The River Killings (9 page)

“Christ Almighty.” Susan fumed. Tiny beads of sweat coated her forehead. “Who the hell were they? How dare they—”

“Think about it, Susan. First the FBI agent. Then those two. Do you think you can try harder to piss people off?”

“Who cares about them? What about us? Everyone’s accosting us.”

“Susan, we don’t know who those two were. They had us cornered. You could have cooled it a little.”

“I don’t think so, Zoe. No. Not in my own neighborhood. Not in my city. Hell, not in this country. I am not going to sit still and let some kooks playing dress-up besiege me and my friend and make threats—”

“—But Susan, what if they were for real?”

“Are you kidding? Nothing about them was real. Not the mustache, the wigs, the padding, the makeup—”

“I mean about the danger.”

She exhaled, pushing hair behind her ears. “My God, Zoe. All we did was flip our boat, and now—poof—move over, Brittany and Madonna. Zoe Hayes and Susan Cummings are the most newsworthy, most followed, most threatened, most harassed women in the world.”

The light changed; so did the motion around us. Cars stopped on South Street, started on Fifth. pedestrians halted or walked. We stood at the corner, sweaty and indecisive.

A woman with an armload of packages bumped me as she hurried off the curb. A line of preschoolers from the Community Center walked past us two by two, holding hands like a human centipede with adults as its head and tail.

Without deciding to, we walked on. Susan blinked rapidly, head down, pounding pavement. “You know what?” She stopped suddenly, hands on hips as if she’d had a revelation. “It’s all crap.”

“What is?” We’d stopped in front of a condom store. Condom Nation, it was called.

“All of it. pure bullshit. Think about it.”

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to think about, but I was aware of the steady stream of people entering and leaving the condom store. Who’d have guessed they did that much business? And so early in the day—it wasn’t even noon yet.

“Maybe I’m too suspicious.” Susan stood close, whispering. “But think. What did those two tell us? One: They work independent of the authorities. Two: They want to know everything we told the police. And three: We shouldn’t tell anyone about them. Not even the authorities, not even Nick. Think about that.”

I thought about it. “So? What’s your point?” I had no idea. I looked at the window display, waiting for her to explain. Condoms arranged like petals in a giant multicolored daisy. Some were patterned, others ribbed; some textured with curvy little bumps.

“The point is,” she continued, “how do we know that Sonia Vlosnick and Father Joseph Xavier are who they claim to be?” “They’re not. They told us they were in disguise.” “No, I mean how do we know they’re who they say they are?

How do we know they represent the good guys? For all we know, they were sent by the traffickers to find out what we know. For all we know, they’re traffickers themselves.”

Sonia and the priest, slave traffickers? My head seemed to float, lighter than the humid air, and suddenly the condom arrangement in the window began to sway. Or no; it was me. I was swaying. Dizzy. I leaned against the glass to steady myself. Susan was right. Father Joseph had warned that the cartel might send people to question us; maybe he’d simply omitted that he and Sonia were those people. I pictured the two of them, a priest and an old lady. Not the image of killers and kidnappers who earned their livings selling women. But, underneath their disguises, maybe they were predators, there to find out what we knew, assess us as risks and, if necessary, eliminate us. Oh my What if I’d have mentioned the Humberton hat? Or the tattoos? Would they have killed us right there in the park? Had there been a silenced pistol in the blankets of Sonia’s pram?

The air was wet and sooty, weighing us down, but I shivered, oddly hot and chilled at once. Susan was on a roll, expanding her theory.

“. . . And that would explain why they don’t want us to tell the authorities about them. Or even Nick. The cartels want to be invisible. If they wanted to keep a low profile, they’d use disguises that would appear friendly and nonthreatening, outfits that would blend in and not arouse attention. Who could be less noticeable than two kindly old people? And who would we be more likely to chat with than those two?”

Susan was right. If the slave traders wanted to find out what we knew, they’d have a better chance sending a priest and a grandmother than, say, a pair of thugs.

“So what should we do? Tell the FBI? Call Agent Ellis?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. They told us not to.”

“But they wouldn’t know.”

“They might. The priest said they have people in the FBI.”

Then whom could we trust? Not the FBI. Not the priest and Sonia. Nick? Would he know? And, if he did, would he tell me? And, if he didn’t, would I be endangering him by telling him?

I felt hot, frantic, unable to keep walking, unable to sit down. I wanted to go home. I wanted it to be yesterday, before we’d taken our moonlight row.

For a while, Susan and I stood side by side, staring vacantly into a condom-filled window. Her jaw was set, eyes gleaming.

“So what do you think?” I asked. “What should we do now?”

Susan shrugged. “You know what? I’m guessing we should do nothing. No matter who sent them, they were there to feel us out and find out if we know anything. They found out we know nada, zip. Nothing whatsoever. So they warned us to stay out of it and to keep quiet about their visit. If we do what they say, they’ll back off and leave us alone.”

“So that’s it? They’re done with us? That’s what you said about the FBI agent, too.”

“I did? Well, she might show up again, just to flex her muscles. But these two? I doubt we’ll see them again.”

Good, I thought. Except for one thing. “If we did, how would we know? For all we know, they’re standing right next to us.”

Synchronized, we turned to see who was standing beside us and faced a bony young couple dressed in heavy chains and black leather, their skin too white, eyeliner too thick, hair too black. Father Joseph Xavier and Sonia Vlosnick?

Susan and I looked from them to each other.

“You think?” Susan said.

“Doubt it.” I shook my head.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Too obvious.”

The couple eyed us coolly and walked into the condom store.

After that, we saw Sonia and the priest in every pair who passed. Acned adolescents, high-heeled hookers. Muscle-bound movers. Grungy garbage collectors. Tattooed bikers. Even two spry Afghan hounds. We amused ourselves that way for a while, until our nerves quieted.

“So, what now?” I asked. As if she’d know.

“Now, I’m going to the office for a couple of hours to work on Ollie Brown’s appeal. Then I’m going home to fight with the deck guys. Go on with your life, Zoe. We can’t change what happened to those poor dead women, but we’ll be fine. Whoever Sonia and the priest were, we passed their test; they found out that we’re ignorant, indifferent and harmless. They’ll leave us alone and things will settle down.”

I told myself that she was right. Life would calm down and be normal again. There was no reason for us to trek aimlessly up and down South Street in the miserable heat.

“I guess I’ll head home,” I said. Maybe I could even catch a nap before Molly got out of school.

Susan eyed the daisy display. “Good. I’ll call you later.”

We hugged and parted, and when I looked back, Susan was just stepping into the store.

The whole way home my head swirled with troubling thoughts. Human trafficking. Nineteen dead women. A sinister slave cartel. Sonia, the priest, Agent Ellis. But, absurdly, what disturbed me most was the single vivid, persistent image of Susan’s husky husband Tim wearing only a neon-green condom. And a smile.

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stoned alleys and quiet flowered walkways that I usually favored. Instead, I stayed among people. I walked along South Street, the hub of the city’s counterculture, passing funky boutiques, retro restaurants and bars, tacky tattoo parlors, antique shops. It was almost noon, and the street was just blinking awake. Shopkeepers hosed off the streets and swept up the stench of last night’s parties, preparing for another unseasonably steamy day. The corner of Fourth and South was engulfed in the odor of frying onions from Jim’s Steaks. Life was going on as usual. Cheese steaks were cooking; shops were opening. Cops double-parked their squad cars to run into the Wawa convenience store for coffee. I was surrounded by the familiar and the normal, and breathing evenly again. My shoulder muscles were unclenching. I turned down Fourth Street, approaching Queen Village. I was almost home.

My neighborhood, Queen Village, was a hodgepodge caught in a permanent process of gentrification. Ongoing renovations and new constructions stood alongside old houses in varying stages of decline. There was a high turnover among residents; I’d been there longer than almost anyone and didn’t know most of my neighbors. Most were strangers, familiar faces that, at best, would smile or nod in passing. Young people who kept late hours. Couples who planned to stay only until their first child was born. A few elderly urbanites who kept to themselves, hanging on to sagging properties as long as they could. The neighbor I knew best was someone I almost never saw. Victor was an agoraphobic
recluse who never left his home. We communicated by e-mail from time to time, and Molly and I sometimes left cookies at his door. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of him peeking cautiously out his window, but to my knowledge, he’d ventured outside only once in all the years he’d lived there.

Even though my neighbors were mostly strangers and the area in flux, I loved my rehabilitated brownstone. I’d nurtured it from an empty shell into a home. And now, craving security and solitude, I hurried inside and locked the door, planning to cocoon myself in quiet for the rest of the day.

As I fastened the bolt, though, something alarmed me. A tingle began on my spine and rippled across my arms to the tips of my fingers. My hands lingered on the lock, and I hesitated, afraid to turn around.

Of course I did turn around. I even took a few steps and entered the kitchen. Then I stopped dead, staring.

It was only a ceramic mug, but it lay shattered on the floor in a puddle of spilled coffee. I stood frozen, watching it, disbelieving its existence. How had a coffee mug landed on the floor when no one had been home?

Maybe Nick had stopped by. Of course. He must have. And he’d knocked the mug off the counter, probably without even noticing. I kneeled down and picked up the biggest pieces, sponging up the coffee, ignoring the uh-oh feeling rumbling in my gut. I took out the broom and swept up the rest, then dumped it into the trash. Only when it was completely cleaned up did I venture farther into the house, back toward the living room.

It’s okay, I assured myself. Nothing’s wrong. But I kept my cell phone with me as I looked around, taking inventory. The dining table and chairs were as they’d been when I’d left. So were the paintings, the sofa and easy chair. The pillows, the woolen afghans. Molly’s unfinished bead project was still spread over the floor, along with some books, a stray sandal, her worn-out, almost furless bear. Everything seemed untouched, in its usual disarray.

See? I told myself. It was nothing. Just a mug. But as I went up
stairs to check out Molly’s room, my pulse elevated. I stood at her door with my eyes closed for a moment before I looked inside, preparing for I didn’t know what. Then I took a deep breath and looked. Nothing was unusual. The room was in its regular chaos. The bed was unmade, pillows on the carpet, blankets spilling onto the floor. Pajamas, T-shirts, bathing suits and socks lay everywhere, along with scattered puzzle pieces and loose cards, markers, crayons, Amelia Bedelia books, forty shades of Play-Doh, hundreds of Beanie Babies and a couple of dozen stuffed animals, mostly monkeys. Dresser drawers gaped, displaying more disarray. Shuffled shorts and underwear. A complete disaster.

I told myself that Molly’s room always looked like that, that nothing had been disturbed. But hairs danced on the back of my neck as I continued down the hall toward my bedroom. At the door I stopped, unable to go in. Don’t, I told myself. Go downstairs and get out while you can. What if the intruder’s still in there? You could get killed. Go downstairs and call the police.

I pivoted, punching numbers into my cell phone. Then I stopped, realizing that I was being ridiculous. There was no intruder. No reason to call the police. Nothing had actually happened. There was a broken coffee mug in my kitchen; that was all. I was a jittery mess, letting my imagination run away with me, shaken up because of everything that had happened since last night. But now I was home. On my own turf. Safe. In reality, there was no evidence of a break-in, no proof of an intruder.

Even so, I was cautious as I stepped into the bedroom. I circled the room slowly, testing the carpet with each step, looking around, listening, making sure. Everything seemed as I’d left it. My robe still hung on the bathroom door. The dresser top was buried under piles of clean laundry, and my jewelry box looked undisturbed. I opened it, found my diamond studs, my great-grandmother’s gold locket. My ruby and diamond rings, my Movado wristwatch. Everything was there, undisturbed.

Okay. Nothing had happened. I was imagining things. The air wasn’t really unsettled, didn’t carry the scent of a stranger. And
the house wasn’t unbalanced, its harmony disrupted by an alien presence. No, the place was fine. The only one unsettled and unbalanced was me.

I sat on the bed, collecting myself. My nerves were raw. I was exhausted, hadn’t slept the night before. I needed to lie down, slow my pulse, breathe deeply, not think. Just close my eyes and take a nap. I’d rest for a little while, and when Molly got home, I’d talk to her, once again, about cleaning up her room. Then we’d make dinner in time for Nick to come home. I’d stick to routine. To simple tasks that felt normal and soothing. Good. I had a plan. I climbed under the comforter, and settling in, remembered the night before, how tender Nick had been. Nick. I wondered when he’d call back, where he’d been all day, and I opened my eyes to look at his picture on my nightstand.