Dina Santorelli (32 page)

Shielding
the screen with her hand, she opened it.

CAN
WE TALK?

She
typed quickly:

IT'S
NOT A GOOD TIME.

The
phone dinged again.

ARE
YOU OK?

I
WILL CALL U LATER, Katherine wrote and then erased the message thread and put
her phone into her jacket pocket as Phillip put his arm around her.

"What
was it you wanted to discuss?" Phillip asked. "Before?"

"Oh,
it's not important," Katherine said. "It can wait."

The heavy rain started up
again as Jamie sat on the main floor of the log cabin looking out the glass
back doors. Large puddles had formed all over the pebbled driveway, making it
look like a minefield. Charlotte sat next to her, ripping pages out of a
magazine that had been on the recycling pile. Other than the intermittent
shredding, it was quiet, and, true to Bailino's word, Jamie hadn't seen Leo all
day.

Benny
was sleeping on the sofa behind her, and Tony was on Facebook again—he had been
sitting there for half an hour and commented on at least twenty posts, as far
as she could tell.

"Are
you hungry?" Joey stood in the kitchen.

Jamie
shook her head.

"What
about her?" Joey pointed to Charlotte, who was arranging all of the scrunched
up pages around her into groups.

"She
had her bottle about an hour ago," Jamie said, looking at the little girl. "She
seems fine right now."

"Crap,
where's the sound on this thing?" Tony said to no one in particular. A Yahoo
news page was coming up on the screen. "Oh, here it is." As Tony turned up the
volume, a news reporter was speaking. "...identified as Robert Scott of
Worcester, Payne & Leach, a Manhattan law firm that specializes in
high-profile criminal cases. Why Scott had been called to the..."

"That's
too loud," Joey said, stepping over to lower the volume.

Jamie
sat still, her face toward the back doors, but her eyes watched the footage of
Bob walking into the Executive Mansion in Albany, which was being shown on a
loop.
What was he doing here
, Jamie wondered.
Had he seen her post?
Would he be coming for her?
There was a flutter of excitement in her belly
when she had a frightening thought: What if Bailino had seen this news report
as well?

A
bolt of lightning shot through the trees, and the log cabin lights went out.

"Fuck,"
Tony said. The computer screen dimmed as the machine switched to battery power.
"Where's the fuse box?"

"It's
downstairs," Joey said. "I'll go. I know where it is." He opened a cabinet and
grabbed a flashlight.

"Son
of a bitch," Tony muttered, looking over at Benny, who remained asleep on the
couch. "Fuckin' guy can sleep through anything." He stood up and stretched his
arms. "Joe, what if it's not just the house, but the whole area? I'm supposed
to play in a poker tournament this afternoon. This battery won't last forever."

"Power
down now, and save your battery," Joey suggested. "I'll be right back."

"This
fuckin' sucks." Tony pushed the laptop across the buffet. "What are you looking
at?" he asked Jamie, who averted her eyes.

Joey
was yelling something from the basement.

"What?
I can't hear you?" Tony yelled back.

"Shut
the fuck up, already," Benny said, turning over on the sofa.

Tony
kicked one of Charlotte's piles of paper on the floor and walked into the
kitchen. "What?" He leaned his head inside the basement stairwell.

Nobody
else saw it, except for Jamie, because she was sitting so close to the glass
doors. When the power blew, the small red indicator light on the electronic
lock turned green—probably as a safety precaution. Her mother's words came to
her again in a whisper:
Driving is easy.
Go when it's green, stop
when it's red. The real trick is learning to live your life that way.

Without
wasting any time, she stood, picked up Charlotte, pulled on the glass doors,
and was half-surprised when they opened with ease, but not before making a
heavy dragging sound.

"What
the...?" she heard Tony say as she darted out the door and into the rain.

The
grass was wet and furry under her bare feet, and Jamie ran as fast as she could
across the manicured lawn and into the brush and trees, toward the river. The
raindrops felt like pellets against her forehead and Charlotte felt like a sack
of potatoes in her arms, but she wasn't crying—the little girl hid her head in
the crook of Jamie's neck and was holding on tightly. There were yells coming
from behind her now and rustling.
Don't turn back
, she thought.
Just
go
. She ran around trees, hoping they'd shield her from detection as
lightning lit up the sky, followed by a quick clap of thunder, and Charlotte held Jamie tighter.

The
river appeared through the brush. It seemed wider and rougher than it had the
day before as Jamie ran across the riverbank, ignoring the pain under her feet,
trying to keep from slipping. Her steps stomped through the mud and then
splashed into the shockingly cold water. More splashes came from behind her as
she waded into the river.

SINK OR SWIM: THE TIME IS NOW TO LIVE THE LIFE YOU
DESERVE
.

Random
images flashed across Jamie's mind with every push through the water: The swing
of the rake... Leo tearing at her clothing... The footage of Bob at the
Executive Mansion... Her mother's closet filled with clothes with the tags
still on them...  
I'll take care of you
... Charlotte's screaming face as
she came up from under the bathtub water. Jamie looked at the little girl:
You
can do this, I know it
. She strengthened her grip on Charlotte and, just as
the river was waist high, dove in.

Bailino put his three items
on the supermarket checkout belt: a box of Cheerios, a gallon of chocolate
milk, and a bouquet of roses.

"That'll
be six dollars and ninety-seven cents, ma'am," the trainee in pinstripes said
to the customer in front of him.

"This
isn't mine," the old woman said, waving a box of tampons in the air.

The
cashier sighed. "I need a void!" she yelled.

Bailino
looked over at the self-checkouts, but there was a line five people long, so he
decided to stay where he was. He unclipped his phone from his belt and quickly
waded through a series of emails and texts from George, who needed his
authorization on a few things. He sent a quick text, placed the phone back in
its holder, reached into his pocket, and took out Jamie's phone again, clicking
to the photo of the little girl and her mother. He looked closely at the girl
in the navy-blue jumper. Jamie hadn't changed much from the time she was a
child—she had the same innocent eyes and cherubic face. She looked very much
like her mother.

The
food on the checkout belt sputtered forward, and Bailino took a step with it.

"Do
you have a store card?" the cashier asked him.

Bailino
shook his head.

"No
worries. I can swipe one for you." She placed a small plastic card over the
scanner. "This way, you can get the store specials." She smiled.

"Thank
you," he said. As the young lady rang up his items, Bailino pressed the menu
button on Jamie's phone, and several applications popped up: Maps, Browser,
Camera, Facebook, Twitter, Evernote, Sudoku. He grazed his finger along the
Evernote app, which opened into a series of folders titled "Things to
Remember," "2012 Goals," and "Story Ideas." Bailino was impressed by the
receptiveness of this particular smartphone model—sometimes he'd literally had
to jab his into compliance—and made a mental note to upgrade. He closed
Evernote and touched on the Facebook icon and was brought to Jamie's profile
page, where the words "Help Albany Charlotte," posted with the timestamp
yesterday,
10:21 a.m.
, leapt off the screen. By the time Bailino read the comment
"Where r u??" left by Edward, he was already in his car.

Nurberg parked the police car
in the driveway of the log cabin, behind a black limousine. The rain streaked
the foggy driver's-side window, and he couldn't see the address on the mailbox.
He rolled the window down as rain spilled into the car.

"This
is it," he said to Edward, who was sitting next to him.

Tracing
Jamie Carter's Facebook IP address was the first deviation Nurberg had ever
taken from police procedure. Having Edward Carter in the car was the second,
but that certainly wasn't his idea. Edward sensed that Nurberg was going rogue
in taking this little road trip, especially since he had to duck past Grohl on
his way out of the station. The son of a bitch threatened to go to his
"superiors" if he didn't let him tag along; Nurberg's hands were tied.

"Well,
let's go," Edward said, putting his hand on the door lever.

"Wait,
I think you should stay in the car."

"You're
kidding, right?"

"No,
Mr. Carter..."

"Please
call me Edward."

"Edward,
this isn't..."

"I'm
not staying." Edward opened the passenger door, and the wet air rushed inside
the car.

"Wait,"
Nurberg said. "We can both get into a lot of trouble."

"For
what? Ringing a doorbell?" Edward closed the car door, leaving it slightly ajar
to keep the rain from coming in.

"At
least, I don't know... Let's have some kind of plan. If she's here, fine. But
what if she's not? Why are we here?" Nurberg thought quickly. "Okay, you came
to the police station, and there was something wrong with your car, and I'm
driving you to your relatives' house, but you wrote down the wrong address, and..."

Edward
was out the door and walking toward the house.

"Fuck,"
Nurberg muttered as he followed him toward the cabin.

By
the time the two men reached the front door, they were soaked. Nurberg pushed
the doorbell and undid the safety on his weapon, but left it in its holster.
Edward shot him a look.

"Just
in case," Nurberg said.

A
bolt of lightning lit up the woods, the bellowing thunder seeming like it would
crack the sky. "Jesus," Nurberg said, looking around at the trees. "This is
probably the worst place to be in a lightning storm."

"Yeah,
or in that river we just passed," Edward said.

Nurberg
pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and rang the bell again as Edward knocked
on the door.

"Hello?"
Edward called. "Is anyone here? Jamie?"

Nurberg
opened the screen door and peered through the small window in the front door.
"It doesn't look like anyone's home."

"But
there's a car in the driveway," Edward said. "Let's go around to the back."

Nurberg
hesitated. "Wait..."

"Detective,
please, we've come this far," Edward said.

With
his wet hair plastered to his head like a helmet, Edward Carter looked pitiful,
like a little boy who'd lost his best friend. "All right," Nurberg sighed.

The
two men, shielding their eyes from the driving rain, reached the back of the
cabin and stood before the open glass doors.

"Hello?"
Nurberg said, stepping inside; his clothing dripped onto the small throw rug by
the door.

"Where
is everybody?" Edward asked.

"I
don't know." Nurberg eyed the clumps of papers scattered on the floor, the
lit-up screen of the laptop and the bowl of chips on the kitchen counter. "
Somebody
was just here," he said.

A
series of loud pops came from the trees behind the cabin. Instinctively,
Nurberg pulled out his weapon.

"What
are you doing?" Edward said.

 "That
didn't sound like thunder."

Another
one was heard, and then another.

Nurberg
picked his phone out of his pocket. "Damn, the cell service is out. Edward, go
in the car. Call this in. And stay in the car."

"Where
are you going?"

"Back
there." Nurberg hunched down and, with gun drawn, ran out the back door as
Edward stumbled across the main floor of the cabin. He pulled open the front
door and nearly slammed into the body of Don Bailino.

"Who
are you?" Bailino asked, stepping into the cabin, his handgun pointed in the
center of Edward's face.

Edward
put his hands in the air. "Please, this is a mistake," he said. "I'm in the wrong
house."

"Who
are you, I asked." Bailino steadied the revolver.

"I'm..."
Shots fired from behind the log cabin, and Edward backed against the wall.

Bailino's
eyes narrowed on the face of the intruder—the crystal blue eyes, the freckles
on the nose, the pale skin. He arched his eyebrows. "Edward?" he asked.

Edward's
eyes opened wide.

"Is
your name Edward?" Bailino asked.

"Yes.
But how do you know my name?"

"Edward
Carter," Bailino said to himself, a smile appearing across his lips. "Come with
me."

The
intense rain flooded the grass and driveway, making it difficult to follow any
footprint trail. Bailino, holding his pistol close to his side, headed toward
the woods behind the cabin. He stood behind a tree and just watched, waiting
for something to move. About twenty yards ahead, a husky body limped along the
ground. He ran toward it.

"Where
is she?" Bailino said. Tony was lying in a puddle of mud, his arm around a
fallen tree trunk, the other clutching his chest.

"Where
is she, I asked." Bailino opened Tony's shirt; blood poured from a small hole
behind his fingers.

"The
girl... took the kid... into the river." Tony coughed.

"How
long ago?"

"About
fifteen or twenty minutes."

"How
did she get out of the house?"

"Don,
I can't catch my breath."

"How
did she get out of the fucking house?"