Styrofoam cup between both hands and turned from the booth. Molly was nowhere to be seen. I hurried around the tennis courts for a clearer view, but stared at an empty skateboard run and a chain link fence. I tossed the cup onto the lawn and broke into a sprint.

  My daughter’s pink skateboard had rolled to the edge of the sidewalk.

  She was gone.

  51

  Maybe she had spotted a friend and run off. Or perhaps she was playing a game of hide-and-seek with me. If she had scampered toward the parking lot, I would have seen her on my way to the refreshment stand. The only way that Molly would have been out of my line of sight was if she had bolted through the gate to the old access road that twisted into the woods on the other side of the fence. I rushed ahead, toward the undeveloped copse of oaks and honey locusts.

  As I charged along the uneven dirt and into the trees, I tore out my cell phone and frantically
dialed 911.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “At Lakewood Park. My daughter’s missing.” The words tumbled out.

  “Calm down, sir. How old is she?”

  “Why? Thirteen, but—”

  “Sometimes teenagers—”

  “Damn it! Send a car now, the old road along the fence, down to the lake.”

  I clicked off, then punched in Bernie’s number and held the phone to my ear, stumbled, but managed to catch my balance. His voice mail picked up and I left a message, imploring him to somehow help, then shoved the phone into my pocket.

  Dirt footpaths snaked away from the road and disappeared in the trees and shrubs. The wind continued to build, whistling through the branches, and I was so near the lake that the crashing waves were deafening.

  With each footfall, the image of that abandoned pink skateboard stalked me. Molly wasn’t playing some innocent game, hadn’t run off to meet some playground buddy. The only conceivable explanation was that the Andar Feo had abducted my daughter. Goddamn it, I’d done nothing to cause it. I had not crossed Jennifer, had not given her any reason to touch Molly. None.

  I screamed Molly’s name. There was no reply.

  The cratered dirt road led to the groundskeeper’s dilapidated wooden garage and a shabby storage shed. I paused, gasping for air. Parked tight against a weathered wall of the shed was a late model white van that struck me as completely out of place. I again cried aloud for Molly and, through the wind, her feeble voice carried to me.

  “Daddy!”

  I pivoted toward the sound of my daughter’s frightened cry.

  And froze.

  A huge old man stood in the shadow of the oaks and clutched Molly to him with one massive arm. He wore a light-blue windbreaker and jeans—just another kind, elderly face, out for a stroll in the park. But I knew, with an unwavering certainty that made me weak, exactly who he was.

  “I trust we need no introduction, Mr. Coleman.” The Torso Murderer’s voice resonated above the thunderous waves that cascaded into the shale cliff below.