“You know, I was always jealous of her,” Isabel said. “Of Brie.”
I glanced over at her, then eyes back to the road.
“She was always the prettier one, the more popular one. I wanted to be that pretty, that popular. And then she ended up with you, and I guess I became even more envious.”
Wasn’t expecting that.
“Handsome, skilled, decent,” she said. “That’s what you were. And I ended up with Norman.”
“Norman’s okay.”
Isabel looked reflective. “I’ve treated him horribly,” she said.
I didn’t see any point arguing with that.
“Belittled him, mocked him. All I’ve ever wanted was for him to strike back, to stand up to me, to put me in my place. I felt like I was pushing him to be a man, and he just wasn’t up to it. I don’t know why he’s put up with it.”
“Maybe he believes he deserves it,” I said.
Isabel gazed out the window. “Wherever it is we’re going, are we almost there?” she asked.
“Almost,” I said.
I’d been heading north on the Milford Parkway, and when we reached the Merritt Parkway I took the long curving ramp to get onto the westbound lanes. We kept going until we got to Trumbull, where I took the White Plains Road exit. I made a few rights and lefts until we’d reached our destination.
“I remember shopping here once or twice,” Isabel said as we entered the lot of the TrumbullGate Mall. “I didn’t know it had gone under.”
I gave her the two-minute lesson on how TrumbullGate was typical of hundreds of malls across the country. Victims of online shopping, the collapse of anchor stores, and, more recently, the pandemic, which forced millions of people to alter their retail habits.
“The owners tried to make a go of it but they’ve thrown in the towel. Now they’re letting various contractors pick over the remains. The retailers removed all their merchandise years ago, but there’s plenty of other stuff to cannibalize. Shelving, railings, light fixtures, all sorts of stuff.”
The massive lot was empty, save for part of the north end that had been cordoned off and was full of those Hyundais.
“There’s his truck,” I said, pointing to a pickup parked by a false front that hid the loading docks.
I parked the car, grabbed Matt’s gun, which I’d tucked into a compartment in the door, and got out. Awkwardly, I slipped the weapon into the back of my belt, then, like a true gentleman, went around to the other side of the truck to open the door for Isabel.
“What’s with the gun?” Isabel asked, raising a worried eyebrow.
“Never know what you’ll run into in an abandoned mall,” I said, offering a reassuring smile, but Isabel did not look particularly reassured. “It’s okay. I just don’t want to leave this in the truck.”
Then I made a trip over to Greg’s vehicle, found it unlocked, and opened the driver’s door. I leaned in, peered under the seat.
“What are you looking for?” Isabel asked.
“Nothing,” I said, then slammed the door shut. I looked around to see if Greg’s girlfriend Julie’s car was here, and didn’t see it. I was relieved about that.
I pointed to some nearby loading docks.
“This way,” I said. I led her up a set of stairs that went up to the loading area, then found an unlocked door that took us into a cinder-block hallway. We went a short way down it to another door, and when we opened it, we were in the main area of the mall.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met Greg,” she said.
“Oh, he’s quite charming,” I said. “He’s my best friend.”
Fifty-Nine
Andrew
“Well, isn’t this creepy,” Isabel said.
The abandoned mall was making the same impression on her as it had on me when I’d come in here two days earlier.
She let out a minor shriek when a squirrel ran across her path. A pigeon flew by, but I didn’t see any sign of that hawk this time. And I spotted a couple more sleeping bags than I did my first time here, but no actual homeless people. I figured they went out and about during the daylight hours.
We found more evidence of unauthorized visits. Used condoms, McDonald’s wrappers. I knew from reading online articles that exploring abandoned sites was a popular pastime for some people. But so far, we seemed to have the place to ourselves.
Except for Greg. He was here somewhere.
“Let’s head upstairs,” I said. “That’s where I saw him last.”
We went to the escalator. I went first, testing to make sure the steps, while not moving, were at least secure. They seemed structurally sound, so I motioned for Isabel to follow me, pointing out the steps that were missing. I offered a hand since there was no rubber handrail to grab on to, and she took it with what seemed some reluctance.
When we got to the upper level I raised a finger, signaling Isabel to be quiet while I listened for sounds of work. Power tools, hammering. There was mostly silence.
One thing was different from last time. More of the railings that were designed to keep customers from plunging to the first level were missing.
“Last time I was here,” I said, pointing, “he was working in that end.”
Our steps, and our occasional words to each other, echoed throughout the empty space. We’d only taken a few steps when I heard an industrial grinding or cutting sound. Short, repetitive bursts. Too noisy for a cordless drill. Probably that reciprocating saw I’d seen Greg wielding the last time I was here.
I pointed, and we started walking in the direction of the sound.
We’d gone about a hundred feet, sidestepping trash, a rusted-out bicycle with one wheel, a couple of shopping carts, and a leaning, bird-shit-stained statue of P. T. Barnum, the long-dead founder of the Barnum & Bailey Circus. He was, according to the plaque that was hanging to the base by a single screw, a native of Connecticut. Right now he looked more like the toppled statue of Saddam Hussein.
We stopped in front of what was once a dollar store, faded banners advertising 50 percent off! and all sales final! dangling from the ceiling. Inside, hacking away at some wood shelves, was my longtime buddy Greg Raymus.
He had on a pair of plastic goggles, but no helmet. Greg had always shunned extra steps to protect himself. There was an inch-long cigarette pinched between his lips.
He did like to smoke them down to nothing.
He must have sensed us standing there in the concourse watching him, because he took his finger off the saw’s trigger, set it down, swept the goggles from his eyes, and looked in our direction.
“Hey!” he said, and laughed nervously. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. At least, not till later.”
He tossed the goggles and strolled out into the concourse, still holding the saw, pointing it toward the floor. It hung from his arm like some bizarre weapon designed to kill aliens. He took the inch of cigarette from between his lips and tossed it.
“Greg,” I said evenly. “Thought I’d just drop by.”
He looked at Isabel and said, “Have we met?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“This is Isabel,” I said. “Brie’s sister.”
Greg put on a concerned face. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said solemnly. “I really liked Brie.”
I could sense Isabel’s tenseness. She’d figured it out. Why I had brought her here, why we were talking to Greg. She was owed this. Her campaign to get justice for Brie had been genuine and heartfelt. The only problem was that it had been misdirected.
The true target was standing here in front of her.
“Where’s Julie?” I asked, feeling the gun at my back, under my jacket.