Stacking in Rivertown (10 page)

I try to hide my joy. Oh blessed moment. Agnus dei.

He takes me to the limo with his big arm wrapped around me. The driver opens the door. Before I get in, I turn to him.

“You owe me one thing, Ben. Who was it? Which fucking client of yours cut Violet?”

He turns me around and sits me in the car. Before he slams the door, he leans close and says, “You should know, Beth. You were there.”

The limo stops in front of my house. It’s Monday morning again. Another wasted weekend. Once inside, I watch the limo edge away from the curb and disappear around a corner.

This is it. My last chance. Today is the day.

I stumble up the stairs, still weak, and bumble into my studio. The answering machine is blinking. I think, what the hell, and punch the button. The first message is from my agent. She called me on Sunday. What gall. Doesn’t she know it’s the day of rest?

She tells me I have a book signing next week.

Not on your life.

The second is from Jeremy. “Honey, if you get home today, give me a call. We all miss you so much.”

Little fucker.

I flip through my disks and take out the one with my most recent stories. I clean out the shoebox, slipping Ben’s card in my pocket. It’s so hard to let go.

I sweep the room with my eyes.

Good-bye. Go to hell.

Making for the refrigerator in the kitchen, I chug some orange juice.

The doorbell rings.

Dropping on all fours, I crawl into the living room. I spy out the window, seeing the angel-faced Detective Bates standing at my door holding his ugly briefcase.

He rings again. I wait. He dawdles on the way to his car, then gets in, cranking the engine. As the Chevy pulls away, I breathe a sigh of relief. But then he stops and backs into a side street, parking at a place where he has a clear view of my house.

Shit.

I go back upstairs and pull up my two lists on the computer, trying to memorize them. Then I run downstairs, grabbing my purse and a black windbreaker. I make for the garage.

Sitting in the Porsche, I search my purse, removing the switchblade and slipping it in a side pocket of the nice jeans Ben gave me. Then I open my billfold and take out the Elizabeth Boone IDs, stuffing them in a back pocket with Ben’s card. Just for fun, I put my Clarisse Broder calling card in with them and the Katherine Benson Social Security card. I wouldn’t want to make too clean a break. In the other back pocket, I put a few dollars and some change.

I punch the garage door button and rev the Porsche all in the same moment, shooting out. Tires squeal as I throw it into first and race off. In my rearview mirror, I see Detective Bates fumbling around. I laugh.

After making sure I’ve lost him, I hit the mall. I’m not mall-inclined in general, but today I need speed. I purchase a pair of black jeans and a black T-shirt. Then I go on a small buying spree, picking up some clothes and toiletries, including a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and a pile of CDs.

Back in the Porsche, I ride the turnpike into Jersey, arriving in Philly just after noon. I park in front of my favorite print shop and slap on my wig.

“Not ready,” the motherly Asian woman says when I approach the counter. I take off my sunglasses so she can see the bridge of my nose and my two black eyes.

“It’s an emergency,” I say.

She makes a little bow and disappears into the back. I hear a squabble of dialect punctuated, I imagine, by the waving of arms.

She returns. “Half hour. No birth certificate.”

While I’m waiting, I jog to the gun store. The Uzi is the most beautiful metal object I’ve ever seen, and I’m flabbergasted by the amount of money the gun guy wants for it. I shell it out. I’m thinking about Ben.

For a little added firepower, I have him throw in a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Now I’m pumping.

Back at the print shop, my IDs are ready. Rebecca Cynthia Cross. Maybe my luck will change if I get away from the B names. Rebecca is a blonde. They’re supposed to have more fun.

I pay the woman full price even though I don’t get the birth certificate. She smiles and bows. I bow back, wishing life was just a series of easy bows.

Now I hit the bank and clean out the safety deposit box, stuffing the cash in the gun bag (which has a smiley face on it, by the way). I pick up some lunch, forcing myself to eat.

Back in the Porsche, I see it’s about two in the afternoon. My hands shake when I think of Ben and what will happen if he catches up with me. I tool back to New York, crossing into Manhattan through the Holland Tunnel. Then I get stopped dead in rush-hour traffic.

I check the clock. Five forty-five. Ben’s in a stew by now. I can see the van roaring toward suburbia, filled with cuffs and hoods. I shiver.

After the traffic starts to move, I make for the Brooklyn Bridge, cruising in the slow lane. Once off the bridge, I park at the ferry and check the shoreline. Not so good. The seawalls are formidable. I peruse the little restaurant next to that. It has a dock and a small stair, but it makes me nervous. I enter the state park and stare up at the bridge from below.

Uh-oh. It’s a hell of a long drop.

I return to my waiting Porsche and rip back into Manhattan, thinking about the pictures from Bates’ briefcase, and Ben with his rubber hose. Then there’s Jeremy and his dog routine. I’m not sure I care about anything.

Maybe life is just watching the tooms. Maybe that’s who I am, a toom watcher. And they keep stacking while I’m watching, never moving, never crying.

I open the garage where my Taurus is parked and dump my purchases in the backseat, taking out the black jeans and T-shirt. I change clothes. Then I stuff my two S&W’s under the front driver’s seat. I stick the semiautomatic in the glove box and the Uzi beneath the front passenger seat with several boxes of bullets. I hide my bag of money in a compartment in the trunk.

One last thing. I get out my Rebecca Cross IDs, my Elizabeth Boone IDs, my Clarisse Broder calling card, the Katherine Benson card, Ben’s business card, my disk of stories, and the handful of folded papers, stashing everything in the glove box over the pistol.

I might start having identity problems.

It’s seven in the evening.

I wait.

I’m beginning to get comfortable when I remember that I left that stupid disk with the Taurus and Porsche lists in my computer, ready to be viewed by the next person opening the program.

I scream. I pound my head on the steering wheel, making my headache ripple out into my elbows.

Maybe no one will figure it out. Maybe . . .

I think of the ardent Detective Bates.

Ben comes to mind.

I fire up the Porsche and head back north, toward the suburbs.

Violet started making plans. One day in the park while she was walking Buster, she met some guy named Slim, of all things. Violet could suck a person in. It was her one true talent, showing itself in so many varied and ingenious ways.

The plan that she hatched was that Slim and a friend would contact Ben and reserve a night. They would ask for two girls. They’d bring guns and act like they were kidnapping us.

As easy as that, we’d be free. Then we’d give them our piles of money that Ben kept for us in the bank. Ben always told us it was like a retirement fund. He provided such nice employment benefits.

I had a bad feeling about the plan from the beginning. And I remember Violet the night before our plan was supposed to go. I remember us lighting our candle and turning our glass. I was sick afraid of Ben, like I am now, driving through the neighborhoods.

I park about three blocks behind the house. It’s ten thirty-five. I cut through the lawns, dashing from bush to bush like they do in the cartoons. Making a beeline for the back corner of our yard, I crouch among the blue spruce and watch the house for a long time. Then I slink along the side of the garage, looking up and down the road in front. I don’t see a thing.

I wish I had a cup to turn over.

Gliding to the garage door in back, I key in the alarm code and unlock the door. I slide in fast and hold still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Now I key the alarm at the door to the house. I open that door and slip in, shutting it behind. I sit quietly between the kitchen cabinets on either side, waiting and listening, thinking I hear voices, but I’m not sure.

Crawling along the floor, I leave the kitchen and enter the hall. I’m almost to the winding stairs when I see a man standing inside the front door, holding the curtain back with one hand and staring out at the road. In his other hand is a gun. I curse my lack of firepower.

I back away.

Now I’m more cautious, hitting the back stairs, which are carpeted. I run up silently, getting that floaty feeling like I did before my weekends with Ben. While waiting and watching at the top of the stairs, I hear voices. I look down the hall, which bends to the left and heads toward the master bedroom. A light is coming from that direction, as are the voices.

Across the hall is my studio. I sneak over, crawl to my desk, and hit the eject button on the drive. I take out the disk to check. It’s the right one. Then I get a hair, as they say. I don’t know why I do these things. It’s my own personal version of the berserks.

I take out a Post-it pad and write Jeremy the note I’ve been worrying over for days:

Dearest Jeremy,

I can’t take my life anymore. You’ve been good to me,

but it’s not enough. I’m going to end everything now.

I sign it and stick it on my computer screen, but I can’t let it be. I pull it off and add,

P.S.
: I had a great time screwing with you yesterday. Sit. Lie down. Arf, arf.

I put it back on the screen and crawl to the door. That’s when I hear the familiar thud. I’ve been hearing it ever since I can remember. You never forget the sound of a fist hitting flesh.

“I don’t know!” I’ve never heard Jeremy yell before.

“It’s easy, Jeremy.” Ben’s voice. “Just tell us where she is, and we’ll stop. We’ll let you go.”

God, I never wanted this for Jeremy, even if he is a screwball. I creep to the corner of the hall and look toward the bedroom. Jeremy is taped to a chair and there’s tape over his eyes. At first the only thing I can think is, uh-oh, Jeremy’s going to get a nasty rash.

Ben winds up and hits him again. Blood spatters from his mouth. Now I worry about the white carpeting.

“I don’t know,” Jeremy wails. I can’t take my eyes off Ben’s shoes. Gym shoes.

I hear a woman’s voice. “Ben, I think he really doesn’t know.”

I get a thrill and turn my head to hear better. God, I know that voice, but I can’t place it.

Ben slugs Jeremy again. That’s enough for me. I creep back, hitting the stairs so fast that I slide down the last half of them on my ass. I head for the kitchen. Almost too late, I see that the guy from the front door is standing and looking out the kitchen windows to the backyard. I freeze, edging back into the hallway, hearing the muffled beating happening upstairs.

The guy turns and walks back toward the living room. I slither forward, aiming for the door, when somebody grabs me around the waist. I twist and rise up on my knees ready to fight, but the muzzle of a gun is poking into my cheek. It’s the guy who I thought had left the kitchen.

“Gotcha,” he says real quiet, smiling at me. Then he yells, “Ben, she’s down here.”

What’s amazing to me is that you don’t think or anything. If you think about it, you lose your nerve.

I head-butt the guy right under his chin. Then I jump up, cgrab the iron skillet dangling from a hook above the butcher block and cream the stupid guy’s head. It makes a dull thunk.

Hearing feet running upstairs, I drop the skillet and tear out of there. I slam open the door to the garage, racing out. Just before I make my break across the lawn, I trip the alarm.

It screams. It wails. It reminds me of a thing I know inside of me.

I skate on that scream, sprinting through the lawns like a ‘gator’s behind. Jumping in the Porsche, I fumble with the keys, slide them in, and fire it up. I jam it into gear, thinking of Jeremy, and steer toward our house without headlights. As I whip onto my road, I see a van has appeared and three figures are running out the front door toward it. One is holding his head.

I rev the engine, shriek the tires, and hit the headlights, roaring down the road. Ben and the others jump out of my way as I speed past, hoping to draw them along in my wake.

Out of nowhere, a car pulls out, blocking the road. I notice belatedly that it’s a Chevy Caprice.

Slamming on the brakes, I fishtail and swerve onto Marge and David’s lawn, cutting it up like sushi. I take out the next two lawns, too. Ripping onto the pavement again, I feel rather pleased. Weedkiller. T-bonds.

Good-bye. Nice to know you.

Now that which chases behind is real. The van follows, weaving and listing to the side at each turn. I think of the pictures again, of the Dumpster full of garbage. Somebody had tossed Violet in like she was trash. I remember that thin, long body and the soaking red towel that covered her face. It follows. It chases. It roars behind.