Bloom said nothing. His face had started to twitch around the eyes.
Karp took a deep breath and looked around the office. He said, “They’ll have to fumigate this place with a flame thrower before they let the next guy in here,” and then he turned and walked out.
“What did he say then?” asked Marlene.
“He didn’t say anything,” said Karp. He shifted in bed, trying to ease the pain in his knee, the result of a day spent mostly on his feet. “I just walked out. To tell you the truth, I was getting nauseated just being in the same room with the bastard. I mean really, physically. My stomach was heaving, I wanted to hit him so bad. The worst thing was thinking it was partly my fault that he’s still in there. I should have knocked him out that first time, years ago.”
“Oh, wah! You’re not a plaster saint. I want a divorce.”
“Oh, yeah? You think you can do better?”
“Of course. They’re lining up out there for one-eyed, eight-fingered babes with three kids. They’ll have to use velvet ropes to control the crowds.”
Karp laughed, swooped his head under the covers, and lifted her nightgown. He nuzzled her swelling belly. “How’re Heckle and Jeckle doing in there?” he asked, and things might have developed in an interesting manner had not the sound of knocking, light and tentative, sounded on their bedroom door. Karp groaned. “Oh, Christ, not again!”
“What is it, honey?” Marlene called. Karp reluctantly emerged from the steamy cavern. Lucy entered, looking forlorn. “I’m too sad to sleep,” she said in a weak voice.
Marlene patted the bed and Lucy climbed up next to her. Nothing had been kept from Lucy about the events in Chester. It was Marlene’s firm belief that there was no enormity that would scar a child’s mind worse than a secret that could not be discussed in the family. Snuggling in next to her mother, Lucy asked, “Is Isabella in Heaven yet?”
“Yes,” said Marlene confidently. “She probably has one of the good seats too.”
“Is she an angel too?”
“Arguably,” said Marlene. Lucy sniffled and began to weep silent tears. Marlene hugged her closer and said, “Look, I know you miss her, Luce, and I miss her too, but she’s gone. You have to cry and remember her, which you did, and then it’s time to stop crying and just remember.”
“Hector isn’t crying. He just stares at the ceiling. He says he’s going to kill the soldiers.”
“It wasn’t soldiers who killed Isabella, Lucy. It was a policeman.”
“And you and Uncle Harry killed him. I’m glad he’s dead and he has to go to Hell.”
“Well, you may be glad, but I’m not. It was horrible. I threw up.”
“You did? Because of the blood and goosh?”
“Partly that, but it’s a horrible, horrible thing to kill a human being. It’s not like on TV. You only do it when it’s necessary to stop something worse from happening. The bad policeman would have killed Uncle Harry and me, so …”
“It wouldn’t have bothered me,” said Lucy boldly, and then started to weep again. “Why did he have to kill her?” she wailed. “I thought police were good guys.”
“Most of them are, baby.”
“Like that one who got me ice cream when you were seeing the scumbag?”
“Yes, Clancy.”
“Uh-huh. I was wearing my scarf from Isabella with the flowers, and he said it was pretty, and he asked me all about Isabella, how old she was and where she lived. I told him she lived in the shelter but she sleeped over my house a lot. He was nice.”
“Yes, he was.” Marlene bent over and kissed her daughter once on each eye, a magic kiss to stop the tears, and then got out of bed and lifted her up. She carried the child down to her own bedroom and tucked her in, and then checked next door, where Hector was sleeping on a cot in the playroom. He lay still, but Marlene was sure he was not asleep.
She was halfway back to bed when it hit her, so hard a thought that her stomach churned and she grew light-headed. Walking unsteadily, she went to her office and called information. She dialed the number she got and managed to pry from a sleepy night nurse the information she wanted. Then she rummaged through the slips of paper on her desk until she found the right one, and dialed again. Her fingers were trembling.
After ten rings a man’s voice answered, rough with sleep.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, Clancy,” Marlene said. “Oh, Clancy, you piece of work, it was you, all the time, you, and all of us just dancing around the helpful Sergeant Clancy.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s me, Marlene Ciampi, Sergeant. Joe. You remember, the one with the charming daughter, with the scarf. You recognized the scarf, because you’d seen it before. It was you who fed Isabella to those two monsters, wasn’t it? One of your guys must have picked her up on the street after Bloom raped her and brought her to you, clutching that scarf, the only thing she had from her miserable country, and you must have thought that she came from heaven because your lummox Jackson had just killed another little spic and you knew that one you could explain away, but two was a bit too much, even for a fine Irish hero like yourself. And it was your racket all along, wasn’t it? God, how could I have been so stupid! When was there ever a racket in a precinct where the night-shift patrol sergeant wasn’t up to his neck? It must have been a shock to know she was still in circulation, and not only in circulation, but real close to someone who was investigating the scam you set up to cover the murders your boy pulled off. Oh, you shouldn’t have worried, Clancy! I never would’ve thought of you. And what threw me off, you know, was that you weren’t a gambler like Seaver or a sadist like Jackson. You were a fine family man with a great misfortune, and you stuck your great misfortune in the Southampton Institute, which I just found out charges every year a little over nine-tenths of your total annual salary. Good thing you didn’t have to live on your salary, Clancy, you bastard! Does your nice wife know, Clancy? That you bought her relief from her little idiot with blood money? Because you murdered her, Clancy. You murdered Isabella Machado, just as sure as if you used your own hands. And you’re going down for it, Clancy. I.A.D.’s on Seaver already, and he’ll spill his guts. Oh, yeah, you’re going down, you scumbag!”
Clancy had been utterly silent during this. Now he spoke. “Seaver’s dead. He ate his gun at eleven-fourteen this evening.” The voice was calm and unruffled, the voice of a man who had done what was necessary to protect his family. Marlene could think of nothing to say. There was nothing to say. He was going to get away with it. “Don’t call here again,” he continued. “If you call here again, I’ll have you charged with harassment.” The line went dead.
Marlene stood up. Her chest was tight and a sheen of sweat covered her face and body. She turned around. Lucy was standing there, staring at her, her face unreadable. After a few moments the child let loose a great sigh, turned, and walked off to bed.
TWENTY
In the morning Hector was gone. Marlene called the church and then the shelter, but neither Father Raymond nor Mattie Duran had seen him. Oddly, Lucy seemed altogether less morose this morning and did not ask any questions about Hector. The day passed without event, and without word of the boy.