When it was done, Jesse approached Kathy Walters. She wasn’t crying. Hadn’t cried through the service, and she didn’t look about to break down. She looked resigned.
“I failed him. I was never no good, and my nonsense helped plant him there.”
Jesse could see she was in no mood to be consoled or argued with. “Where’s Joe?”
She snorted. “I moved out. If I want to atone for the wrong I done my boy, I can’t stay with that man. Thank you and your lady officer there for coming. That was a kindness I didn’t expect.”
“Good luck.”
As they walked away from the grave, Jesse noticed Rich Amitrano trailing behind them.
“Molly, I’ll meet you at the car in a minute.”
Molly went on, but Jesse stood his ground and waited for the boy to catch up.
“I felt like I should come because I knew no one else would,” Rich said. “What he did was wrong, but you know how I felt about him.”
“It was a good thing to do.”
“Chief — Jesse — this may sound stupid, but I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“I think I’d like to be a policeman.” He laughed a mocking laugh. “Stupid, right?”
“Why is it stupid?”
“You know, because I’m... You know, I’m gay.”
“We are what we are, kid.” Jesse tapped Rich on the temple and on the chest. “The only thing I care about is who you are in there and in there and whether or not you can do the job. The rest doesn’t matter to me.”
“You mean it?”
“Absolutely. When you graduate, come talk to me and we’ll see about it.”
The kid turned and headed to his car. Jesse did the same.
Seventy-eight
Before she opened her eyes or was awake, she became aware of the odd smells: the powerful tang of alcohol, of pine and chlorine and just beneath the chemicals, the sour and nauseating stink of human waste and decay. Then there were the sounds: the whoosh whoosh of machinery, the video game pinging, the hushed voices and distant groaning. When her eyes fluttered open, she was lost, disoriented. God, where am I? She jerked up. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t. She was gagging, choking, a thing stuck down her throat. Instinctively, reflexively, she grabbed and clawed at the thing in her throat. Bells rang. Lights flashed. Strong arms grabbed her, hands pushed her back onto the bed. A soft hand stroked her cheek to calm her.
Jesse sat on a stool outside the bars of the cell. Maryglenn hadn’t said a word since Jesse received Abe Rosen’s phone call in the car. Hadn’t asked for her phone call. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Jesse, in turn, had asked her if she wanted an attorney. He suggested his friend Monty Bernstein, a slick and talented Boston lawyer. She hadn’t even bothered shaking her head no. But Jesse was determined she was going to get a lawyer of some kind, whether she wanted one or not. When the legal aid lawyer showed up, she refused to talk to him. So Jesse sat with her. She lay on the bed in the cell, face to the wall, the silence between them loud and unceasing.
“I have to go see how my son is doing,” he said, looking at his watch. “But I’ll be back in the morning.”
She didn’t stir.
She had pulled it off, deflected attention from herself, but she wasn’t sure how long it was going to stick. The other, more dangerous factor was the girl. As long as Petra was alive, she couldn’t count on the girl. As silly and moony as Petra was for her, even she would have her limits. Once the police convinced Petra the powdery concoction mashed up for her by her lover was meant to kill her, the girl would give her up. The problem was eliminating one if from the equation and substituting another in its place. If the girl never woke up, she could then move on. But there was another problem, a more immediate one. In setting up Maryglenn, she had nearly exhausted her supply. If she didn’t score soon, none of it would matter. She figured to fix both problems with one call.
Arakel was pleased to hear the news about the deflection, but not about the girl clinging to life.
“You should have made sure,” he said, his anger obvious.
“I made the stuff so strong, it should have killed her.”
“Yes, should have.” He paused in order to take a gulp of vodka. “There have been many should-haves that have not been where you are concerned. Have you read a Boston paper recently?”
She swallowed hard before answering. “Yes. I’ve read about the mur — the deaths.”
“Then you understand. I will see about the girl, but you have to disappear... soon.”
“But I need—”
“At the moment I care very little for what you need. What I need for you is to prepare to go away.”
He was off the line, but she had already stopped listening to him. She was staring at the white plastic container on her dresser. The one that was nearly empty of everything but the silicate drying packets. It held the few pills she had left to her. She had no choice but to score.
Cole’s facial bruises had darkened and he looked worse than he had the day of the accident. Even so, he claimed to feel better. Jesse had already explained that the car accident was no accident and that he, not Cole, was the intended target.
Cole had laughed it off and said, “Jeez, Dad, it was safer when I hated you.”
It stung, but Jesse realized his son was in no shape to comprehend how that comment hurt. Two important women in Jesse’s life had been murdered due simply to having a relationship with him: Abby and Diana. And there it was again, the thirst. So he was learning how important the meetings were, because there was no way to control what would trigger the thirst. With Maryglenn in a cell and the real suspect still out there, he had no time for a meeting. He excused himself and went into his bedroom to call his sponsor, but as he was scrolling for Bill’s number, the cell vibrated in his hand. His landline rang as well. For once, the simultaneous calls were a good omen.
Arakel turned to Stojan and Georgi. He despised these men for what they were and for what they had forced him to become.
“The time is here,” he said. “Go to Paradise. The girl and the teacher. No torturing them, none of your twisted pleasures. Just kill them and be done with it.”
Stojan screwed his ugly lips up into a sneer. “The teacher, yes. We are already told to do this. We know where she is. She is a threat.”
“I said no torturing. Just kill her.”
Stojan laughed. “We have instructions. We do not listen to weak fools.” He pointed his thick, gnarled index finger at Arakel. “The girl, you. You, you do the girl.”
Arakel thought he had not heard correctly. “What did you say to me?”
“You are hearing right, rug merchant.” He stepped close, jabbed his big ugly finger into Sarkassian’s chest. “You are wanting the girl dead, you do it. You have gun. You have killed. Is easier the next time. I know it. Right, Georgi?”
Silent, Georgi nodded.
“See, Georgi says so.”
“The girl is in a hospital under police guard.”
Stojan frowned and shrugged. “Too bad on you. You wanting the girl dead, is for you to make it so. Georgi, neka trugnem. Let’s go!”
As the men walked away, Arakel grabbed Stojan by the shoulders. Stojan turned and slapped Arakel across the face, knocking him to the floor.