Darkness, Take My Hand (26 page)

“Yes, you do. Where are you, Evandro?”

“Watching you.”

“Really?” I resisted the urge to turn and look out the windows fronting the street.

“Watching you and your girlfriend and all those nice policemen tramping around the house.”

“Well, since you’re in the neighborhood, drop on by.”

Another soft chuckle. “I’d rather wait. You look very handsome at the moment, Patrick—the phone clenched tightly against your ear, brow furrowed with concern, hair disheveled from the rain. Very handsome.”

Grace came back into the living room, dropped a suitcase on the floor by the door.

“Thanks for the compliment, Evandro.”

Grace blinked when she heard the name, looked over at Angie.

“My pleasure,” Evandro said.

“What am I wearing?”

“What’s that?” he said.

“What am I wearing?”

“Patrick, when I took the pictures of your girlfriend and her—”

“What am I wearing, Evandro?”

“—little girl, I—”

“You don’t know, because you’re not watching this house. Are you?”

“I see a lot more than you can imagine.”

“You’re full of shit, Evandro.” I laughed. “Trying to come off as—”

“Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

“—some all-seeing, all-knowing master criminal—”

“Change the tone of your voice. Immediately, Patrick.”

“—when from where I’m standing you look like a punk.”

Devin looked at his watch, held up three fingers. Thirty seconds to go.

“I’m going to cut the child in half and mail her to you.”

I turned my head, saw Mae standing over her suitcase in the bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

“You’re not going to get anywhere near her, jerkoff. You had your chance and you choked.”

“I will annihilate everyone you know.” His voice was ragged with rage.

Bolton came through the front door, nodded.

“Pray I don’t see you first, Evandro.”

“You won’t, Patrick. No one ever does. Good-bye.”

And another voice, huskier than Evandro’s, came over the line: “We’ll be seeing you, laddies.”

The connection broke, and I looked at Bolton.

“Both of them,” he said.

“Yup.”

“You recognize that second voice?”

“Not with the phony accent.”

“They’re on the North Shore.”

“The
North
Shore?” Angie said.

Bolton nodded. “Nahant.”

“They’re holed up on an island?” Devin said.

“We can lock them down,” Bolton said. “I’ve already alerted the Coast Guard and sent police cars from Nahant, Lynn, and Swampscott to block the bridge leading off the island.”

“So we’re safe?” Grace said.

“No,” I said.

She ignored me, looked at Bolton.

“I can’t take the chance,” Bolton said. “You can’t either, Doctor Cole. I can’t risk your safety and your daughter’s until we’ve got them.”

She looked at Mae as Mae came out of the bedroom with her Pocahontas suitcase. “Okay. You’re right.”

Bolton turned to me. “I have two men on Mr. Dimassi’s place, but I’m stretched thin. Half my men are still on the South Shore. I need the ones I have.”

I looked at Angie and she nodded.

“Those are state-of-the-art alarms on both front and back doors of your house, Ms. Gennaro.”

“We can protect ourselves for a few hours,” I said.

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got them, Mr. Kenzie.” He looked at Grace and Mae. “Ready?”

She nodded, held out her hand to Mae. Mae took it and looked up at me, her face a mask of confusion and a sadness older than herself.

“Grace.”

“No.” Grace shook her head as I reached my hand toward her shoulder. She turned her back to me and left the house.

The car that took them away was a black Chrysler New Yorker with bulletproof windows and a driver with cold, brightly alert eyes.

I said, “Where are you taking them?”

“Far away,” Bolton said. “Far away.”

A helicopter touched down in the center of Massachusetts Avenue, and Bolton and Erdham and Fields jogged gingerly to it on the ice.

As the helicopter lifted up and blew trash against storefronts along the avenue, Devin and Oscar pulled up beside us.

“I put your dwarf buddy in the hospital,” Oscar said, holding out his hands in apology. “Cracked six of his ribs. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. I’d make it up to Nelson someday.

“I’ve sent a unit to Angie’s house,” Devin said. “I know the guy. His name’s Tim Dunn. You can trust him. Head back there.”

We stood together in the rain and watched them pull into the police and FBI car caravan and head down Massachusetts Avenue, and the patter of the rain against the ice was one of the loneliest sounds I’ve ever heard.

Our cab driver
maneuvered the icy streets with a deft touch, keeping the needle around the 20 mph mark and rarely touching the brake unless he had no other choice.

The city was encased in ice. Great glassy sheets covered building facades, and gutters bent under the weight of cascading white daggers. Trees shimmered platinum, and cars along the avenues had turned to sculptures.

“We gonna have many blackouts tonight, man,” the cab driver said.

“You think so,” Angie said absently.

“Oh, you bet, pretty lady. That ice, she gonna pull all those power lines to the ground. You wait and see. Nobody should be out on this bad night. No.”

“Why’re you?” I said.

“Got to feed the little ones, sure. Little ones don’t have to know how tough this world is for their papa. No. Just got to know they get fed.”

I saw Mae’s face, scrunched in confusion and abject terror. The words I’d spewed at her mother echoed in my ears.

The little ones don’t have to know.

How could I have forgotten that?”

Timothy Dunn clicked his flashlight beam at us twice as we walked up Angie’s front walkway.

He crossed the street to us with careful steps. He was a slim kid with a wide, open face under his dark blue cap.
It was the face of a farm boy or a boy whose mother raised him for the priesthood.

His cap was encased in plastic to keep it dry and his heavy black raincoat was slick with drizzle. He tipped the cap as he met us at the front steps.

“Mr. Kenzie, Ms. Gennaro, I’m Officer Timothy Dunn. How we doing tonight?”

“Been better,” Angie said.

“Yes, ma’am, I heard.”

“Miss,” Angie said.

“Excuse me?”

“Please call me Miss or Angie. Ma’am makes me feel like I’m old enough to be your mother.” She peered at him through the rain. “I’m not, am I?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I sure doubt it, Miss.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Whew.”

“And you?” he said.

She chuckled. “Never ask a woman her weight or her age, Officer Dunn.”

He nodded. “Just seems like, in either case, the Lord’s been awful kind to you, Miss.”

I rolled my eyes.

She leaned back, took a second look at him.

“You will go far, Officer Dunn.”

“Thank you, Miss. People keep telling me that.”

“Believe them,” she said.

He looked down at his feet for a moment, shuffled them slightly, and tugged on his right earlobe in such a way that I was sure it was a nervous habit of his.

He cleared his throat. “Sergeant Amronklin said the FBI boys would be sending reinforcements by as soon as they get them all rounded up on the South Shore. He said by two or three in the morning, the latest. I understand front and back doors are protected by alarms and the back of the house is secure.”

Angie nodded.

“I’d still like to take a look back there.”

“Be my guest.”

He tipped his hat again and walked back around as we stood on the porch and listened to his footsteps crunch through the frozen grass.

“Where’d Devin get this kid?” Angie said. “Mayberry?”

“Probably a nephew,” I said.

“Of Devin’s?” She shook her head. “No way.”

“Trust me. Devin’s got eight sisters and half of them are nuns. Literally. The other half are married to men who know they take a back seat to the Lord.”

“How’d Devin come out of that gene pool?”

“It’s mystery, I admit.”

“This one’s so innocent and forthright,” she said.

“He’s too young for you.”

“Every boy needs a woman to corrupt him,” she said.

“And you’re just the girl to do it.”

“Bet your ass. Did you see the way those thighs of his moved in those tight pants?”

I sighed.

The flashlight beam preceded Timothy Dunn’s crunching feet as he came back around the house.

“All clear,” he said as we came back out on the steps.

“Thank you, Officer.”

He met her eyes and his pupils dilated, then fluttered to his right.

“Tim,” he said. “Please call me Tim, Miss.”

“Then call me Angie. He’s Patrick.”

He nodded and his eyes glanced guiltily over my face.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Angie said.

“So, I’ll be in the car. If I need to approach the house I’ll call first. Sergeant Amronklin gave me the number.”

“What if the line’s busy?” I said.

He’d thought of that. “Three flashes from my flashlight directed at that window.” He pointed at the living room. “I’ve seen a diagram of the house and that should carry into any room except the kitchen and bathroom. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And finally, if you’re asleep or don’t see it, I’ll ring the bell. Two short rings. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

Angie nodded. “Thank you, Tim.”

He nodded, but couldn’t meet her eyes. He walked back across the street and down to his car and climbed in.

I grimaced at Angie. “Tim,” I said.

“Oh, shut up.”

“They’ll get over it,” Angie said.

We sat in the dining room talking about Grace and Mae. From there, I could see the dot of red light pulsing from the alarm console by the front door. Instead of reassuring me, it seemed only to underscore our vulnerability.

“No, they won’t.”

“If they love you, they’ll see you were just cracking under stress. Cracking badly, I admit, but cracking.”

I shook my head. “Grace was right. I brought it into her home. And then I became it. I terrified her child, Angie.”

“Kids are resilient,” she said.

“If you were Grace, and I pulled that performance on you, gave your child nightmares for a month probably, what would you do?”

“I’m not Grace.”

“But if you were.”

She shook her head, looked down at the beer in her hand.

“Come on,” I said.

She was still looking at the beer when she spoke. “I’d probably want you out of my life. Forever.”

We moved to the bedroom, sat in chairs on either side of the bed, both of us exhausted but still too wired to sleep.

The rain had stopped and the lights in the bedroom were off as the ice cast silver light against the windows and bathed the room in pearl.

“It’ll eat us eventually,” Angie said. “The violence.”

“I always thought we were stronger than it.”

“You were wrong. It infests you after a while.”

“You talking about me or you?”

“Both of us. Remember when I shot Bobby Royce a few years ago?”

I remembered. “You saved my life.”

“By taking his.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “I told myself for years that I didn’t feel what I felt when I pulled the trigger, that I couldn’t have.”

“What’d you feel?” I said.

She leaned forward in the chair, her feet on the edge of the bed, and hugged her knees.

“I felt like God,” she said. “I felt great, Patrick.”

Later, she lay in bed with the ashtray on her abdomen, staring up at the ceiling while I remained in the chair.

“This is my last case,” she said. “Least for a while.”

“Okay.”

She turned her head on the pillow. “You don’t mind?”

“No.”

She blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

“I’m so tired of being scared, Patrick. I’m so tired of all that fear turning into anger. I’m exhausted by how much all of it makes me hate.”

“I know,” I said.

“I’m tired of dealing with psychotics and deadbeats and scumbags and liars on a continual basis. I’m starting to think that’s all there is in the world.”

I nodded. I was tired of it, too.

“We’re still young.” She looked over at me. “You know?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re still young enough to change if we want. We’re young enough to get clean again.”

I leaned forward. “How long have you felt this way?”

“Ever since we killed Marion Socia. Maybe ever since I killed Bobby Royce, I don’t know. But a long time. I’ve felt so dirty for so long, Patrick. And I didn’t used to.”

My voice was a whisper. “Can we get clean, though, Ange? Or is it already too late?”

She shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” I reached across and took her hand. “If you think so, it’s worth it.”

She smiled. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Back at you,” I said.

“I sat up in Angie’s bed with a start.

“What?” I said, but no one was talking to me.

The apartment was still. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. I turned and looked at the far window. As I stared at the frozen panes, dark leaf silhouettes pressed flat against the glass, then snapped back into the darkness as the poplar tree outside bowed in the wind.

I noticed that the red digital numbers of her alarm clock were black.

I found my watch on the dresser, leaned down to catch the icy light from the window: 1:45.

I turned on the bed and lifted the window shade behind me, looked at houses around me. Every light was out, even porch lights. The neighborhood looked like a mountain hamlet, glazed in ice, deprived of electricity.

When the phone rang, it was a shattering sound.

I grabbed it. “Hello.”

“Mr. Kenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Tim Dunn.”

“The lights are out.”

“Yes,” he said. “In pockets all over the city. The ice is turning heavy and yanking down lines, blowing transformers across the state. I’ve apprised Boston Edison of our situation, but it’s still going to take a while.”

“Okay. Thanks, Officer Dunn.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Officer Dunn?”

“Yes?”

“Which of Devin’s sisters is your mother?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m a detective, remember?”

He chuckled. “Theresa.”

“Ah,” I said. “One of the older sisters. Devin’s afraid of the older ones.”

He laughed softly. “I know. It’s kind of funny.”

“Thanks for looking out for us, Officer Dunn.”

“Any time,” he said. “’Night, Mr. Kenzie.”

I hung up, stared out at the hushed mixture of deep black and bright silver and pearl.

“Patrick?”

Her head rose up off the pillow and her left hand pulled a mass of tangled hair off her face. She pushed herself up on an elbow and I was very aware of her breasts moving under her Monsignor Ryan Memorial High School T-shirt.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Bad dream?” She sat up, one leg under her, the other slipping out, smooth and bare, from under the sheet.

“I thought I heard something.” I nodded in the direction of the window. “Turned out to be a tree branch.”

She yawned. “I keep meaning to trim that.”

“Lights are out, too. All over town.”

She peeked under the shade. “Wow.”

“Dunn said transformers are blowing all over the state.”

“No, no,” she said abruptly and threw back the sheet, got out of bed. “No way. Too dark.”

She rummaged through her closet until she found a shoebox. She placed it on the floor and pulled out a handful of white candles.

“You want a hand?” I said.

She shook her head and walked around the room, placing the candles in holders and stands I couldn’t see in the dark. She had them tucked everywhere—on the two nightstands, the dresser, the vanity chest. It was almost unsettling to watch her light the wicks, her thumb never once releasing the ignitor on her lighter as she pivoted from one candle to the next until the shadows of flame flickered and expanded against the walls in the light they’d created.

In under two minutes she turned the room into one that resembled a chapel far more than a bedroom.

“There,” she said as she slid back under the covers.

For at least a minute, neither of us said anything. I watched the flames flicker and grow, the warm yellow light play off our flesh, begin to glow in the strands of her hair.

She turned on the bed so that she was facing me, her
legs crossed at the knees, tucked against her, the sheet bunched at her waist. She kneaded it between her hands, and tilted her head and shook it so that her hair untangled some more and fell down her back.

“I keep seeing corpses in my dreams,” she said.

“I just see Evandro,” I admitted.

“What’s he doing?” She leaned forward a bit.

“Coming for us,” I said. “Steadily.”

“In my dreams, he’s already arrived.”

“So those corpses…”

“They’re ours.” Her hands clenched together in her lap and she looked at them as if she expected them to tear apart from each other on their own.

“I’m not ready to die, Patrick.”

I sat up against the headboard. “Neither am I.”

She leaned forward. With her hands clenched on her lap and her upper body leaning in toward me, her thick hair framing her face so that I could barely see it, she seemed conspiratorial, vested in secrets she might never share.

“If anyone can get to us—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

She leaned her forehead against mine. “Yes, it is.”

The house creaked, settling another hundredth of an inch closer to the earth.

“We’re ready if he comes for us.”

She laughed and it was a wet, strangled sound.

“We’re basket cases, Patrick. You know it, I know it, and he probably knows it. We haven’t eaten or slept decently in days. He’s screwed us emotionally and psychologically and just about every other way you can think of.” Her damp hands pressed against my cheeks. “If he chooses, he can bury us.”

I could feel tremors, like sudden jolts of electricity, explode under her palms. The heat and blood and tidal tuggings of her body pulsed through her T-shirt and I knew she was probably right.

If he wanted to, he’d bury us.

And that knowledge was so goddamned ugly, so polluted with the basest sort of self-awareness—that we were nothing, any of us, but a pile of organs and veins and
muscle and valves hanging suspended in currents of blood within frail, uselessly vain exteriors. And that with a flick of a switch, Evandro could come along and shut us down, turn us off as easily as turning off a light, and our particular pile of organs and valves would cease to function, and the lights would go out and the darkness would be total.