Authors: Wallace Stroby

The Heartbreak Lounge (29 page)

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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“He hurt you, didn't he?” she said.

Harry looked across the table at her. They were in the hotel restaurant, Christmas music playing faintly over the PA. It was late for dinner, nearly nine, and only about a half dozen tables were occupied. They'd finished eating, Nikki barely touching her food, and Harry was on his third Corona, Nikki her second vodka and cranberry juice. She'd worn the sleeveless black sweater, jeans. She looked tired, the lines around her eyes deeper.

“I'm fine,” he said. “Don't worry about me.”

“You say that, but have you looked in a mirror lately? And you don't think I've noticed the way you've been walking?”

“Like I said, I'm fine.”

“Have you heard from Sherry?”

He shook his head.

“Errol went by yesterday. Her car was there but no one answered the door. I'll go by tomorrow, talk to the neighbors.”

“You went back to the house last night, didn't you?”

He looked at her, didn't answer.

“Because I told you he was going to call.”

He shrugged.

“And did you talk to him?” she said.

“Just for a minute.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. I think he was surprised. He knows you're not there now, though, so hopefully that will keep him from going by again. Though Reggie seemed pretty anxious to have that happen.”

“Reggie hasn't got a clue.”

“Have you given any thought to going somewhere for a while yourself?”

She looked at him.

“Is that what you'd like? Are things getting too complicated for you?”

“No. I was thinking about you.”

“This is my home. I've finally come back. And I'm not leaving now. Not because of him. And if I left, I'd have no idea how â¦ close he was getting.”

The waitress brought the check. Harry signed it, charged it to the room.

“What about the agency?” she said.

“You were right. It's part of a larger, national one, based in D.C. I've already got a phone number, names. I'll make some calls, see what we can find out, who we can talk to.”

“You work fast.”

“So does Harrow. We need to keep that in mind.”

“When I asked you last night,” she said. “About when this would be over.”

“Yes.”

“You said soon. What did that mean?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Because John works fast.”

“Maybe.”

“So if he keeps looking for me, if he doesn't give up, it'll be resolved soon, right? One way or the other? Is that what you mean?”

“I don't know. But one thing at a time. The object right now is to keep you safe.”

She looked off across the restaurant, then back at him.

“Getting involved with me,” she said. “It's cost you a lot, hasn't it?”

“Come on. I'll take you up to your room. I need to get going.”

In the elevator, he pushed the button for 9 and when he turned to her, she kissed him. Her tongue darted out, bumped against his teeth. He opened his mouth, his upper
lip a dull pain, tasted the sweet tang of the vodka, felt the softness of her breasts against his chest.

The elevator bonged and the door opened onto the corridor. She smiled and pulled away from him.

He followed her to her door. Down the hall, an ice machine hummed and clattered.

“Come on in,” she said, opening the door. “If you want, we can still call room service, get a drink.”

“No, I'm good,” he said. He looked around the room, went to the window, looked out.

“See anybody?” she said.

He shook his head.

“Then why don't you close the curtain?”

She went into the bathroom and he heard water running. He pulled the curtain shut along its track.

There was a closet with a mirrored sliding glass door in the room. He turned a nightstand lamp on, stood in front of the mirror. The marks on his neck were fading, his lip still slightly swollen.

He heard the water shut off.

“Admiring yourself?” she said when she came out.

“Just taking your advice.”

She came up beside him.

“You're still handsome,” she said. “Don't worry about it.”

He turned to her. She touched his chest, then kissed his upper lip, his neck where the bruises were.

“You're shaking a little,” she said.

“You should feel my heart.”

She slid a hand under his sweater, touched his bare chest.

“I can feel it.” Her fingers drifted over his nipple, then down his chest. She rubbed him softly through his jeans, then her hands went to his belt.

“Wait a minute â¦” he breathed.

“Shhh.” She put a fingertip to his lips.

She reached down, caught the edge of her sweater, drew it up over her head, shook her hair free of it. The bra was sheer white lace, her nipples hard beneath it. She tossed the sweater on the bed behind them, reached for his belt again,
unsnapped his jeans. He watched in the mirror and she tugged slightly, freed him.

She looked into his eyes, started to kneel.

“You don't have to do this,” he said and then he was in her mouth and he felt himself cry out softly, almost involuntarily. He looked at her in the mirror as she worked him with her hand and mouth, felt the heat rising inside.

“Here,” he said. He reached down, started to pull her up. She resisted at first, her hand and mouth moving faster, but he drew her up and off him. She looked at him, puzzled at first, and he kissed her hard, feeling the pain in his lip. His tongue slid into her mouth and she sucked on it, closed her eyes, her right hand still on him, stroking. He bent, tucked his right arm beneath her knees, lifted her up.

She looked up at him as he carried her to the bed, set her on the sheets.

“You're beautiful,” he said and she touched his swollen lip again, shutting him up.

“Don't talk,” she said.

They lay there in bed, her head on his chest. He couldn't tell if she was awake or not.

Tired as he was, he couldn't sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, Harrow was there. He could feel the coldness of the knife blade, the oil taste of the suppressor as it pushed into his teeth. He could see Harrow taking the license out, reading it.

Lying bitch.

But what had she lied about?

He looked down at her, breathing softly, eyes closed. He touched her hair and she curled tighter against him.

When Harrow had called her two nights ago, it was the first time they'd spoken in years. But that was after the alley.

And then he knew.

He jostled her awake as he reached for the phone. He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty.

“What's wrong?” she said sleepily.

He didn't answer. He was too busy dialing. And hoping it wasn't too late.

While Errol drove, Harry used his cell phone to try the number again. After the tenth ring, he ended the call.

“Nothing?” Errol said.

Harry shook his head, closed the phone.

“Well, we're almost there,” Errol said. “Here's the street.”

“That's her car, the Honda.”

Errol parked behind it.

“Same place it was last time,” he said.

Harry took the heavy aluminum flashlight from the floorboard, got out. Errol took a smaller one from the glove box.

He shone the light in the back of the Honda, heard Errol's car door shut. A suitcase in the back, the car seat, toys on the floor. The car was locked.

He started up the walk, Errol behind him. There were two rolled-up newspapers on the porch in front of the door, wrapped in plastic.

He pushed the bell with a gloved thumb, held it down. Did it again.

“I'll look around back,” Errol said.

Harry tried the door, locked. He looked at his watch. A little after midnight.

“Harry,” Errol called.

He went around the house. Errol stood by the wooden fire escape, shining his flashlight beam on the first steps. There were footprints there in the frozen snow.

“Boots,” Harry said.

“Maybe we should call the locals.”

Harry looked up to the third-floor window.

“I'm going up,” he said.

He stepped carefully, avoiding the footprints already there. He heard Errol coming up behind him, doing the same. When he reached the landing, he turned, saw Errol had the .380 out. They could hear a TV on somewhere inside.

“If she's in there,” Errol whispered, “we're going to scare the hell out of her.”

Harry looked through a window into a dim kitchen, saw the outside storm window had been pushed up in its frame. He put gloved fingertips against the inside window. It swung in easily. He could see puddles of melted snow on the linoleum, footprints.

“Careful,” Errol said.

Harry pushed open the window, swung his legs in. When he got both feet on the floor he waited, listening. The TV still, nothing else.

He held the window open. Errol came in behind him.

“Sherry,” Harry called out. No answer.

He started for the hallway and Errol touched him on the shoulder, pointed at the refrigerator. He turned the flashlight on, saw the bloody handprints on the refrigerator door, a juice carton on the counter, marked with small red fingerprints.

He felt his stomach tighten. Errol had put his flashlight away, had the .380 in a two-handed grip, muzzle pointed at the ground. He looked at Harry, raised an eyebrow.

They went into the hall together. The TV noise was coming from the living room to their right. More bloody handprints here on the wall, knee-high, dark against the pale blue paint.

“Janey?” Harry said.

No answer. He felt the cold now, the draft sweeping through the open kitchen window. There was a thermostat on the wall. Sixty-four degrees. He felt the pull of the draft around his ankles. There had to be another window open. He looked to his left, saw a closed door at the end of the corridor.

Errol cocked his head at the living room and they went down the hall slowly. He put the .380 in first, swiveled to cover the room, his back to the wall.

Harry went in beside him. The room was empty, an infomercial on the television. There was a Disney video half wedged into a dark VCR, bloody fingerprints on the label. Half a dozen children's videos lay scattered around, out of their cases, daubed with blood.

The phone lay on the coffee table, off its base, fingerprints there too. His eyes followed the cord across the floor. It ended abruptly, sliced through, the last part of it missing. Something caught his eye beneath the couch. He knelt, reached with his left hand, picked up a cigarette filter that had been broken off, tossed away. He set it on the table.

“Time to get on the phone,” Errol said.

Harry went back into the hallway, down to the closed door. There was another door across the hall, slightly open. A third door opened onto a dark bathroom.

He tried the first door, turned the knob, pushed it open. Knowing what he was going to find.

Sherry lay on her side on the floor, in between the bed and the wall. There were sheets tangled around her legs. A child's blanket had been pulled over her, up to her neck, red fingerprints on it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Errol said behind him.

There was blood on the carpet, blood on the wall, blood in the bed. All dried. Cold air whistled through an open window above the headboard.

Harry knelt. Sherry's eyes were half-open, staring at the wall. Near her head was a plastic sippy cup, marked with tiny red fingerprints. He touched the bare flesh of an ankle, felt the coldness.

Slowly, he pulled the blanket away from her. She wore a long nightshirt, once white, now dark red and stiff with blood. He could see the stab wounds to her chest and stomach, the material of the nightshirt torn where the knife had gone in. He laid the blanket back over her.

They waited outside the second door, listening, not wanting to go in. Then Harry put his fingers against the door, pushed it open.

Muppet posters on the walls, a toy box in one corner, a
dollhouse beside it. A Mickey Mouse night-light. In the bed, the golden-haired girl from the playground was wrapped in covers, clutching a stuffed rabbit, breathing softly.

Harry exhaled. Errol came in behind him, holstered the .380. He took the cell phone from his jacket pocket, stepped back into the hall.

Harry reached for the light switch, saw the bloody fingerprints there too. He flicked it up and an overhead light fluttered, went on.

Janey stirred, gripped the rabbit tighter. There was blood on the rabbit, blood on the sheets, blood on everything she had touched.

He crouched down.

“Janey?”

She rolled tighter into the covers.

“Janey, honey, are you all right?”

She sat up then, blinking in the light, looked at him, not letting the rabbit go. She wore pale blue pajamas with feet, a cartoon lion on the front.

“Are you hurt, sweetheart?” he said.

She knuckled sleep from an eye. Her face was smeared with dried blood where she had rubbed it. He could hear Errol talking on the cell in the hallway.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I'm a friend of your mother's,” he said. “Remember? From the park?”

“Mommy's sick,” she said. “I tried to help her, but she won't wake up.”

He rose slowly to his feet, looked down at her.

“Will you take care of my mommy?” she said.

Harry leaned in the doorway, felt a bone-deep tiredness. She looked at him, impassive. But he couldn't meet her eyes.

They were sitting in Ray's Camry, engine running, watching uniformed people move in and out of the house like ants, red and blue lights bathing the front of the building. Neighbors stood bundled on porches, watching. He could see Errol on the front walk, talking to an Avon cop.

“She was going to leave town,” Harry said. “Get away from here. Her and the girl.”

“Not soon enough, I guess,” Ray said. “She shouldn't have waited.”

When Harry didn't respond, Ray looked at him.

“This wasn't your fault,” Ray said.

Harry watched two EMTs carry the covered stretcher out the front door, balance it gingerly as they came down the porch steps.

“You're wrong,” he said. “It was.”

They slid her into the back of the EMT van, one tech climbing up inside. The other shut the door, went around and got in the passenger side. The van pulled away from the curb, no flashing lights, no siren.

They'd told their story twice already. Errol knew one of the first Avon cops to arrive and that had helped them, smoothed the way for when the county people had shown up. Harry watched the lights and the movement around him, felt an echoing emptiness inside, a leaden weight in his limbs.

“Did you call her?” he said.

“Not yet,” Ray said. “I will.”

“I'll do it.”

“Better if you let me. You're not in too good shape yourself right now.”

Harry reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out the hundred-dollar bill Sherry had given him. He looked at it, turned it over in his hands, put it back in his pocket.

Branson, the county man, came out the front door, looked around. A uniformed Avon cop came up to him, spoke, pointed at the Camry. He started toward them.

“Here we go again,” Ray said and shut off the engine.

Harry opened the door, got out. Ray did the same. It was colder than before, the wind stronger now. Harry pushed gloved hands deeper into his pockets.

Branson had a shaved head, dark goatee. He wore a black overcoat over a suit. Harry felt Ray come up, stand at his shoulder.

“We hit the trailer,” Branson said. “Picked up the brother. There was a woman and a little girl there too. No sign of Harrow. The brother says he doesn't know where he is, the woman too. We're holding on to him in the meantime, though, and we've put out a BOLO with Harrow's description. No word yet.”

Harry nodded, saw flashes in the third-floor windows, then a constant bright light. Photographers from the mobile crime scene van, stills and video.

“From what you've told me, it sounds like Harrow won't go down easy,” Branson said. “So when we get a location on him, we'll go in with a tactical team. Sooner or later he'll show up.”

“The little girl,” Harry said. “Janey. Who's got her?”

“DYFS for the moment. We're trying to track down some relatives. She'll be safe.”

“That's good,” Harry said, hearing the flatness in his own voice.

“I'm sorry,” Branson said to him, “that you had to be the one to find her. I know what it's like. Looks like the mother was dead a day at least, maybe longer. So the kid was trapped in there the whole time with her. I guess the only thing to be grateful for is he didn't hurt the little girl.”

“He did,” Harry said.

Branson looked at him, then understood. He looked away.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess you're right. She won't be much of a witness, though, when it comes down to it. It's like having no witness at all. The only thing we can hope is she's young enough, she might forget most of this, you know? Move on.”

Harry shook his head slowly.

“She'll never forget.”

Errol came down the walk toward them.

“We'll need all three of you tomorrow,” Branson said. “Down in Freehold. Make an official statement. Get it recorded.”

“You got it,” Ray said. “We'll be there.”

“If anything comes up in the meantime, if we get a hit on Harrow or the brother, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Ray said. They shook hands.

Branson looked at Harry.

“Then that's it, I guess. See you gentlemen tomorrow.”

He turned and headed back to the crime scene van.

Ray looked from Harry to Errol and back.

“Come back to the office,” he said. “We can talk this thing through, try and figure out what happens now. And both of you look like you could use a drink.”

“You're right on that,” Errol said.

“You go back with Ray,” Harry said. “I'll follow.”

They both looked at him.

“Go on,” he said. “I have a phone call to make.”

Ray had taken a bottle of Chivas from the credenza behind his desk, splashed some into three glasses. He pulled his chair out from behind the desk and the three of them sat in a triangle, Harry looking at the floor, Errol with his elbows on his knees, turning the glass around in his hands.

Ray sipped scotch, set the glass on the edge of the desk.

“There's a couple things we should go over,” he said.

“It was my fault,” Harry said. “I thought he'd come after me.”

“There's no way you could have known what would happen,” Ray said.

“If I hadn't gone to see that woman, talk to herâpressure herâshe'd still be alive today.”

“You don't know that,” Ray said.

Harry set his untouched glass on the carpet.

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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