Unleashed (28 page)

"Now you can say what you want about me, but taking the Lord's name in vain—really, Joy." She pulled herself up tall. I hung my head, which she took to mean an admittance of defeat instead of the pure fatigue it really was. "Now Joy, I think that your brother, sitting from where he is now, would appreciate a service that glorifies God." I looked up at her. Her eyes were glowing the way only religious fervor can make eyes glow.

"No."

She exhaled. "I'm your mother."

"That doesn't give you the right to deny James's entire life."

"I don't deny his life." She leaned over and took my hand. "I just think it's important for you to realize God did this for a reason."

"Did what?" A burning started in my chest.

"Called him to Him."

"Killed him?" She nodded. "You think James was murdered because he was gay?"

"The Lord works right here on Earth." I pulled my hand away.

"He was your son," I told her.

"We are all God's children," she rebutted.

"You are so cold."

She reached for my hand again, but I recoiled from her. "Don't you understand? I am filled with God's love."

"Mom, if you try and make this funeral about God instead of James, I will never speak to you again, do you understand me?"

"Joy, my path is clear."

"Please."

"I'm going to do what I feel is best for my own son. Now, let's talk about something else."

"You can't. He had a will."

"There's a police officer who wants to see you. I've already spoken to him."

"Mom."

"It's important that he speak to you, and I told him that I would call him as soon as you were awake. I'll be right back." She leaned in to try and kiss me, but I dodged her. She looked at me and said, "I hope one day, before it's too late, you will come to understand." She pursed her lips and looked at me with eyes full of something I didn't understand. "Why won't you just let Jesus share some of your burden?"

"Because I don't need him. I can take responsibility for myself. My success and my failures are mine and mine alone."

"That's what you are, Joy. Alone." She stared down at me. "Your whole life you've been alone."

"I've never been alone." I sat up and felt shooting pains in all sort of places. "I always had James. When you were drunk and destroying our lives, when Dad was dying, when you were getting sober and finding God, I had James. And even now, when he's dead, I still have him. I feel bad for you that you never got to know him."

"He was my son."

"And you never knew him. You never understood him, and you never tried. Just get out." She reached a hand toward me, her eyes wet. I slapped it away, too angry to find compassion, even for my own mother. She held the slapped hand to her chest, opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and walked to the door. She opened it and then turned to me. "Joy, the devil is at your doorstep." Her voice quivered. "If you invite him in—" Her fear at my fate stopped the words in her throat. My eyes burned, and I turned away from her. The door closed.

Hugh walked in minutes later. "She is an unbelievable bitch," I told him before the door had a chance to swing shut.

"What?"

"She believes that from where James is now, he would want his funeral to glorify God."

"No." The blood was quickly draining from Hugh's face.

"She thinks you guys were confused. She thinks we're all God's children."

"It's OK. He had a will."

"Oh, she'll get all her ridiculous God-loving buddies down here and they'll sue or protest or something. 'Bill says’, ‘Bill says.'" I did a lousy impression of my mother. "Calm down. It'll be all right." Hugh sat down on the edge of my bed. "No matter what she does she can't ruin our memories. Even if Jesus himself protests, we'll know. Right?"

"No wonder my brother loved you." He smiled. "What does his will actually say about his funeral?"

"Well, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge."

"That's beautiful."

"And totally illegal. So I figure we'll do it at night and then just run like crazy."

I laughed. "How James is that?"

"I know. Nona has offered to host a service at her place first, then we can walk in a procession to the bridge. I figure there's strength in numbers. If the cops try to arrest us, we can always just scatter."

"Hugh, it's hard to scatter on a bridge."

"Don't be such a defeatist," he smiled.

"Sorry."

"There's something else."

"Yeah."

"James had life insurance."

"He did?"

"It was a $100,000 policy."

"Wow."

"And he left it all to you."

"To me?"

Hugh nodded. I didn't know what to say. "You look tired."

"Hmm?"

"You want to watch TV for a little while?"

"Yeah, sure." I couldn't believe that my brother, my best friend, had a $100,000 life insurance policy. "Why didn't he tell me?" I asked Hugh, who was flipping through the stations on the little TV hanging on the wall.

"I don't know." He turned to look at me. "He just wanted to make sure that if something happened to him, you would be OK. I mean, he knew you would be OK, but he just thought this would make it easier."

I looked up at the TV in time to watch the channel change from Judge Joe Brown to New York One. The mayor's wife stood before an audience in front of a new building. "I know my husband would love to be here today. This shelter behind me means as much to him as it does to me. But even the mayor of New York gets the flu." A smattering of laughter rose from the crowd. "This new building will provide respite for the thousands of homeless mothers and children on the streets of New York. But beyond that, it will also offer educational opportunities that we hope will allow them to get off the streets and stay off them." The crowd clapped with enthusiasm. The first lady of New York smiled a perfect smile. On her ears glinted large gold earrings.

As the news cut to a commercial, Declan Doyle knocked on the door. Hugh excused himself as I clicked off the TV. Declan sat on the chair next to my bed and reached out to hold my hand. I found it hard to look at him. "How are you?" he asked softly.

"Not good."

"What happened?"

"The mayor killed my brother and tried to kill me and my dog," I blurted out. Declan dropped my hand.

"Shit. Have you told anyone else?"

Relief washed over me. He believed me. It felt amazing to have it off my chest. "I have not talked to anyone else. I didn't know what to do."

"All right," Doyle stood up and crossed to the window. "I'll get you some money and you can get out of here."

"What?"

"You've got to go Joy, you've got to run." He looked back at me, his brow was creased, and he frowned. "I'm sorry, but it's the way it's got to be."

"What, and let him get away with it?" I sat up in bed, pushing the covers back.

"What?" Declan laughed. "You think you're going to take him down?
You're
going to stop Kurt Jessup."

"Well—"

"Joy, he will be taken care of, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Karma, sweetheart." He smiled at me.

"You're joking. My brother's been murdered and you're joking with me right now. Are you fucking mad?"

"I'm not the one claiming that the mayor is a killer. You sound crazy Joy, and that's how everyone will treat you."

"Get out," I said.

"Look, I know you're upset, but I'm trying to help you."

"Really, because it sounds like you're trying to help the murdering bastard who killed my brother!"

"Joy, calm down."

"Get the fuck out of this room before I make you." I picked up my glass of water and threw it at him. It fell short, spilling all over the floor.

Declan looked down at it. "Joy, listen to me. I really like you. You're a hell of a girl. That's why I'm telling you that if you want to live, get your shit together and leave New York City." He looked up from the floor and caught my eyes with his. "If you're not gone by the end of the month I won't be able to help you after that."

"What does that mean?"

But Doyle didn't answer me. He stepped over the spilled water and walked out the door.

###

I
do not think of myself as the type of person to learn something from my dreams, but while I was sleeping I figured out what I had to tell the police. It was a vivid and nasty dream, but it solved a problem. I called Mulberry to tell him about it.

"Wait, why are you going to lie to the police? Why make up a story? Don't you want them to catch whoever did this to you?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. Was everyone an idiot? "Have you really not figured it out yet?" I asked him. There was silence. "Get this, the mayor is not dead—yet." I hung up.

Detective Heart showed up as I clicked down the receiver. He had a friendly smile that implied he could be trusted. Detective Heart, who insisted I call him John, sat down in the only chair in the room.

"Joy—can I call you Joy?"

"Sure."

"Joy, I know this is hard for you. You've been through more than I can imagine." His empathy meant more when contrasted with my mother's reaction. His big, warm eyes and soft voice made me sad that I would have to lie to him. "I can only guess at how much you want your brother's killer caught. But let me tell you that I want it very much." He leaned toward me, earnest.

"I appreciate that."

"I need you to help me."

I wanted to. I really did. I wanted to tell John Heart everything. I wanted to lay all the weight of the thing on him, but I knew I couldn't do that. He would never believe me. "I wish I could help you, but I just don't remember anything about that night," I said.

"Tell me what you do remember."

"I walked into my apartment, and then I woke up here."

"What about the night before your brother was killed?"

"I remember it."

"Nona said you were attacked in the park?" I nodded. "Where did you sleep that night?"

"At Detective Mulberry's place, of the 67th Precinct." John didn't seem surprised.

"Why?"

"I ran into him in the park right after it happened."

"Why didn't you file a complaint with him?"

"I really just wanted to sleep somewhere I felt safe. I promised I would go to the station with him in the morning if he would just let me stay at his place."

"Wasn't he recently thrown off a murder investigation and placed on suspension because it was suspected that he had mistreated you?"

"That wasn't true."

"Why would someone think that?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you clear his name?"

"No one asked me."

"Are you sleeping together?" That caught me off guard for no good reason. "No. No."

"But you're close?"

"Sort of. It's not like he's been to visit me."

"You said he made you feel safe."

"He's a cop."

"Cops are often scary, especially to people your age."

"Not him."

"What about this attack in the park. Can you tell me about it?"

"Yes." He waited for me to continue. "I was walking through the park, and as I was passing the Peter Pan statue, a man grabbed me from behind. He threw me into the bushes. He punched me and told me he was going to rape me." John was watching my face. I looked down at my hands and tried really hard to believe my lie. "He unzipped his pants. I kicked at him, and he punched me again. I struggled and he wrapped his hands around my throat." A tear dropped onto the sheets. "I thought I was going to die. But just as I was about to black out, I managed to buck him off me and climb out of the bushes. I ran blindly through the park, but I don't think he followed. I ran right into Mulberry. He made me walk back and show him where it had happened and look around for the guy, but he was gone."

"So he didn't radio for a search?"

"I really just wanted to go somewhere safe." I looked up at John again.

He pulled out a small, black, spiral-bound notebook and a knobby pencil from inside his suit jacket. He licked the pencil, flipped open the book, and wrote something down. Then he looked back at me. "Could you recognize the man who attacked you in the park?"

"Maybe. It's all such a blur."

"Do you think it was someone you knew?

"No." The question made me nervous.

"Did you know that Marcus Nygel has been seen around your building?"

"We used to date," I said stupidly.

He smiled. "Yes, I know. I think it's possible that he is a little obsessed with you." I didn't know what was happening all of a sudden. My lies were choking me. "Do you think that's possible?"

"I'm sure that it wasn't him."

"Sometimes it's hard to think something like this about someone you cared for, but it's more likely that you knew the killer of your brother than that you didn't."

"I would know if it was him. I mean, I was with him for a while," I protested.

"Just think about it. Try to think about how he's been acting since the breakup."

"Not like a stalker." John stood up to leave. "Wait. I really think you have the wrong idea here. Marcus didn't do this. He wouldn't."

"I've got a lot of leads to follow up on. If you can remember anything—stuff might come back to you over the next few days—call me. Anytime." He placed a card on the bedside table.

"I—" I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Just think about it." And he was gone.

I
flitted in and out of sleep unsure of what time or day it was. My father, who died in a hospital when I was a child, became very paranoid toward the end of his life. He told my mother that they were trying to kill him because at night, in the dark, he would try and pull out the tube that ran down his nose to feed him, and the staff restrained him to save him. He mistook this as attempted murder.

Me, I was right that someone was trying to kill me when I woke up in the night, in the dark, to find my face covered by a pillow. Strong hands pushed down on my nose and mouth. I thrashed under the pressure and knocked my arm into one of the metal gates on the side of my bed meant to keep me from inadvertently tumbling to the ground. I reached through it and felt blindly at a man's leg. My lungs felt on the verge of explosion when I found his balls.