The River Killings (25 page)

“They were way down below the dam, near the South Street Bridge. And, guess what. There were three curvy lines carved into
their cheeks, just like Agent Ellis had.” Oh, no. Two more murder victims. I pictured Agent Ellis, the carvings on her face. The logo of the cartel.

“So who were they? More slaves?”

She shook her head. No. Not slaves.

“FBI?”

No again.

“But the cartel killed them?” I breathed. After all, the three lines were their trademark. Who else would use it? “It looks that way.”

But Nick had said the slave smugglers weren’t killing people. Had he been wrong? My mind was racing. Why would the cartel label the bodies with their logo, announcing their responsibility for the crimes? Until now, the traffickers had kept a low, even invisible, profile. Why were they now advertising their presence, staying in the headlines day after day, attracting attention? The nineteen women apparently had died accidentally, resulting in unavoidable but unwanted press. But Agent Ellis’s death had been deliberately public, right in the park. And now there were two more?

“So, who were they?” If they weren’t FBI, maybe they were the bungling deliverymen. The guys who messed up and let the nineteen women die.

Susan watched me for a moment, pressing her lips together.

Then she spoke slowly, as if to a child.

“I’m not sure who they really were, Zoe. They had no identification on them. And they were disguised. One wore the wig of an old lady, and the other was dressed like a priest.”

T
HEIR
T
HROATS
H
AD
B
EEN
SLIT,
AND
THEY’D
B
EEN
IN T
HE
WATER,
dead, for about two days. Sonia and the priest had approached us in the park three days ago. Which meant that, not long after our encounter, they had been killed. Why? What did it mean?

I pictured the two of them in the park, Father Joseph scanning the playground, Sonia rocking an empty baby carriage. And now they were dead. Oh, God. First Agent Ellis. Now, Sonia and the priest. All murdered.

“Susan.” I felt faint. “What’s going on? Who killed them?”

“I told you they were fakes. They weren’t who they said they were.”

“But who were they? Why would someone kill them?”

“I don’t know. I’m clueless. I thought they worked for the slave traffickers. But if they did, why would the traffickers kill them?”

Good question. “Maybe they messed up somehow. The traffickers seem to be killing anyone who ticks them off.” I thought of Nick, his role as FBI liaison. Maybe it was good that he’d be out on sick leave for a while.

“Or maybe there’s a power struggle going on among the traffickers. Or rival smugglers fighting for turf?”

Maybe.

“Or maybe Sonia and the priest were FBI informants, working both sides, like Agent Ellis. Maybe the traffickers found out.”

I nodded, felt my brain slog inside my skull. Probably Susan was right. Whatever the reason they’d been killed, their deaths probably had nothing to do with us. Or Nick. It was bad guys
killing bad guys, fighting bad-guy battles. But I wondered. Who were Sonia and the priest really? Whose side had they been on? Had they actually been working for the traffickers?

I heard Sonia’s sweet, syrupy voice. “Be careful, dear,” she’d warned. I pictured the gaping slash in the folds of her throat, the bloated features of the priest’s face as he drifted in the Schuylkill. I stood up too fast, trying to escape my thoughts.

Susan reached out to steady me and helped me back onto the love seat. The old man in the easy chair stirred at the commotion. Opening his eyes, he stared our way, and I had the sense that he hadn’t been asleep at all. That he’d been listening to us the whole time.

NICK’S
N
URSE
I
MPRESSED
O
N
M
E
T
HAT
H
E
W
AS
W
EAK
AND E
X
hausted. That he needed to rest undisturbed, that he wouldn’t be ready for company—even mine—for at least the next twenty-four hours. So reluctantly, assured that various police would remain round-the-clock at his door, I went home with Susan and crashed with Molly at her house.

I slept fourteen hours and woke up on a fresh-smelling down pillow under a floral comforter, starving. When I woke up, Molly was sitting beside me, staring at me. I reached for her and she lay down, cuddling, and for a blessed few moments we lay dreamily, snug in a four-poster bed, minds blank and drowsy, free of memories. But as I rolled over to face her, the aching stiffness of my body, the sharp pressure in my head kicked my memory awake. Oh dear. I had to get up. Had to call the hospital and check on Nick. Had to go see him.

“Mom, I’ve been thinking.” Molly touched my face, her fingers gentle and breezy.

Damn. Of course she had. Probably about the nineteen bodies. Or finding Agent Ellis, my injuries or Nick’s. The poor child must have been thinking quite a bit. “Tell me, Molls. What about?”

She frowned intensely. “Everything.”

“Everything.” I held her hand. “Like what’s been happening?” She nodded. “And about Nick.” “He’s going to be okay, Molls. Really.”

She nodded, watching the blanket. “Mom. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and tell you.”

“Okay.” I tried to sit up to listen better. A moan escaped my throat as I pulled my aching parts, forcing them to defy gravity, to bend and move. Molly watched, waiting, until I’d settled against the headboard.

“So, tell me.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s just . . . today’s the last day of school.”

Oh, God—it was? I tried to remember what day it was, but I knew she was right. Molly was missing the last day of kindergarten. I looked for a clock—maybe she could still get there.

“It’s okay, Mom. I didn’t want to go anyway. But the truth is, you need to do better.”

I blinked, knowing I’d messed up. She was right. “Okay. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“You can’t just go out and get in trouble every night. You’re a grown-up. You have a child to take care of. It’s not fair to me to have to worry about you all the time.” Her chin wobbled. “I just want to go home with you and Nick and for things to be normal again. Like before.”

Oh, God, so did I. I held her close, cradled her the way I had when she was a baby, promised that we’d all go home, that life would get back to normal soon. My bumps and bruises would heal. Nick would get better. We’d be a regular family. Plus, summer vacation was starting. We’d go to the pool, the shore. We’d put burgers on the grill and watch fireworks at the Art Museum. Gradually she relaxed, even began to smile through teary eyes. When she finally barreled out of the room to find Emily, I sat still, considering what I’d just said. Would life ever seem normal again? Would the slave traffickers ever leave us alone? Or did they consider Nick, Susan and me to be troublesome loose ends like Sonia, the priest and Agent Ellis? And maybe Coach Everett? Had he been killed by the slave trade, too? Why?

I leaned back against Susan’s pillows, closing my eyes, trying to
make sense of the cyclone that had sucked up my life when I heard a sudden stampede and felt an earthquake erupt on the mattress.

Emily and Molly had arrived, and Molly’s mood had obviously escalated. “Mom.come on. Get up.”

“I am up.” I would have gotten out of bed, but Molly was sitting on my legs.

“How come you’re not in school, Emily?”

“I’m back already. It was just go get your report card and come home.”

Oh. I’d slept late.

“Molly said you got stitches.” Emily eyed my forehead.

“Can we see, Mom? Show us.”

“I got stitches once,” Emily boasted.

Molly’s eyes widened. “For real?”

“I stepped on broken glass when I was little.” Emily held her foot up, displaying a faint pink scar on the ball of her foot.

“See?”

Molly examined Emily’s foot, and I nodded, tried a smile. “It’s impressive, Em. Where’s your mom?” “Outside with her flowerpots.” “She’s not working today?” “Nope. She doesn’t work Fridays.”

She didn’t? I had no idea. I hadn’t even realized it was Friday. I seemed to be losing my hold on all aspects of normal life. Things like knowing what time it was, or what day. Even Molly seemed out of reach. I had no idea what time she’d gone to bed. Or when she’d eaten last. Or even when I had. I’d have to remember how to manage all that. How to make sure that Molly’s life became normal again. And secure.

But first, I had to get out of bed.

I showed the girls my stitches and answered their questions until they ran off to play outside. Then I moved slowly, painfully, out of bed. Borrowing a pair of too-loose shorts and a T-shirt from Susan and assuring her that I was all right, I grabbed a doughnut
from her kitchen and made sure Molly was okay about staying there awhile longer.

Then, brutally aware that nothing about the morning or my aching body felt the least bit secure or normal, I took a cab to the hospital to see Nick.

AS I
ENTERED THE ROOM
, N
ICK HALF-OPENED HIS EYES
. H
ALF HIS

mouth slid into a smile, as if nothing were wrong. As if this were a regular morning, and nothing unusual had happened. He motioned for me to come closer. He seemed urgent, needing to tell me something. He’d been near death, must have some poignant insight to share; I leaned forward, eager to hear.

“Hi.” I waited, but he said nothing else. Just “hi.” And, having stated that, he lay there grinning dopily. Morphine, I thought. They must have given him drugs.

I took his hand and bent down to kiss him; he lifted his non-IVed arm to pull me in. He was surprisingly strong, or maybe I was just off balance. But he held on to me, his lips pressed to mine, sucking on them, as if he were dying and I were life itself. When I pulled away long enough to catch a breath, he smiled again. Then his eyelids dropped. And he was asleep.

When he woke up, he was a little more alert. He noticed the bandage on my head, the sores and bruises all over my limbs. His cop friends had told him that I’d saved his life, but not that I’d been hurt. It amazed him, not so much that I’d figured out he’d been rowing and come after him, but that I’d done so in a single. Sculling all by myself.

His breath was short and his skin was an awful avocado shade. I didn’t want to exhaust him. I told myself not to push him too hard. But, on their own, questions flew from my mouth.

“Who shot you?” I heard myself ask. “What were you doing on
Peters Island? Why were you with Coach Everett? Who else was there?”

And slowly, as well as he could, Nick explained. He hadn’t shot the coach; he hadn’t taken a gun with him. He’d been rowing to work off the heat of our argument. But as he approached the island, he heard the place going wild, birds squawking and shrieking. He’d seen a launch tied up on the rocks, so he rowed closer to see what was going on. Above the honks of angry geese, he’d heard someone shouting for help. So, grabbing his night-light, Nick had hopped into the water, laid his shell against the rocks, and climbed onto the island.

He wasn’t sure what happened next, whether he’d heard the shot or called out, offering help. But he definitely heard a shot as he started up through the trees, flashing his light. He hadn’t seen Coach Everett or anyone else. He didn’t know who’d shot either of them. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the hospital, too tired to open his eyes, hearing some woman promise that she would never again argue with him, never question him about his work. He half-smiled, letting me know that he’d heard.

Oh, man. He’d heard me? All of it? The part where I said we could get married? The part about having babies? Nick’s blue eyes drooped, veiled and drowsy, not revealing what they knew. He was, as ever, withholding facts, keeping secrets. Maybe he was being a gentleman, not holding me to promises I’d made under duress. Or maybe he’d reconsidered his offer.

Nick didn’t say. Talking had wiped him out. He reached for the remote control, turned on the television and, staring briefly at the screen, fell asleep. The Three Stooges, dressed as surgeons, bonked each other in the eyes, whopped each other on the head. How appropriate, I thought. I sat staring at them, digesting what I’d heard. Nick didn’t really know anything, not who’d shot him or the coach. Not what the coach had been doing on the island. Not who had been in the launch. Apparently, the clearest memory he had of the entire event was of my promise never to argue with him again.

A
LL
D
AY
PEOPLE—COPS,
ROWERS,
NICK’S
N
EW
B
UDDIES
F
ROM
the F
BI
— dropped in. Flowers, cards, baskets of fruit, boxes of candy, books and magazines cluttered the dresser, the nightstand, any spare surface in the room. And before long, Susan arrived, carrying fresh hoagies and coffee.

“Eat.” She sat and watched me, making sure I obeyed. I chewed and swallowed tuna with provolone; she paced and hovered. She rearranged the water pitcher, washcloths, tissue box and paper cups on Nick’s bedside table. She stood beside him, staring, straightening his blanket, disturbing him as he slept.

“Susan, stop. You’re making me crazy.” I couldn’t stand it.

“Why? What am I doing?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I am not.” She fidgeted with the flowers and organized the books and candy on the dresser. “I’m just trying to help.”

“You have helped. You’ve watched Molly for me. You took care of me last night and you brought me this hoagie.”

“I brought you something else, too. For later.” She sat on the tan faux leather chair beside me and pulled a brown paper bag out of her purse. I took it and set it down beside my purse, figuring it was more food; Susan wanted to be sure I was eating.

“Tim says I should stay out of it and leave things to the authorities. He says there’s nothing we can do. But you know me. I’m not good at passive.”