Intent to Kill (20 page)

YAZ WAS NOT ABOUT TO LET BABES GO ANYWHERE.

Last night’s phone call had gone remarkably well. Yaz was downright proud of his performance. Blackmail was his game. The price was ten thousand dollars. He could have been more heavy-handed, but he made it clear that if the sum wasn’t paid in full, he would go straight to the newspapers to tell all—and name names. The meeting was set: tonight at eleven, under the I-95 bridge at the Seekonk River, Yaz would take delivery of the cash.

The last thing he needed now was Babes crying to go home.

“It’s a trick,” Yaz told him.

Together they’d listened to
Jocks in the Morning
on Babes’s radio and heard Ryan’s plea loud and clear. Yaz had serious damage control to do. Babes seemed to like repetition, so every hour or so, Yaz would rehash the same conversation, trying to brainwash him.

“Yes, sir,” said Yaz, “your brother-in-law is definitely working with the police.”

Babes was sitting in the corner of the crypt with his knees drawn up and his back to the stone wall. He kept his eyes forward, looking only at the floor, happy to be untied for “good behavior.”

Yaz said, “If you go home, the cops will be waiting for you. And you know what they’re gonna do?”

Babes shook his head.

“What are you, stupid? You went on the radio and told the whole world that you killed your sister. They’re going to arrest you and throw your ass in jail. You ever been to jail, Babes?”

“No,” he peeped.

“I have. I seen plenty of guys like you in jail, too. You know what happens to boys like you in jail, Babes?”

Babes blinked twice, much harder than usual.

“The really big men steal packs of cherry Kool-Aid from the prison kitchen,” said Yaz. “Just for you. Do you like Kool-Aid?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Well, it’s good that you do. Because they’re gonna love you. See, they don’t mix it into a drink. They take the pure powder and smear it on your lips. Gives them a bright glossy red color. You didn’t like it very much when I touched you on the lips, did you?”

“No,” Babes said firmly.

“I know you didn’t. But here’s the thing. In jail, you have to take off your clothes every night and go into the shower with a bunch of other naked men. And what do you think happens when a nice-looking guy like you walks stark naked into the shower with those beautiful cherry red lips?”

“I’ll wash it off.”

“No, you won’t,” Yaz said, laughing. Then he turned serious. “Because if you do, they’ll beat the living hell out of you. Some of those men have been in jail a very long time. They want those lips. They want ’em real bad.”

“Shut up!” said Babes, as he covered his ears.

Yaz smiled. “It’s okay. I won’t touch you again. I won’t lay a finger on you. So long as you stay here in the crypt and don’t go anywhere, you’re safe. How’s that sound?”

Babes didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t say another word the remainder of the day. He just listened to his radio, ate the rest of the turkey loaf that Yaz had given him, and took a bathroom break when Yaz decided it was time.

At dusk, Yaz lit the candle on the bench. The hours were passing slowly—partly because he had nothing to do, but also because he was eager with anticipation. Blackmail had a way of getting his adrenaline flowing. He’d done some con before he was homeless. Years ago, it was a Medicaid scam that had landed him in jail on fraud charges. He hadn’t realized how much of the game was still in his blood.

He couldn’t be late for his meeting. The only way to check the time was on Babes’s cell phone, but he needed to conserve the battery. He waited as long as he could, turning it on and off every so often to check. At 10:40
P.M.
, the time had finally come.

“I’m going out,” said Yaz.

Babes was silent.

“I know you’re not crazy enough to run,” said Yaz, “but I have to tie you up just in case.”

Babes didn’t resist as Yaz bound his wrists and ankles with the strips he’d torn earlier from his blanket. The bindings were probably sufficient to keep him from going anywhere. A little fear would be all the insurance Yaz needed.

Yaz went to the stack of Babes’s baseball cards on the bench. By the light of the candle, he sorted through them until he found the one he wanted: Carl Yastrzemski.

“My namesake,” he said, showing it to Babes. Then he held it over the lit candle.

“Stop!” said Babes.

The corner turned black and then burst into flames.

“No, don’t!” Babes shouted.

Yaz pulled it out of the fire and blew out the flame, but the corner had burned off.

Babes was angry and in tears. “What’d you do that for?”

Yaz came close. He was trying to make eye contact, but Babes wouldn’t—couldn’t—look at him directly.

“I’m taking the cards with me,” Yaz said, as he stuffed them into the deep pockets of his army coat. “If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll burn every last one of them.”

“No, don’t burn them! I’m not going anywhere!”

Yaz smiled. “Good dog, Babes. We’ll teach you to roll over yet.” He blew out the candle and headed out into the night, leaving Babes alone in the blackened crypt.

RYAN HAD A VISIT FROM IVAN AROUND
10:30
P.M. THE RED SOX
road trip was over, and he was back in Boston for the next eight days.

Had it been the off-season, Ryan might have hired a babysitter and headed over to the Beantown Pub, across the street from the final resting place for Samuel Adams and two other signers of the Declaration of Independence, the only place to enjoy a cold Sam Adams within a stone’s throw of a cold Sam Adams. As it was, the two men drank a couple of nonalcoholic beers in the living room while Ryan brought Ivan up to speed.

“So you heard nothing today?” said Ivan.

“Nada. Jock and I did the rest of the show as normal. Every time the phone line lit up, I thought it might be Babes. I spent the rest of the day with Chelsea’s dad, driving around again, searching. Even went out toward Sabin Point in East Providence this time. There’s a flock of geographically confused parrots up on the wires that Babes likes to watch—not up close, of course, since all that squawking can set him off sometimes. Saw the birds, but no Babes. I’m honestly running out of places to look.”

“Have you tried organizing the community, getting a group search going?”

“That would be a great idea if the police didn’t have an arrest warrant out for Babes. Neighbors have a way of not wanting to get involved when you’re looking for a wanted criminal.”

“I see your point,” said Ivan. “I’m not the starting pitcher again for at least two more days, so I can help you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” said Ryan, grateful for the offer.

“In the meantime,” said Ivan, “you gonna tell me about the elephant in the room?”

“What elephant in the room?”

“The dead one. What the hell is that smell?”

“Oh, that,” said Ryan. “It’s a scented oil called Summer Safari. It’s supposed to help my insomnia. Aromatherapy.”

Ivan chuckled the way only a best friend could. Ryan didn’t dare tell him that some insomniacs swore by sniffing dirty socks before going to bed.

“You want aromatherapy?” said Ivan. “Let yourself get close enough to a woman to breathe in her perfume. It’s time, dude.”

Ryan looked off to the middle distance, peeling the label off his bottle. “What do you think of Emma Carlisle?” he said.

Ivan did a double take. “In what way do you mean?”

“Just as a person. What do you think of her?”

“Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Not what you’re thinking. I’m just getting to know her better.”

“Really? Let’s hear it, dude.”

Ryan sighed, not sure how to explain. “It’s funny. About six months ago, I went to Boston Brewery for dinner. I was by myself at the bar, watching ESPN. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Emma with some of her friends. It looked to me like she was about two dart tosses away from setting a record for the most bull’s-eyes under the influence of four cosmopolitans. It was the first time I’d seen her just being herself, not doing anything having to do with…you know. I thought about going up and saying something. But then I thought, no, she’s out having fun. I’m her work. So I watched for a few minutes, figuring maybe she’d see me.”

“So what happened?”

“She hit another bull’s-eye and some guy came over and gave her a big hug and a kiss. And I left. But it’s weird. Every now and then, I find myself thinking about that night, and for the first time since Chelsea’s been gone, I sort of…wonder. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Do you think it’s too strange, her being the prosecutor and all?”

Ivan considered it. “I’ll answer that question, but only if you promise not to take it the wrong way and get pissed at me.”

“All right. That’s fair.”

“If you’re going to go this route,” said Ivan, “I think you should make sure of something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t ever make her feel like a walking reminder of the worst day of your life.”

Ryan suddenly thought about this morning at the studio, Emma leaving in such a hurry. She’d practically run to the elevator after his on-air soul-baring, gone before he could even say a word to her.

Ryan raised his bottle in salute. “Thanks, Ivan. You’re a pretty smart guy. Some of the time.”

Ivan tipped his bottle back at him. “You’re welcome, dude. All of the time.”

The whine of speeding cars on the interstate told Yaz that he was near the drop point. It was a familiar sound to him. Before he found the crypt, he’d lived beneath this bridge where I-95 crossed over the Seekonk River.

Ten thousand dollars. It was a nice piece of change. Ten grand would buy him plenty of first-class beatings—one for each bastard who’d ruined his life. Slow and painful was the way he wanted them. His ex-wife would be first. The bitch never smiled, so what did she need teeth for anyway? Next on the list was the little Puerto Rican stud who was banging her. Battery acid on the balls for Mr. Hot Nuts. His wife’s divorce lawyer—now there was the guy who’d really put Yaz on the street. That one called for some real creativity. Yaz could still see that stuffed prick standing in the courtroom so smugly, all decked out in his Ivy League bow tie, red suspenders stretching over his fat belly, his thumbs in his belt loops. Always with the thumbs in the belt loops. The son of a bitch was going to have a hard time doing
that
with no thumbs. Yaz was loving this game. The old con artist in him was back, with the emphasis on artist.

He stopped directly under the bridge. The two-mile walk from the cemetery had winded him slightly, and even with the anticipation driving him, he needed a moment to catch his breath. It was dark in the shadow of the formed concrete, but the city glow provided just enough light for his eyes to adjust. The place hadn’t changed much. His old shopping cart with the broken wheels was right where he’d left it. The remnants of cardboard boxes were strewn about, tattered remains of homes for the homeless.

A man emerged from behind one of the massive concrete pillars. Yaz’s adrenaline was pumping.

“Looks like I’m right on time,” Yaz said to him.

The man didn’t answer. He walked straight toward Yaz in silence.

“Did you bring the money?” said Yaz.

No reply. The man was ten yards away and approaching steadily, a discernible confidence in his step. Yaz couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he was much bigger than Yaz had expected.

“You better have brought the money,” said Yaz, but his voice betrayed him—it cracked, exposing his concern.

The man kept coming. Yaz saw no bag or briefcase—nothing to carry the cash in—and his concern quickly turned into fear. Instinct told Yaz to run, but before he could move, the man closed in and struck him with a club that he’d concealed behind his arm or torso. The low and lightning-quick blow took Yaz’s legs out from under him.

Yaz screamed with pain and fell to the ground. It felt as if his kneecap was broken.

“Don’t, please don’t!” said Yaz.

“Where’s your buddy?” the man said.

It was definitely not the voice Yaz had heard on the telephone. This guy was a hired professional, and Yaz knew he was in serious trouble.

“What friend?” said Yaz.

Again the man whacked him with the club, a direct blow to the left shin. Yaz screamed at the sound of his own leg breaking. The man stood on the broken bone, sending Yaz into near convulsions.

“The guy whose cell phone you called on,” the man said. “The one they call Babes.”

“He’s hiding,” said Yaz, tears running down his face, “in the old North Burial Ground. There’s a crypt there that nobody ever visits.”

The man slammed the bat across his ribs. “You’re lying!”

“No,” said Yaz, struggling to force the words out through the pain. That last blow had cracked his ribs and smashed Babes’s cell phone. “It’s for a family named Dawes. Babes is there. Go now, you’ll find him. I promise.”

Yaz didn’t see the final blow coming, and the next few moments were a complete blur. He heard a dull thud, felt a hot explosion on the side of his head, and fell face-first to the ground. He saw the club land right in front of him, and he heard footsteps as his attacker walked away.

Then his world went black.

BABES WAS FREE OF HIS BINDINGS. REMOVING THEM HADN’T
proved difficult. With no rope, Yaz had torn an old woven blanket into narrow strips, but the fabric was threadbare and rotting. Babes had more than enough leg strength to break through the ankle ties first, and the restraints on his wrists didn’t take much longer.

But he still lacked the courage to leave the crypt.

Moonlight shone through the crypt’s arched entranceway, and the long shadow of a Baroque-style wrought-iron gate extended all the way to the marble bench in the center. The dark and light pattern on the stone floor was one of the most intricate and beautiful things Babes had ever seen. The gate’s gentle curves, the symmetry of its design, the precision of its lines, as captured in the shadow of moonlight, seemed to emphasize that the iron was more decorative than protective. In a way, it reminded Babes of those maze games he used to play as a kid, where the object was to get all the way to the exit without lifting the pencil tip from the page and double backing from a blind alley. Babes retreated into his dark corner and imagined that he was four inches tall, walking through the ornamental maze on the floor—to the exit.

But he didn’t move. The crypt was his refuge, the only safe place he knew in Rhode Island. It was exactly as Yaz had warned: the police would arrest him the moment they spotted him. And leaving Pawtucket sure wasn’t an option for Babes. He couldn’t count the number of family vacations he had ruined over the years. Every time it was the same thing: his father and mother hoping that Babes had outgrown his anxieties, packing the family into the minivan, checking into a roadside motel for the night—and then checking out and heading straight home before bedtime because Babes was freaking out.

What was that?

Babes was suddenly on high alert. He could have sworn he’d heard a noise outside the crypt.

There it is again!

It was a crunching sound, like footfalls on a gravel path. Babes closed his eyes tightly and listened hard. There was only silence, but he was certain he had heard something earlier. He needed to check it out. On hands and knees he crawled across the stone floor toward the gate, taking care to stay in the protection of the dark shadows, just beyond the bright streak of moonlight. He lay flat on his belly, making himself as invisible as possible as he peered out through the iron bars and into the cemetery.

His heart skipped a beat. A man was approaching.

Yaz?

He hoped so. The man was near the path but walking on the grass now, as if he’d realized that the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes was making too much noise. The white beam of a flashlight helped him to navigate around headstones.

Babes didn’t remember Yaz having a flashlight that actually worked. Maybe he’d found one.

The flashlight cut off. Why would Yaz switch off the light before he reached the crypt? Yaz wouldn’t. And this silhouette was much bigger than Yaz.

That’s not Yaz!

Babes had to think fast. Hide—but where? The interior of the crypt was a simple rectangular room. There was limited space for the living. But the two long walls were lined with plenty of places for the dead—or for anyone who didn’t want to die at this particular moment.

Babes hurried across the crypt to his secret hiding place, the vacant niche where he used to stash his baseball cards. It was at the bottom of the column near the entrance, right below
Daisy Dawes, born August 9, 1847, died April 21, 1935.
He removed the polished granite marker that had been intended for another member of the Dawes family. The crypt accommodated caskets as well as urns, so the niche was plenty big for Babes.

He took a deep breath for courage and crawled inside.

The sound of footsteps outside grew louder. Babes had only a few seconds to pull the granite marker back into place and fully disguise his whereabouts. But Babes was frozen. Being inside the crypt had never bothered him before. Actually lying inside an internment niche was another matter. It was the difference between being among the dead and being
one of
the dead.

The iron gate rattled.

He’s here!

Babes was shaking. He struggled to hear his mother’s sweet voice: “Think only pleasing thoughts,” she would have told him.

Suddenly he was Christopher Plummer in
The Sound of Music
. These weren’t dead people around him. They were the Trapp family. That guy rattling the gate was Rolf. And everyone knew that Rolf was a dolt.

Babes pulled the marker into place, sealing off his niche from the intruder. The edges were routed, so even without fastening bolts, the granite fit snugly. Inside it was dark beyond the blackest night, but four unused bolt holes, one in each corner, allowed enough air inside for him to breathe. If Babes craned his neck just so, he could peer out through one of the holes.

He heard the gate creak as it swung open. The click of the man’s heels echoed off the stone walls. Babes calmed his breathing and waited.

Through the open bolt hole, he saw the sweep of the flashlight. The man walked to the far corner where Babes had been hoveled and inspected the bindings that Babes had left behind. The beam of the flashlight traveled to the marble bench in the center of the crypt. The man peered at the burned candle and sat on the bench. And then Babes saw it: the gun. The man definitely had a pistol in one hand.

Something bad had happened to Yaz—he was sure of it.

Babes considered making a run for it, but that was a foolish thought. He fought off the urge and lay perfectly still.

The man rose from the bench. The sweep of his flashlight went from one end of the crypt to the other, brightening row after row of dead Daweses. Finally, it swept past Babes, and he cringed for a split second as the white light shone like lasers through the four bolt holes.

But the man hadn’t noticed him.

Or had he?

The clicking heels grew louder. The stranger was coming closer.

Babes held his breath. The footsteps stopped. A pair of shoes was less than a yard away from Babes’s head, just on the other side of the granite. Then Babes heard the most welcome sound imaginable. The gate creaked.
He’s leaving!
Babes could breathe again.

The gate closed with an unmistakable metal clank. The man was definitely going away. Babes had fooled him, and the danger was gone. He’d narrowly escaped death, but he didn’t dare move. He couldn’t leave his hiding spot too soon. That had been the Trapp family’s near fatal mistake. And Babes didn’t have singing nuns to help him escape. Even if he did, he wouldn’t trust them.

I’m on my own. And I can never go home.