Body and Bone (13 page)

“I'll have to miss my book club, but you know I'll do anything for my boyfriend.” That's what she called Daltrey, to Nessa's revulsion. Linda sighed, put-­upon, but agreed to pick Daltrey up in the morning.

As Nessa drove into town to Lock It Up later, she couldn't shake the feeling of the would-­be rapist's hands on her, the gun pointed at her. She'd showered twice that morning, but now she felt like she needed another one. She felt like she was covered in slime.

Lock It Up Locksmith Ser­vices was housed in a converted brick home. She walked in and asked to see the owner.

“I've used your company before, but I want to talk to him to see if there's a more sophisticated system we should be using. Or maybe you could show me—­”

“He should be back anytime,” the receptionist said. “He went to lunch. If you want to wait, that's fine.”

Nessa watched the receptionist play
The Sims
on her computer until she got bored and leafed through some old magazines. Finally, the bell over the door sounded, and an older man with thin silver hair and glasses walked in leading a younger guy who was looking at his phone. Nessa recognized him—­what was his name? Brady, the kid who'd changed her locks.

She stood and introduced herself. The owner clasped her outstretched hand, and Brady looked up from his phone and started. He looked quickly away.

“Hey, Brady,” she said.

“Hi,” he said, without looking at her. “I have a doctor's appointment, Jerry. Forgot about it. I'll be back in a few.” He turned and walked out the door.

Nessa watched him go. Why wouldn't he look at her?

The thought that struck her took her breath away. The key the would-­be rapist showed her was from the new locks. The locks Brady had installed. In the trauma of the moment, this hadn't occurred to her.

“Will you excuse me for just a minute?” she said. “I want to thank Brady personally for the great job he did on our house.”

She followed Brady out the door where he was sprinting toward a truck.

“Hey,” she said.

He didn't hesitate or turn around. He was fumbling with the keys to the truck, and she ran toward him, overcome with the desire to kick this kid's ass. He sold her fucking keys to a fucking rapist.

“Hey, Brady,” she said.

He didn't respond.

“Are you the one who placed the ad?”

He turned then, his face a mask of confusion.

“How much did you get, you little punk-­ass bitch?” she hissed.

He turned back to the truck door, trying desperately to get his key in the lock.

“I don't know what you're talking about, lady,” he said.

Nessa had to force herself not to start screaming and clawing at him, force herself to realize she needed to go mom on him rather than Robocop. She caught up to him and put her hand on his. “I can get you fired right now,” she said, “or you can tell me who you sold my key to, and your boss never needs to know.”

She grabbed his keys away from him and put them in her pocket. “Look at me,” she said in the same tone she'd use with Daltrey when he was ignoring her. “I need your help. Whoever you sold my keys to came into my house in the middle of the night and tried to rape me.”

Brady continued to look at the ground.

“I have a little boy,” she said, pleading. “You met him. You've put him and me in danger. Don't you give a shit?”

The kid started to cry.

“Listen. Just tell me the truth and I swear I won't tell your boss. I just need to know who it was.”

He couldn't stop crying.

“How much did he pay you?”

“A hundred dollars,” the kid said, wiping his nose on his arm. “Both times.”

“Wait—­what? Both times?”

Brady started crying anew. “I needed the money.”

Nessa tried to compose herself. She had to confirm that it was Nathan who'd bought the keys. “Was this guy about six-­four? Blond?”

“No,” Brady said.

Of course Nathan wouldn't be blond after spending twenty-­three hours a day inside a prison.

“Not blond, then,” Nessa said.

“And not six-­four either,” Brady said. The crying had stopped, but he still looked terrified. “He was—­”

“Taller or shorter?”

“A lot shorter. About my height.”

Brady looked to be about five-­nine. She puzzled over this.

“Don't you even know how tall your own husband is? Ex-­husband, whatever?”

“Kid,” Nessa said. “It wasn't my ex-­husband. He's—­”

“But it was,” Brady insisted. “He showed me his driver's license.”

“His—­”

“Yes! I know it was him because he has the same last name as you. Donati. John Donati.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

A
ND
THEN
N
ESSA
was on her back on the pavement, staring up at the sky with Brady kneeling next to her, crying again. She didn't know how long she'd been out, whether she'd hit her head, or if she'd had a seizure, or just fainted.

“Mrs. Donati?” Brady was patting her hand with his clammy one. She yanked her hand away and sat up. “Are you all right?”

Her hands were scraped up from the gravelly surface beneath her.

John was alive.

“When did this happen?” she said. “When did . . . Mr. Donati buy the keys from you?”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Just answer the question,” she snapped. “When did this happen?”

Brady startled, then looked up, obviously trying to remember. “It was, like, a week ago. He said you'd locked him out of his house, and he just wanted to get in there and get his stuff. That's all he wanted to do. His name was the same as yours, so I figured it was legit, you know?”

She couldn't breathe, felt like she was going to pitch over again. The world was not real, not at all, it
couldn't be
.

John was alive.

Brady held up a Vulcan “live long and prosper” hand. “I swear to God,” he said, sniveling again. “I never thought something like this would happen. I swear to God.”

She tried to stand.

Her legs turned to water and she fell to the ground again, her bones and muscles no longer capable of supporting her weight, her brain unable to support this fact:

John's alive.

Brady chattered away like a monkey, but she couldn't understand anything he said because she was trying to adjust her worldview.

“I'm going to go get you some water. Stay right where you are.”

As if she could do anything else at this moment.

He ran back inside the locksmith office while she sat leaning against his vehicle's tire in the shade.

She'd never known John at all, not really. And he was so much sicker than she ever realized.

Her mind lined up all the events of the past three weeks, and it was now so obvious. Of course it was John. He was punishing her for keeping him away from
his
stuff,
his
wife,
his
house,
his
son. He'd smeared the pickup truck with his own blood, fired her gun into the bed, and called the cops . . . he'd done all of it. And then tormented her with the details of her past.

Why had he never been that ambitious about jobs?

Brady returned, paper cone in hand, with about thimbleful's worth of water in it. She threw it back and swallowed.

“You can make it up to me,” Nessa said to the quaking locksmith. “If he approaches you again after I change the locks, I want you to text me. Tell him you'll give him the new keys, set up a meeting, then tell me. This is really important. John's a crack addict. He wants to hurt me and my son, my three-­year-­old boy. I don't know if you know anything about addicts, but they don't care about anything but rock. The drugs rot away their brains so that they lose their connection to the ­people they once loved. It's like the rabies virus. It just wants what it wants and to propagate itself without regard to its host. That's what's going on here. Will you do that for me?”

Brady sniffled and wiped his eyes and nose and nodded.

“I will,” he said. “I'm really sorry. I honestly thought he was just trying to get his stuff. I didn't know.”

“Well,” Nessa said, “now you know.” She tried to stand again, and this time succeeded. She got in the Pacifica and headed for home.

The temporary photo of Daltrey with
X
's over his eyes bubbled up in her brain.
He Will Die
scrawled across it. John had meant what he'd said—­he'd rather see Daltrey dead than with her.

She wept as she drove, thinking about everything that was lost. The only man she'd ever loved, the only one to whom she'd bared her soul and then some, had not only not loved her enough to remain drug-­free, but was also now trying to drive her crazy or get her killed. Or drive her to addiction again. How had she been so thoroughly fooled?

A little at a time, John was going to tell everything he knew, like skinning her alive, one inch at a time. Which meant that sometime soon he was going to out her to the cops.

She needed to tell the police that John was alive, and that he was behind all the incidents she'd reported. But that would have to wait until tomorrow, since she knew that Detective Treloar didn't work weekends, and she had no intention of getting stuck with Detective Dickhead.

When she returned home, she was shocked to find Marlon on the top rungs of her collapsible aluminum ladder, leaned against her house.

He wore shorts and a sleeveless T-­shirt, a tool belt around his waist, and he was covered in sweat in the hot late morning. He was bolting something to the back of her house.

“There you are,” he called down.

“What are you doing here?” Nessa said, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight, and was suddenly horrified at what she must look like after just a few hours of sleep, her puffy, tear-­smeared face, her hair a greasy rat's nest.

Thank you, Joyce Gereben, for this lovely maternal legacy you've bestowed upon me.
What did it matter how she looked? Marlon was her sponsor, not her . . . whatever . . .

He appeared as uncomfortable as she felt, perched up there, screwdriver in hand, looking almost as if he'd been caught egging her house.

“Listen,” he said. “I just couldn't let another day go by without getting you some security out here. I went ahead and bought a system for you, and I hope you're not offended—­it's not that I don't think you're a capable human being, can't take care of yourself. In fact, I think you're one of the most competent ­people I've ever met, not to mention ballsy, but—­”

“Can you come down here? I need to tell you what happened this morning. Where are Isabeau and Daltrey?”

“Inside,” he said, tightening a bolt. “Give me just a sec.”

“What are those?” Nessa asked, pointing.

“Video cameras,” he said, “so every area of the house will be covered. I also got a keyless computer entry system for you; Isabeau is putting that together. This has just gotten so insane. We can't let it happen again.”

Nessa bit back an apologetic reply and instead said, “Thank you.”

Marlon came down the ladder and onto the covered deck, where he dropped wearily into a patio chair. Isabeau came out the back door carrying an instruction sheet.

“So let me tell you about your new security system,” she said.

Nessa held up a hand and said, “First let me tell you what I just found out.”

Isabeau and Nessa both sat, then Marlon and Isabeau listened with open mouths and wide eyes as she told them about Brady the locksmith.

“So the person who's been behind all this is—­”

“John,” Marlon said in an awed voice.

Nessa nodded, starting to cry again. Isabeau rose and squatted by Nessa's chair, wrapping her arms around her.

“I'm so sorry,” she said.

“What am I going to do?” Nessa said.

“Well, first thing we're going to do is flame that fucking locksmith on Yelp,” Marlon said.

This was so unexpected that Nessa burst into a howling laugh fueled by hysteria and anguish.

Marlon looked pleased. “And then you have to go to the police,” he said. “You have to tell them.”

“But I promised the kid I wouldn't get him in trouble.”

“Without him, the cops will not believe you,” Marlon said.

“John must be watching the house,” Nessa said. “Brady's coming back out here tomorrow to install new locks again so John'll approach him again to get the keys.”

Isabeau and Marlon glanced at each other, confused.

“And then what?” Isabeau said.

“I'm going to tell the cops I have reason to believe that John's still alive,” Nessa said, “and that he's responsible for all this. But I want to catch him myself.”

“That is ludicrous,” Marlon said.

Nessa couldn't explain that she was trying to keep the police at arm's length while still getting their help—­but on her terms. She couldn't have them fingerprint her, or they'd find out who she really was, and there would be dire consequences. She would lose Daltrey. But she couldn't tell these ­people any of this. John, however, knew everything. And she would not let him destroy her. She would do anything to stop him. Anything.

“Just—­please,” Nessa said. “I want to do this my way. With these new video cameras, we'll be able to catch him in the act, right? Then I can take the video to the cops so they won't think I'm any crazier than they already do.”

Marlon and Isabeau glanced at each other again.

“And my in-­laws are taking Daltrey for a while, so I can concentrate on tracking John down, and Daltrey will be safe.”

“You don't suppose they're helping John?” Marlon said. “Maybe the three of them have set this whole thing up?”

“Oh, no,” Nessa said. “They've been putting up with John's bullshit for more years than I have, and I guarantee you that they would never do anything to hurt Daltrey.”

This was the only thing she was sure of.

“Well,” Marlon said slowly. “This new system should keep John—­and any other potential rapists—­out, regardless of the key situation.”

“You're the boss, boss,” Isabeau said.

“You better keep me in the loop,” Marlon said. “Because I will go to the police and out this locksmith kid if anything goes wrong.”

“John is mostly interested in hurting me emotionally, financially, reputationally.”

“That's not a word,” Marlon said.

“Hurting me physically is just a bonus,” Nessa said.

Isabeau looked from Marlon to Nessa and then down at the instruction sheet she'd been holding the whole time. “So let's find out more about the new security system.”

Nessa could tell she was excited to share.

Isabeau read from the instructions. “ ‘Encrypted locking technology is keyless and codeless—­all you need is your smartphone and the app. Will automatically lock your door behind you when you leave. Compatible with most standard cylinder dead bolts, including Lock-­tite, and blah, blah, blah. Your regular key will still work if you don't have your phone.' ”

Marlon seemed reassured by what he was hearing. “It was the highest-­rated system I could find,” he said.

Isabeau continued reading. “ ‘Instant invites let you give custom access to friends and family.' ” She smiled widely at Nessa and pointed a thumb at herself.

Friends and family.
Is that what these two were now? Nessa found herself choked up at all this work Isabeau and Marlon were doing for her.

“I had no idea you had any real skills,” Nessa said to her sponsor, frowning to cover up her uneasiness at being the object of such affection.

Marlon stood, obviously ready to get back to work. “We all have our secrets.”

Monday, June 20

B
RADY THE LO
CKSMITH
was only too happy to come out on Sunday to replace the locks. He was obsequious and contrite and she actually felt kind of sorry for him.

“Now remember,” she said. “You call me the second he tries to buy keys from you. Understand?”

Brady swore he would do so.

Before Nessa's in-­laws arrived, she looked at the video camera footage to see if John had lurked around the house the night before. She read the directions of how to play the video, then played it at accelerated speed, figuring she'd notice an intruder's appearance.

It was difficult to keep watching, since nothing happened.

When she was done looking at video, Nessa called Lauren to tell her they wouldn't be able to go to the splash park the next day because Daltrey's grandparents were taking him to Kansas City. Lauren was disappointed, of course, but at least Nessa didn't have to lie to her.

Nessa sat outside to intercept her in-­laws before Daltrey saw them. At exactly eight
A.M.,
Linda and Tony Donati drove up and got out of their car. They were in their late sixties and dressed like tourists.

Linda gave Nessa perfunctory air kisses, and Tony hugged her, avoiding her eyes.

“Before I let Daltrey know you're here,” Nessa said, “I need to tell you what's been going on.”

Linda and Tony looked uneasily at each other.

“All right,” Linda said.

Nessa told them about the online harassment, the abandoned truck, the poisoned dog, everything. With each addition to the list, Tony and Linda seemed to shrink, to fold under the weight of what their son had done. The final blow, the story of the almost-­rape, made Linda cover her mouth with her hands.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you all this,” Nessa said, “but that's why I need you to get Daltrey away from here. I've installed a security system at the house, but I want my son safe.”

Tony was nodding, staring at the ground, his hands in his Bermuda shorts pockets. Linda smoothed her hair and straightened.

“We'll keep him as long as you need us to,” she said, a quaver in her voice.

“Thank you,” Nessa said. “Now let's go get Daltrey.”

They went inside, and Linda wiped her teary eyes.

“Where are you, darling boy?” she called out. “Where's my grandson?”

Daltrey came toddling in, all smiles, fat arms held out to his grandma.

“Hello, Daltrey,” she said in a loud slow voice usually reserved for the elderly and the IQ-­challenged. “Grandma and Grandpa are here. Are you ready to go? Are you ready to go to Worlds of Fun? Can you say Worlds of Fun?”