“I been here ten years, come December.” She rolled her cleaning cart in front of the door, blocking it, and not inadvertently. “What’s the student’s name?”
I gave up. I was out of lies. “Renee Butler.”
“Oh, Renee!” Her broad face burst into a sunny grin and her distrust melted instantly into warmth. “I know Renee! Well, well, well, you lookin’ to give Renee a job? You’d be lucky to have her, yes you would. She’s smart, that girl, and sweet as jelly. She helped everybody that came through here and plenty of them needed it, believe me.”
“I’m sure,” I said, surprised.
“And she’s not a snob, that girl, no sir. Not high-and-mighty just ’cause she’s a lawyer. Always remembers my birthday, even now. Renee sends me a card, every August the 12th. She’s smart as a whip. And strong.”
“Strong?”
“Very strong. Come through fire.” She nodded emphatically. “She had a bad childhood, you know. Her daddy, he beat her and her momma. She had to raise herself, that child, and she did a pretty good job of it.”
I thought of Eileen’s husband and the beatings she talked about on the tape. Maybe this woman knew something. “Renee told me she helped a lot of abused women at this clinic.”
“She did. She was a hard worker, always went the extra mile.” She nodded again, and I began to wonder what the extra mile included. Had Eileen killed her husband and Renee covered it up? And what, if anything, did that have to do with Bill or Mark? The cleaning woman had fallen silent and was looking at me expectantly. I didn’t think she knew any more, so I stood up stiffly, closed the closet door, and replaced the Red Zinger.
“Thanks for your time now. I think I’ll recommend she be hired. I’d better go.”
“What about your notes?” She rolled her cart slowly from the threshold, and I squeezed past it, catching a strong whiff of ammonia.
“I don’t need them, after talking to you. Bye, now.” I went down the office corridor as quickly as I could without renewing her suspicion.
“When you see Renee, tell her ‘hi’ from Jessie Morgan, will you?” she called after me.
“Sure.”
“And tell her to get her fat butt to the next meeting! I never miss a meeting, I lost twenty-eight pounds in one year and kept off every single ounce!”
I reached the clinic door. “Meeting?” I asked, at the threshold.
“Weight Watchers! She missed last Monday night!”
But I couldn’t ask another question. Glenn was hustling down the hall towards me, and with him were Azzic and three uniformed cops.
38
Run. Flee. Go!I turned around and sprinted out the exit onto Samson Street.
“Freeze, Rosato!” Azzic shouted. “You’re under arrest!”
I hit the sidewalk outside at a breakneck pace. My heart pumped wildly. My only hope was to outrun them. I’d always been the fastest on my crew.
“Stop, Rosato!” Azzic bellowed from not far behind me, but I barreled up the street.
SCCRREEEEEEEEEEE! A cruiser siren blared in back of me, joined by others screeching in unison. Fuck. Even I couldn’t outrun a car. I needed to go where the squad cars couldn’t. Where? I thought back to my college days. My legs churned faster. My heart pumped harder. Adrenaline surged into my bloodstream like jet fuel.
“Rosato! Freeze! Now!”
I careened around the corner and raced across Walnut Street in the dark, dodging cabs and a Ford Explorer that honked angrily. The uniformed cops were right behind me, I could hear their shouted directions to each other as I darted for the main campus. Students hanging out on the common gaped as we ran by. I bolted past them, the police sirens deafening, then took a hard right up Locust Walk. No cars were allowed on the Walk, it was blocked off by cement stanchions. I’d be safe from the cruisers here.
“Rosato! Give it up!”
I glanced backward. No cruisers, but their sirens screamed close by. They’d be flying up Walnut Street, parallel to me. The uniforms were lagging behind but Azzic was gaining. He reached into his jacket as he ran and pulled out his gun in a practiced motion.
I felt the shock of sheer terror.Please don’t shoot me I didn’t do it. I faced front and put on the afterburners.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Azzic ordered.
A bystander screamed. I imagined Azzic dropping to his knee and aiming two-handed for my back, so I zigzagged for a few steps, then ran like hell. I tore up the Walk and hit the concrete footbridge spanning Thirty-Eighth Street, taking its steep grade in stride. Charging up the hill with power and muscle and stone-cold fear. It was almost easy after the stadium steps. I ignored the pain in my thighs, the ache in my lungs. Even my shoes were helping, bouncy as running shoes.
One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. Keep your knees high.
I reached the crest of the footbridge and streaked full tilt down the other side. The momentum carried me down the hill. I accelerated, surefooted from the stadium steps. My breathing was easy and free, my wind strong. Soon I couldn’t hear Azzic’s voice anymore. I couldn’t feel the strain, I couldn’t feel anything. I was running, I was moving, I was gone. Slicing down the blackness like a scull. Running, rowing hard.
Nobody was faster. Nobody rowed better. The night blew cool. The wind gusted behind me. The city was far away, so were the police. The city lights, streetlights, the headlights were pinpoints in the darkness, on the banks of the river. Everything was far away. There was only me, my heart pumping explosively, doing what I’d trained it to do. Sweat poured down my body. I took it up for ten power strokes with energy to spare.
One, two, three strokes,to move the scull. It was a race and I was riding high, a long-legged waterskate, feeling only the speed and the spray. Hearing only the clean chop of the oars as they splashed into the moving water, one stroke after another. No halting, no lurching, just the smoothest race possible, pulling the oar hard and then harder.Four, five, six. Rowing fast and then faster.
Taking flight. The creak of the rigging. The smell of the river. The wetness of the spray. The cops were gone. Azzic was gone.Seven, eight, nine, ten. I’d finally found the rhythm and I couldn’t go wrong.
In the middle of the river, in the middle of the night.
I slumped on the floor, naked and exhausted behind the locked door of my room in the basement. I had stripped off my wet clothes, but was still sweating from heat, exertion, and fear. The room was arid, my lungs burned. I felt dizzy, nauseated. I couldn’t think clearly, my brain was a fog. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and tried not to drip on the clinic file as I turned the page.
It was a typical case file, except it was neater. The correspondence file, in its own manila folder on the top, contained only form letters from Renee at the legal clinic and no response letters from Eileen. I tossed the folder aside, not caring where it landed.
The pleadings index held restraining orders against Eileen’s husband, filed by Renee. Ten orders in all, with contempt citations when the previous court order was broken. There were fines levied against Eileen’s husband, but he must have been judgment-proof. Incarceration orders, too, but he couldn’t be found. The record told a story if you could read between the pleadings. The courts couldn’t stop Eileen’s husband from beating her. She would never be free of him, no matter where she moved, no matter where she went.
Until he was dead.
Had Eileen taken matters into her own hands? Had Renee covered, or even done it for her? Was it possible? I flashed on Renee’s childhood and the beatings she must have suffered. There were worse things that fathers could do to their daughters than abandon them. Renee had said she knew the depth of my anger, maybe that was because she knew the depth of her own. And maybe Eileen’s anger had struck that same dissonant chord. My head throbbed. It hurt to think. I needed sleep, rest, and food, but I couldn’t stop now.