Hell (13 page)

‘Has he done something to hurt you, Pete?'

‘Not really,' Pete said. ‘Only . . .'

‘Only what?' she nudged him gently.

‘He says things.'

‘What kind of things?' Grace asked.

She felt hate start to blossom deep inside her, unjustly perhaps, this stranger being found guilty, sight unseen, and she ought to have known better, but she was sitting on the ground feet away from a terrified child, and unjust instincts thrived at moments like these.

‘Not that kind,' Pete said, knowing what she might be thinking, because he was ten, not five, but there was defensiveness in his tone, as if he might be blamed if it
were
that kind.

‘What kind then, Pete?'

‘He likes it when I get scared,' Pete said. ‘He has this smile, and I hate him.'

‘What did he do today that upset you so much?' she asked. ‘Do you think you can tell me that, Pete? Though it doesn't matter if you're not ready to. All that matters is getting you and your mom safely home.'

‘But he'll come too.'

‘I don't think he will,' Grace said. ‘I'll drive you home.'

‘Will you tell him to leave us alone?' Now Pete's eyes focused tight on hers. ‘Please, Doc, please tell him.'

‘I'm not sure I can do that, Pete,' Grace said. ‘It's not my place.'

‘Then I'm not going home.'

‘But I will talk to your mom, and I will ask her to tell Charlie not to come by until you're ready to have him there.'

‘I'll never be ready.'

‘Then that's what you'll tell your mom.'

‘She'll get mad.'

‘Maybe, a little,' Grace said. ‘Maybe a little sad, too.'

‘Because she likes him.' Pete shook his head. ‘She's wrong.'

‘Maybe.' Grace put out her hand. ‘Will you come back now?' She looked around, back through the darkness toward her car's headlights. ‘Because I have to tell you, Pete, I'm really pretty scared out here myself.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘It's not your fault.'

For a moment, he fell silent, and then he said: ‘If I come back now, in your car, can you at least make sure that Charlie doesn't come back to our place?'

Grace nodded. ‘I'm sure I can do that.'

And Pete put his hand in hers.

Sam tried Grace's number again.

It rang twice, and then a woman answered.

‘Hello?'

Not Grace.

‘Who's this?' he said.

‘Is that Sam?' the voice asked.

‘I asked you first,' he said. ‘That's my wife's phone.'

‘It's OK,' she said. ‘This is Sara Mankowitz. My son, Pete, is one of your wife's patients.'

‘Right,' Sam said tersely. ‘So please tell me why you're answering her phone?'

Some other time along the road, he might be friendlier, but right this minute he needed to know where Grace was and if she was safe.

‘You sound upset.' Sara Mankowitz's voice trembled. ‘I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, but I needed Grace's help and—'

‘Where is my wife? Is she OK?'

‘She's fine. She's talking to Pete.'

Sam told himself to breathe, because that was better, she was safe.

‘I'd like to speak to her, please,' he said.

‘I'll have to ask her to call you back.'

‘I'd rather wait,' Sam said. ‘Where do you live, Mrs Mankowitz?'

‘We're not at my house,' she said. ‘Please call me Sara.'

‘So where are you?' Sam asked.

Getting one of his bad feelings.

‘We're just off the highway,' Sara said, and started to cry. ‘I'm sorry.'

A pulse throbbed in Sam's right temple. ‘Don't be sorry, Sara,' he said. ‘Just tell me what's going on.'

‘What's going on is that Pete had a really bad panic attack and jumped out of my friend's car and we couldn't get him back, and the only person he listens to when he gets like this is Grace, and he's never been as bad as this before, and it was getting so dangerous.'

‘Where are you exactly, Sara?' Sam asked.

‘Just off Crandon Boulevard.'

‘Where
exactly
?' he demanded.

‘We're near the tennis centre—'

‘And is this
consultation
happening in her car, or your friend's?' He was still on the towpath at Sadie's Boatyard, pacing up and down, his mind racing because, Jesus, it was dark out there, and . . .

‘No, but—'

‘Give me your exact location.'

‘Oh, my God,' Sara Mankowitz said.

‘What?' Sam said. ‘What's happening?'

‘It's OK.' Relief lit up her voice. ‘She has him, they're coming. I have to go.'

Sam heard the call cut off.

He tried the number again.

Got no answer.

‘What's happening, man?' Martinez asked.

‘I wish I knew,' Sam said. ‘But I need to go find Grace.'

They could see lights now, the sirens almost on them.

‘Can't go now,' Martinez said.

‘Going anyway,' Sam said.

It was, she thought afterwards, when she allowed herself to remember, like the worst kind of cliché, in that it felt like slow-motion and fast-forward all at once.

It began as they were emerging from the palms.

Pete gripping her hand tightly, his fear palpable, even though the only other person in sight was his mother, getting out of the Toyota at the far end of the road, her body language tentative at first as she waited for her son's reaction, then more hopeful, extending her arms to him.

‘Ready for a big hug?' Grace asked Pete softly.

‘Uh-huh,' he said, a little husky, wanting it badly.

He let go of Grace's hand, getting ready to run to Sara.

And then they both heard it.

A throaty engine sound.

Coming out of the darkness to their left.

And then, a VW Beetle convertible, top down, moving very slowly.

A man at the wheel.

‘That's him,' Pete cried out and grabbed at Grace's T-shirt.

Seeing Charlie.

Grace saw the man, too.

Knew who he was.

Not Charles Duggan.

And in a tiny space of calm at the core of her own rising, swarming fear, she registered what she needed to do.

‘Pete, go to your mom,' she told him.

She felt, rather than saw, his scared, questioning eyes.

She took a breath. ‘Sara,' she called, ‘I need you to take Pete and
run
.'

‘What's wrong?' The other woman was just a few feet away.

‘Sara, that is
not
Charlie, take my word for it.' She pushed Pete hard toward his mother. ‘Pete, go straight to your mommy, and both of you
run
.'

The boy moved, ran, reached his mother, and Sara stared at Grace for one moment, then grabbed her son's hand and did as she'd been told, turned and started to run, past the Toyota, then hesitating, looking back—

‘Just
run
,' Grace yelled. ‘Get back to the highway, get to
people
!'

The VW stopped.

Fear soared to terror. Grace took off, reached her car, wrenched open the door, got in, heart hammering, slammed the door shut, felt for the ignition key.

He
opened his door, got out.

Too far away, too shrouded in darkness, for her to see him clearly, but she knew who he was, oh Lord, she
knew.

Jerome Cooper – Cal the Hater – Sara's ‘friend' Charlie – engineering a relationship with Sara Mankowitz, terrorizing her vulnerable child, just to get to Grace, and the new, stinking proof of the man's wickedness filled her with pure horror and loathing.

Her car would not start.

And he was walking toward her.

Slowly, coming closer.

She locked her doors, turned the key for the second time, and the engine started.

He kept on coming, was just a few feet away now, and Grace stared up at her rear-view mirror, but it was inky black behind her, and now he was right in front of the Toyota,
right
in front, so she put the car into reverse – still too dark to see, but she put her foot down anyway and felt, almost instantly, a thud, heard a sickening crunch as she collided with something.

‘Oh, dear God.'

She slammed the car back into neutral, but he was still just
standing
there, his face hardly visible because he was
so
close, his body blocking the glare of the Toyota's headlights, and there was no escaping him, this bastard who'd already done so much harm to so many, an evil man who would use a
child
to get to her and her family, and she would not let him hurt Pete any more, she would not let him go on killing . . .

‘Get
away
from me!' she yelled.

He leaned in toward the windshield, and she revved the engine, but he seemed to lean even closer, growing bigger, even more menacing.

She shifted into forward gear.

It all flew back through her mind, memories and images she'd fought so hard to eradicate: Cooper stealing Joshua from his crib,
drugging
him . . . Seeing his boat exploding, believing their baby son was dead . . .

She would not allow him to do this new thing to her, to her family . . .

‘I won't
let
you!'

Her foot went down hard on the gas pedal.

The Toyota powered forward.

The impact slammed her in her seat, forward, then back, shocking sounds reverberating through her skull, her head.

And then she realized she could not see him any more.

Knew she had
done
it.

She was unaware of her own shaking as she remained in her seat.

She turned off her engine.

And heard him.

Moaning.

She sat and waited for the sound to stop.

Waited for what seemed an interminable time.

And still it did not stop.

And the thought came to her that the real Grace would call 911 and get out of the car to go help the monster, because he was still a human being, making human sounds of pain.

And finally, she did pick up her phone and make a call.

To Sam.

Who picked up fast, as if he'd been waiting.

She didn't listen to what he was saying, because she had to tell him.

What she had done.

‘I tried to finish it, but he's still alive.'

‘Who?' Sam's voice sounded strange, afraid. ‘Who's still alive?'

‘Cooper,' she said. ‘He came at me, and I ran him down, but he's still moaning.'

‘OK,' Sam said. ‘Grace, listen to me.'

‘I'm listening,' she said.

‘Are you in your car now?'

‘Yes.'

‘You need to stay there,' he told her. ‘Are the doors locked?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Don't worry about me.'

‘Where are you, Grace? Can you tell me exactly where you are? The boy's mother said you were near the tennis center on Crandon Boulevard.'

‘That's right,' she said.

‘Where
exactly
?'

‘There's a pull-off,' she said, ‘near a big parking lot.'

‘OK,' Sam said. ‘Grace, I'm calling for back-up, and I'm on my way, and you just stay put.'

‘I will,' she said.

Too tired, suddenly, to move. Leaden, finished.

And then she saw that people were coming. Sara and Pete, clinging together, and two more people, strangers, a man and a woman, and Grace saw Sara push Pete toward the strangers, and the woman took him in her arms, holding him protectively as Sara came closer.

In the Toyota's headlights, Grace saw horror on Sara Mankowitz's face.

‘What have you done?' she heard her cry. ‘What have you
done
?'

Grace knew then that she had to move, had to find the strength to get out and speak to Sara and make her understand that this was not her friend, that this was a monster.

So she unlocked her door and got out of the car, and if
he
was still alive, if he could talk, who knew what he would be telling Sara, filling her mind with.

‘Grace, what did you
do
?' Sara's voice was thin and high with distress.

‘Sara,' Grace began. ‘This man is not Charlie. This man—'

She stopped.

Looking down at the man on the ground.

The man she had run down with her car.

Not Cooper.

Not Cal.

And the strangest,
strangest
thing of all was that, lying there at her feet, this man did not even really look like him. His hair was the kind of silver that Cooper had dyed his when he was being Cal the Hater, and, lying there, she guessed he looked slim.

But it was not him.

Numbness struck, shut part of Grace down.

‘But he was terrifying Pete,' she said, ‘and then he came right at me, and I told him to get away, but he kept coming.'

Her voice still worked, and her heart was still beating.

‘He was coming to
help
,' Sara said, weeping now.

And the man on the ground spoke to Sara.

‘I was just trying to help,' he said, his voice faint, but distinct.

And then he died.

TWENTY-TWO

‘
W
hy aren't you saying it?' Grace asked Sam.

Later.

Fire and Rescue had come first, then the Key Biscayne police, and other strangers, too, in and out of uniform, all of them behaving kindly to her, calmly, the way trained emergency personnel behaved with someone on the edge.

She didn't know how much time had elapsed between
then
and now.

Since the moment she had ended everything that was good and decent.

‘Why aren't I saying what?' Sam asked.

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I guess, maybe “My God, Grace, what have you done?” Something like that.'

Sam knew shock when he saw it.