Extracurricular Activities (25 page)

The week passed without incident, a new and joyful experience for me. Work returned to the mundane, and after having been shot (sort of) and kidnapped (for real), the back-up of papers, phone calls, and student visits was overwhelming. By the end of the week, I was frazzled, but in a good way. Work had helped return my life to normal and that was a good thing.

Sister Calista had begun eyeing me warily every time I set foot in the office area. I wanted to walk up to her and say, “You want a piece of me, lady?” because the events of the past weeks had obviously given her pause when it came to me. Maybe that would make her reconsider her recent recalcitrance.

Franco's promise to put Peter away was kept: a day after Gianna's death, Peter was picked up at a social club in Little Italy and arrested. Franco apparently wasn't the only undercover member of the Miceli family; there were four in total and they had amassed quite a file of information. The number of indictments against him and several of his closest “family” members was staggering and the story filled the paper. Several local newspapers called me for interviews, as did most of the morning programs, but I declined all comment and sent them to my new lawyer, Jimmy, a man I had grown very fond of in the last few weeks. He was a nutcase, and obviously had terrible eating habits and high blood pressure, judging from his potbelly and florid color, but I felt secure knowing that he was fielding all of my phone calls, even if I couldn't be sure of how he was characterizing the situation.

Jimmy was circumspect about the possibility of my testifying at the trial but promised he would do everything to keep me out of it.

Jimmy was also true to his word in getting my resisting-arrest charge dropped along with the harassment portion of the charges. Crawford had continued looking into the stolen-car part of the case on his own time but couldn't come up with anything. He had, however, found out that the person driving the car and who had called the New York State Troopers to report that I was following them was a man. So, it could have been Jackson. Or not.

My money was still on a Miceli but I still hadn't figured out the motive part of things.

Regarding the state troopers, however, I had to pay a fine for driving without my license and registration, had points put on my license for the speed, and had to enroll in the defensive driving class. I sent them a fruit basket just for good measure. All in all, not too bad. But I would never go to Stew Leonard's again without thinking about getting arrested in my pajamas.

I had spoken with Crawford a few times, but we hadn't seen each other since the week before. Our last conversation had held the most disturbing news of all: Franco had gone missing, and when Crawford had called the FBI to get contact information on him, they professed to never have heard of him. That gave me pause. Either he was under such deep cover that that was the FBI's story—a theory Crawford leaned toward, given the fact that he had spent a few months undercover in narcotics and knew a bit about these things—or Franco was a member of another “family” and had been hired to take out Gianna, or a combination of both, an FBI informant and member of the “family.” I tried, along with everything else I knew, to put the fact that he was missing in my own brain's deep cover.

I had also talked to Bea two times; nothing brings you closer together than being kidnapped and having your life threatened. We decided to get together for lunch in a couple of weeks to get to know each other outside of a threatening situation.

I was surprised when Crawford stopped by my office unexpectedly on a Friday afternoon. He had just gotten off work and was hoping to catch me before I left.

“Hey, handsome,” I said, standing up behind my desk.

He leaned over the piece of furniture separating us and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I was thinking.”

“Always trouble,” I remarked, shoving some papers into my briefcase.

He smirked. “If you're not doing anything tonight, do you want to come over to my place? I'd like to make you dinner.”

I walked around my desk and closed my door, putting some space between the two of us and Dottie's prying eyes and ears. I lowered my voice. “Let's call a spade a spade. We both know what we're talking about here. A pizza, a bottle of cheap red wine, and sex. No interruptions. How does that sound?” I asked him, slipping my finger into the waistband of his pants and pulling him close.

He sighed. “Can we at least have the illusion of romance here?” He looked at a spot over my head. “Does everything have to be so cut-and-dried with you?”

I smiled, holding my hands up as if to say “you knew what you were getting yourself into.”

“Fine. Have it your way,” he said and shoved his hands into his pockets. “We'll do it your way: come to my place. Seven o'clock. Leave your underwear at home.”

“Now you're talking.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Did you leave your handcuffs at work?”

He flushed a deep red. “Nope. They're in the car.”

I kissed him. “Good. Make sure you bring them inside.”

He pulled away from me. “Great,” he said, exasperated. “Now I can't leave.” He looked down at his belt buckle, his zipper lying not quite as flat as when he had arrived. “Talk about James Joyce or something so I don't feel quite so”—he searched for the right word—“happy.”

I laughed. “Get going. I'm going to go home and pack some things, call Bagpipe Kid, and I'll meet you in a couple of hours.”

“What do you want for dinner?” he asked.

“Pizza, cheap red wine, and sex. I thought we covered that.”

He smiled. “I couldn't remember if it was cheap sex, pizza, and red wine. Thanks for putting the adjectives in the proper order. You got it.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “I'll see you in what? Two, three hours?”

“Two if I don't shave my legs,” I said.

“Don't bother,” he said. “I spend all of my time with Fred. Anything less than the ‘missing link' look will be an improvement.”

We both left the office and I bid Dottie good-bye. She gave me a sideways glance, which made me think she had heard our whole conversation. Did she have the entire office area bugged? She knew more about what was going on in the department than anyone.

He walked me to my car and we parted ways. I was past being nervous about consummating this relationship; it had been way too long in coming, so to speak. I raced home and set about taking care of everything that needed attention before I spent the night away from home.

Trixie greeted me with her usual butt sniff to welcome me home. I checked her dishes and saw that she had been fed by Bagpipe Kid and had fresh water. “God bless you, Bagpipe Kid!” I proclaimed and reached for the phone. I dialed his number; his mother answered after a few rings. “Hi, this is Alison across the street. Is Brendan home?”

“Hi, Alison. No, he's not. He went to a bagpipe festival in the Catskills this weekend,” she said.

Shit. “Good for him!” I said, trying to sound happy that Bagpipe Kid had a life outside of being my personal manservant. “I just wanted to thank him for feeding Trixie today,” I lied. She informed me that she had another son but he was out of pocket, too, something about a basketball tournament. I looked down and Trixie stared up at me, a pool of drool forming at our feet. We chatted a few more minutes about Brendan's love for Trixie and I asked her how he was doing before I hung up. She said that he was really getting back to being his old self and that made me happy. “Well, Trixie, my friend, it looks like you're going on a sleepover,” I said. She responded by wagging her tail vigorously. “At least you don't need to pack a bag.”

I did everything I needed to do in record time—including shaving my legs—coaxed Trixie into my car, and started off for Crawford's apartment. I headed south on the Saw Mill, smiling more than I had in over a year. I looked in the rearview mirror and took a look at Trixie, who seemed happy to be out of the house and embarking on some adventure with me. I felt a pang of guilt that I left her alone so much.

I found a parking spot a few blocks west of Crawford's building and wedged myself into the space. I took my bag out of the backseat and grabbed Trixie's leash, the two of us trotting down the street.

The river was at my back and the sun was setting, casting a purple glow over the city streets. I didn't look out of place in this residential neighborhood; several people who passed me were also walking dogs and we acknowledged each other as members of the secret world of people who like each other only because we all own dogs. Trixie stopped to sniff the ground a few times and I pulled her along, anxious to get to our final destination.

We arrived at Crawford's building and I pressed the buzzer outside the front door. He buzzed me in and stood at the top of the stairs, waiting and watching as I let myself in.

“Trixie?” he asked, and I let go of the leash, allowing her to bound up the stairs to greet him. She licked his face, something I was hoping to do shortly. I followed behind.

“Brendan's got a bagpipe festival in the Catskills this weekend, so I had to bring her.” I made my way up the long flight of stairs and threw my bag at him. “Thanks for the help with my bag.”

He laughed and picked it up from the floor. “Come on in.”

I went into his apartment; he had lit candles all over the room and set the table with wineglasses and nice dishes. A pizza sat in the middle of the table, as did a nice bottle of red wine. “Crawford,” I said, “you've out-done yourself.”

He put his arms around me and kissed me. “I spare no expense when it comes to you.”

Trixie began exploring the room, sniffing in different corners and wandering into the bedrooms. She came out of Crawford's bedroom with a dirty gym sock in her mouth and set about chewing it.

Crawford handed me a glass of wine. “Thanks for coming.”

“Isn't that a little presumptuous?” I asked. “We haven't done anything yet.”

He burst out laughing. “I have high hopes.” He poured more wine into my glass. “I have cannolis again.”

I perked up. I love cannolis and he knew it.

“It has been my dream to watch you eat a cannoli,” he said.

“Oh, and I won't disappoint, my friend,” I said, and took another sip of wine. The heat went through me, settling into a nice, warm glow in my stomach.

Crawford got up and went over to the stereo in the corner of the apartment. “How about some music?” he asked and turned on the receiver. Loud strains of music with a Latin beat—Santana's “Oye Como Va”—blasted through the speakers, surprising him. He jumped back, seemingly moved by the sound of the music.

I jumped up and started to dance. “No, leave it!” I called over the din.

“This isn't what I had in mind!” he shouted back.

I continued to dance toward him, singing along with the music. “Oye como va…Hey, mister…I'm not wearing a bra…” I sang, the words that Max had made up to cover for the fact that she didn't understand Spanish coming back to me.

He walked toward me, laughing. “‘Hey, mister, I'm not wearing a bra'?” He pulled at the top button of my blouse and peered in. “Not true and not the words.”

I put one arm around his waist and took his hand, making him dance. “I only speak French. No Spanish.”

He led me to the stereo and turned it down so that we could talk without shouting. “Speaking of which, you've never spoken any French to me. I think it's about time.”

I stood on my tiptoes and whispered some very dirty French into his ear.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“I said I want more pizza.”

“No you didn't.”

I whispered the translation in his ear.

“Okay,” he said slowly, and took my hand, leading me into the bedroom. He took a final look at Trixie and closed the door. The lights were off, but he had arranged candles around the room so that a soft glow was cast over everything. He took my face in his hands and kissed me, his lips and tongue tasting like wine. “I love you.”

I touched his cheek. “I love you, too.”

He looked relieved. “You do?”

“Of course I do. What did you think?” I asked.

“I don't know. You're not exactly an easy read.”

“How about this? You take off all of your clothes and I'll show you how much I love you. How does that sound?” I led him over to the bed and pushed him down. I got on top of him and ripped his shirt open, buttons making pinging sounds as they hit the walls and floor. “Then, I'm finishing the pizza.”

Crawford and I had settled into a nice routine: Friday nights were spent at my house and Sunday nights we stayed at his apartment. He arranged his schedule so that he didn't have to go to work until ten on Monday mornings, and my classes didn't begin until a little after that, so we got to spend part of the morning together, with him dropping me off at work on his way to the station house. From Saturday morning to Sunday evening, he was in the city with his daughters. He hadn't introduced me to them yet and I was fine with that; although they were sixteen and sounded pretty mature, we were still in the early stages of this relationship and wanted to wait for the right time to unleash the second new relationship in their lives, their mother's new one with the divorced neighbor being the first. I had spoken with his almost-ex, Christine, on the phone a few times, and she was exceedingly nice—almost saintly—in her support of our relationship. She confided to me that her wedding would be the following summer. The girls liked her fiancé which was as much of an endorsement as she needed.

I was actually looking forward to officially meeting her at some point. Crawford was right: she was someone with whom I could be friends.

Bagpipe Kid let me know that he had gotten into Notre Dame, early admission, and would be leaving the following summer to spread his bagpipe love in South Bend, Indiana. Well, actually, I made that last part up—he told me he was excited about going to the school to study prelaw. In the days since we had discovered the body, he had come out of his shell a little bit, and when he came over to play with Trixie, we chatted and I learned more about him. He was still traumatized by finding the body but he seemed to be getting over it as the days passed.

He introduced me to his little brother—whom I dubbed “Accordion Boy”—a sophomore at Stepinac, a local all-boys' Catholic high school. He played piano accordion (apparently, there is more than one type of accordion, which was news to me) in an Irish ceili band and was only unavailable on Thursday nights, which was when the band rehearsed. This all meant something to Crawford, even though it sounded to me like they were always speaking Gaelic. Accordion Boy, whose name continues to escape me, was more than willing to take over Trixie duty in several months and began to learn the ropes. He figured out what made Trixie tick and seemed to enjoy his time with her. If I hadn't gotten so attached to Trixie myself, I would have given custody of her to the boys, but I just couldn't bring myself. Seeing her every night when I came home from work was the best part of my day. Unless, of course, Crawford was in the picture.

Everything was perfect.

One weekend before Thanksgiving, Crawford's daughters were spending the weekend with their mother in Boston, so when we woke up one of those rare Saturdays when we could be together, we had a whole day to spend with each other, uninterrupted. We lay in bed, holding hands and talking about our plans for the day. They didn't amount to much and weren't much different from other weekend days we spent in Dobbs Ferry: breakfast at the diner, the Rangers on television if they had a game, lunch, a nap, cocktails, and then some kind of dinner that didn't involve too much effort. We had turned into one of those couples who didn't go out much but who didn't need to; everything we wanted resided within whatever four walls we inhabited together.

We woke up around eight. Crawford rolled over and propped himself up on his hand, his elbow sinking into the pillow. “I've been thinking.”

“Don't hurt yourself.” I stretched, and threw the covers off. The sun was streaming through the window and warmed the skin on my arms.

“No, seriously, I was thinking.”

“Oh, no, here we go again. Last time you said that to me, I ended up pantyless, trapped in your apartment.”

He smiled. “Could you be serious for a minute?”

I pursed my lips, trying desperately not to laugh.

“Thank you.” He rolled his eyes. “I realized that I haven't taken a real vacation in almost five years. Do you want to go away during the Christmas break?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, my interest piqued. Christmas break wasn't for several weeks but if he was thinking that far ahead, that was a good sign.

“A cruise? Aruba maybe? Napa?” he asked, and then looked away. “Vegas?”

“Anything but Vegas,” I said, and made fake gagging noises.

He looked crestfallen.

“Do you want to go to Vegas?” I asked, thinking I may have hurt his feelings. The vision of a tacky wedding chapel floated into my mind and I quickly pushed it aside.

He recovered quickly. “No,” he said. “I was just thinking of someplace warm.”

I suspected he was lying about Vegas, but I let it go. “Let's go to Napa. It won't be really warm this time of year, but it could be very romantic,” I said, and stroked his bare stomach.

“And I know how much you love romance,” he said, smirking. He rolled on top of me and pinned my hands over my head, kissing me. “Let's think about it. Having you around all of that wine might make for an interesting trip.”

“I only get uninhibited on painkillers. Wine I can handle.”

We got tangled up in the covers and started peeling off our clothes, still in that stage of the relationship where making love twice a day was not out of the question. I wasn't sure how Crawford felt, but I couldn't get enough of him. I suspected he felt the same way and I was hoping we would continue to feel that way for a long time. I heard a knock at the back door at a crucial moment in our wrestling match and I groaned.

“Don't go anywhere,” I warned Crawford as I got out of bed and reassembled my sleeping outfit—tank top and pajama pants, throwing on the sweatshirt that hung on the back of my bathroom door. My clogs were by the door and I shoved my feet into them, not looking forward to running across cold ceramic tile without them. I ran down the stairs and opened the back door.

It was Accordion Boy, brother of Brendan. “Hi, Mrs. Bergerson.”

At first, I had asked him to call me Alison, but he said his mother didn't approve of him calling grown-ups by their first names. I didn't try to disabuse him of the notion that (a) I wasn't a grown-up, (b) I wasn't married (if she didn't want him calling me Alison then she surely didn't want me telling him that the guy in my bedroom wasn't my husband), and (c) that my name was Bergeron. No
s.
So, we left it at “Mrs. Bergerson” for me and “Mr. Bergerson” for Crawford. He and his brother had committed the incorrect name to memory and I let it go. When it came right down to it, I could never remember his name, either, so who was I to complain?

“Can I take Trixie out?” he asked. He was tall, like his brother, and had the smattering of freckles across his nose that seemed to be a trait in his family. He had strawberry blond hair that was cut short and beautiful blue eyes which supported what his brother told me about him: he had a real way with the ladies—wink, wink, nudge, nudge. His good looks would only improve over time, I was sure, and Jane would be beating girls off with a stick shortly. Besides the good looks, he also had a certain je ne sais quoi that I'm sure drove the teenage girls wild.

Trixie came into the kitchen, her nails tapping on the ceramic tile. I noticed that her leash wasn't on its usual hook by the back door and it occurred to me that I had left it in the car. “Come with me,” I said to the boy. “I left her leash in the car.”

Accordion Boy followed me out of the house, trailing Trixie behind him; we made our way across the backyard, chatting about the upcoming holidays and his midterm exams. I offered to help him study for his English test; I figured I had to do something for this kid and his brother. They walked my dog for free and would probably do just about anything else I asked.

Trixie, who is generally a very placid and rule-following animal, surprised me by darting off and plunging through the hedgerow into her former backyard, home of the absent Terri and Jackson. “Trixie!” I called after her. “Come back!”

She ran straight to the sliding doors that led to the kitchen and paced back and forth in front of them, barking. When it was clear that she wasn't coming back, I shimmied through the hedges and walked over to her, grabbing her by the collar. She didn't budge. “Fine. Stay there.” I started to walk away, hoping she would follow me. “You're going to get hungry, eventually, and then you'll really want to come home.”

It dawned on me that all she heard was “blah, blah, blah” but I was confident that she would come home eventually. She probably needed to have a moment at her former abode.

“So, when's your English test?” I asked the kid, who was poised next to my car, on the other side of the hedge.

The kid stared back at me, his mouth hanging open.

“Your test? When is it?” I asked, making my way across the Morrisons' backyard. First the dog, and now this. I apparently had lost any sense of authority that I once had if I couldn't get a dog and a fifteen-year-old to respond to me. I had almost reached the hedge when I noticed that the boy was frozen, staring at something behind me. I turned slowly and watched as Jackson came walking across the backyard, a huge knife poised above his left shoulder and aimed directly at me. I recognized it as the kind of knife you would get in the Wüsthof six-pack of carving knives, the one designated for deboning game birds. I had spent enough time watching my father debone waterfowl to know the damage that knife could do. It wasn't roadkill, but it was close enough.

“Go get Mr. Bergerson!” I yelled to the boy, watching as Jackson picked up speed. I watched the boy run off at the same time that Jackson let out an animalistic roar, and I put both hands up in front of me in an attempt to shield both my face and torso from the weapon.

The knife tore into my left hand and I gasped in agony and surprise. But with any sense I had left, I managed to push Jackson back onto the grass. I caught sight of Trixie out of the corner of my eye pacing nervously back and forth at the edge of Jackson's backyard. She was confused; who to save? Her former master or her new one? I started to run toward her, but Jackson had regained his footing and was upright again, running after me. He caught the back of my sweatshirt shirt and pulled me back. I began to fall backward, my arms pinwheeling in the air.

“Trixie!” I yelled, my throat constricted by my collar. The dog continued to pace, uttering a low-pitched moan. The backyard wasn't large but getting across it and away from Jackson proved too much for me. I fell with a thud onto my back, my head hitting the hard earth. The blue sky above swam before my eyes and I struggled to stay conscious.

I looked up at Jackson, who stood over me, the bloodied knife hanging by his side. He wasn't the well-coiffed graphic designer who loved expensive hair gel anymore but the maniacal drug- and booze-addled murderer that Terri had painted him to be that time in my kitchen. I tried to sit up but I was too dizzy, so I stayed prone, looking up at the fluffy clouds, hoping that if there was a heaven, my parents were waiting for me when I got there.

But before I succumbed to this knife-wielding psycho, I needed to know one thing. “Why did you kill her, Jackson?” I gasped.

His answer was succinct and direct. “I was tired of the cheating.”

“Me, too,” I said. “But divorce seemed a lot less messy to me.”

He wiped his hand across his brow and I saw the blood from my hand paint a dark streak on his skin. He was out of breath from his short run across the lawn and he struggled to catch his breath. I was in luck—I had been knifed by an out-of-shape assailant. “She wasn't going for that,” he said. He knelt in front of me, his knees straddling my legs. He hung his head and tried to get his breathing back to normal.

I figured I should warn him. “There's a very large man in my house with an even bigger gun. And when he sees you filet me, he's going to shoot you in the head.” I chuckled, slightly hysterical. “Just thought I should let you know.” I picked up my hand and looked at the defensive knife wound. “Wow,” I said, in wonder. “This hurts more than when I got shot. And that hurt a lot.” My palm was in two pieces, clear down to the bone. My other hand was trapped under my leg and I couldn't get it loose, what with Jackson's weight pinning me down. “And even if you don't kill me, he's going to kill you for doing this,” I said, showing him my injured hand.

“You talk too damn much,” he said, and raised the knife above his head again.

“And your French stinks,” I said, taking the heel of my palm and shoving it as hard as I could stand into his face.

The pain shot through me, white hot, but I managed to push Jackson onto his back. I got to my knees and staggered, half standing, pushing off the grass with my good hand. I curled my wounded palm into my chest and looked up, hoping to see Crawford come out the back door of my house. But my backyard was vacant, except for a very troubled Trixie, who continued to walk in circles, her head hanging low. When she saw me approach her, her instincts kicked in and she ran to my side, licking my good hand. Apparently, she had decided who she would defend.

Jackson got up and ran toward us but Trixie let out a sinister-sounding growl to warn him off. She separated the two of us, and in that instant, I saw in Jackson's eyes that he was deciding how quickly he could kill the dog before he got to me.

“If you hurt a hair on her head, Jackson, I will tear you limb from limb,” I said, and knelt beside Trixie, holding her collar in my good hand. “This dog is the best thing to come out of your house. And this whole mess.” I heard the back door open and the screen door slam shut as Crawford's calm and reassuring voice drifted across to me.

“Alison, get up and walk toward me with the dog. Jackson, don't move or I will shoot you,” he said, the last part more of a promise than a threat.

I stood and pulled Trixie along. The front of my shirt was soaked with my blood and it clung to my chest, heavy and wet. I stumbled toward Crawford, who was shirtless and pointing the gun very steadily in Jackson's direction, despite being fifty feet from his target. His sweatpants hung on his slim hips and his feet were bare.