The Dead Room (19 page)

Day 3

41

Jamie sat behind the wheel of the minivan, its windows rolled up and the air-conditioning left on low to keep her from sweating underneath clothing more suited to an early-autumn morning – jeans, her beaten and battered Timberland work boots, and one of Dan’s baggy sweatshirts. It hid her breasts and the Magnum’s shoulder strap nicely, the cotton a bit more breathable and much more comfortable than the windbreaker she’d worn inside Mary Sullivan’s basement.

Jamie had also helped herself to Michael’s knockoff Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and one of his favourite baseball caps – a ridiculously bright yellow one with the phrase
LADIES MAN
stitched next to a patch of a barely awake Homer Simpson dressed only in a saggy pair of tighty-whities. She wore the brim pulled low to hide the surgical scars on her forehead. She had used the clippers to shave her hair down to a crew cut. From a distance, especially in this ashy predawn light, she could easily pass for a man.

She leaned forward in her seat and for the second time this past hour checked her reflection in the minivan’s rear-view mirror. Up close she looked like a lanky man – one with slightly effeminate features, sure, but the visible scarring along her jaw line, coupled with the fresh bandage slapped across the raw skin on the side of her face, would balance that out.

A skinny guy who got his ass kicked
, she thought. Perfect. She needed to look the part of the driver Ben Masters had hired to take Kevin Reynolds to safety.

Jamie checked the minivan’s dashboard clock: 4.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until show time.

She grabbed the bottle of Gatorade. A fine white residue had settled across the bottom. She had taken six of her Xanax pills, crushed them with a spoon and poured the fine powder into the bright red water. One pill mellowed her out; an elephant like Reynolds would need at least three or four. Six, she figured, should probably put him to sleep. After he went nighty-night, she would tie him up, cover him with a tarp and then drive ten minutes up the road to a secluded spot on the other side of these woods.

If Reynolds didn’t cooperate, she’d have to take him down here.

She wasn’t particularly concerned about being spotted or heard. Unless someone had an avid interest in studying or weeds, there was no reason to come to Waterman Park. Her father, back when he was alive, had told her how the recession of the eighties had hit Belham hard, and the first thing on the chopping block was funding for the city’s Department of Public Works. Waterman Park’s fountain, jungle gyms, swings and slides had all been removed. All that remained was a long, wide field of tall burnt grass and bald patches of sun-baked dirt. And the bridge.

The bridge was the main reason she had selected this spot. One way in and one way out. You could walk across the bridge but you couldn’t walk through the woods – not unless you wanted to fight your way through the thick brush. No way for Reynolds to sneak up on her.

Leaning back in her seat, her thoughts drifted back to Michael.

You thought you could save only one of us
, he had told her,
and you chose Carter
.

Michael was right. She
had
chosen Carter. Wilfully, maybe even deliberately. And, while she could tick off a list of logical reasons why she went to him first – Carter was the youngest, her baby – she couldn’t escape the truth that had lived inside her every waking thought since the day Michael was born. Michael was difficult. He had been a colicky and fussy baby who had grown into a stubborn young boy who took a peculiar delight and satisfaction in fighting her at every turn. She recalled one particularly nasty fight inside the grocery store when Michael was six. She had refused to buy him a sugary cereal he’d seen on a TV commercial and he responded by knocking the boxes off the shelf and stomping on them. She carried him out of the shop kicking and screaming.

By the time she reached the car she had lost her cool, yelling at him until her throat was raw, and when he smirked at her with grim satisfaction she had wanted to hit him. She later confided to Dan that Michael was an emotional vampire, a creature that fed off her anger. Dan told her that she was being too harsh. Dan could say those things because Michael didn’t act that way with him, just her.

Carter was the polar opposite. Carter was easy. Carter smiled and enjoyed people. Sure, he could be fussy and yes, he had his moments like any other normal kid. But even at almost seven Carter was remarkably empathetic. He felt bad when he did something wrong and apologized. Michael never did. Like Dan, Michael lived inside his skin, didn’t show emotion or let anyone get too close to him.

Not true. Michael had allowed Dan to get close to him.

By turning to Carter that night, had she severed whatever thin thread she and Michael shared as mother and son? She wondered how Michael would react if he knew that the man who had shot him was dead, floating inside the boot of a car submerged beneath the waters of Belham Quarry. The scars on Michael’s chest and back would heal, but what about his mental scars? Would knowing how Ben had suffered help Michael heal?

Killing Ben Masters had certainly helped her.

Jamie looked around the empty park. The last time she had been here was on that hot July afternoon she had buried her father. Dan was with her. She had come to Waterman Park, a favourite spot of their childhood, and told Dan stories about the long summers they had spent at the park with her parents. Back then, you could climb monkey-bars or wait your turn to use the swings or go down one of the four slides. Then you’d cool off in the concrete wading pool in the centre of the field, and sometimes around noon the high school gym teacher, Mr Quincy, would pull up in his Winnebago and sell sodas, shaved ice, hot dogs, hamburgers and snotties – French fries drenched in Velveeta cheese. An ice cream truck always rolled in twice a day. During the long winter months, the city turned the pool into a skating rink.

That afternoon with Dan, not one car or person had entered the park. The city’s joggers, bikers and dog walkers took advantage of trails on the north side of the woods – a good eight miles away from where her minivan was now parked. She was the sole person here.

Make that two. A compact car was slowly making its way across the bridge.

42

Jamie slid her right hand underneath a copy of the
Globe
that was spread across her lap and gripped the Glock resting against her stomach. She had plenty of ammo left.

She let her mouth hang open as if she’d fallen asleep while waiting. From behind her sunglasses she watched the dark-coloured car come to a full stop at the end of the bridge. The driver didn’t turn. The car just sat there, idling.

If it’s Reynolds
, she thought,
he’s probably checking out the place to make sure he’s alone
.

She glanced down at her lap. The papers hid the handgun and silencer perfectly. No way would Reynolds see it.

The car was making its way across the curving road of broken asphalt.

That odd mixture of dread and adrenalin was shooting through her veins. She felt jumpy and anxious but not afraid. She was definitely
not
afraid. No matter what Reynolds threw at her, she’d find a way to handle it.

Provided he comes here alone, Jamie. It all hinges on that single fact.

The car, a navy-blue Ford Taurus with a sagging back bumper, pulled up against the kerb near the entrance of the car park. The windows were rolled down and she could make out the face of the driver.

Kevin Reynolds perched his arm across the front seat and looked in her direction. Nobody else inside the car; he had come alone.

Reynolds took a drag from his cigarette and kept staring.

Was he waiting for her to come to him?

She had planned for that possibility. Michael’s backpack, stuffed with his dirty laundry to give the appearance of money, sat on the passenger seat. If she carried the backpack the right way, she could hide the Glock behind it. Granted, it might get a little dicey – she wanted Reynolds
outside
his car, not in it. It would be much easier to take him down outside. She’d have more manoeuvrability if he decided to go for the gun.

Let him
, she thought, feeling the tyre iron hidden beneath the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. One hit to the artery behind the ear and the blood would rush away from his brain and shut down his central nervous system. He’d go down fast.

And there was always the jaw. A good, swift crack would disrupt the fluid in his ear. He’d lose his balance and his knees would buckle. Win-win either way.
And let’s not forget about the kneecaps.

Reynolds flicked his cigarette out of the window. He didn’t get out of the car, just sat behind the wheel smoking and staring out of the front window.

He smells a set-up, Jamie
.

No, he doesn’t. If he did, he would be driving away.

Get out of here. Go home to the kids and –

Reynolds opened the door.

Mouth dry and heart beating faster, faster, she watched Reynolds step into the ashy light. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of a short-sleeved black silk shirt. He wore it Tony Soprano-style – untucked to accommodate his ample gut. She couldn’t tell if he was packing.

He lit another cigarette and looked towards the woods behind the minivan.

Come on, quit stalling. Come on over and introduce yourself
.

Here he was.

Reynolds’s high-topped sneakers crunched across the gravel. He paused in front of the minivan, smoking as he studied the person asleep behind the wheel.

Jamie didn’t move or turn her head. She watched him through her sunglasses, watched him staring. Her finger slid across the trigger as she waited for him to come and knock on the driver’s door. That would be the best play. Have him open the door and when he reached inside to wake up the driver she’d press the Glock against his stomach.

Reynolds walked back to the Taurus.

Opened the door.

Climbed behind the wheel.

Started the car and pulled into the car park.

Jamie’s breathing was steady and shallow as he pulled up in front of the minivan. She could hear the low rumble of his car engine over the air-conditioning, and she could see him staring at her.

Reynolds hit the gas, tyres spinning as he shot backwards out of the car park.

Jamie threw the door open. The papers spread across her lap blew away in the hot breeze and the tyre iron tucked underneath her sweatshirt sleeve slipped past her hand and hit the ground. She had the Glock up, ready to fire, but Reynolds was too far away, speeding towards the bridge, scattering crows from the trees.

43

Darby’s eyes fluttered open. She saw a steel bed railing and, beyond it, a wooden chair with maroon cushions bleached by sweat. She was lying in a hospital.

A clock hung on the wall at the foot of her bed. Half past six. Judging by the dim light filtering in through the blinds, she assumed it had to be morning.

She wondered how long she had been out.

She could wiggle her toes and hands. Good. She touched her face and felt thick bandages wrapped around the right side of her head. She didn’t feel any pain.

She remembered what had happened – another good sign. That wasn’t always the case with severe concussion or head trauma. Sometimes your short-term memory blacked out. She remembered seeing Coop talking to Pine when the house exploded. Splintered wood and debris –

Coop. Coop was standing near the house when it exploded.

Slowly she lifted her head. A bolt of pain that felt like a hot poker slammed into the centre of her brain. Her head dropped back against the pillow and she sucked in air through her gritted teeth to stem the vomit creeping up her throat.

A machine started beeping. A nurse came in and injected something into her IV line.

Darby was starting to drift away when she saw Artie Pine standing beside the bed. His torn shirt and thick, pale forearms were covered with soot and dried blood.

‘You’re going to be okay, McCormick, you’re just a little banged up. Thank God you inherited your old man’s thick Irish noggin.’

She wanted to ask him about Coop but couldn’t focus.

Coop’s okay
, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep.
Pine was standing next to Coop, so Coop’s okay. Banged up but okay
.

The next time she opened her eyes, bright sunlight flooded the room. Squinting, she looked at the wall clock: 9.13 a.m.

She lifted her head again. No nausea but a new kind of pain, one that felt like nails were pressing against every square inch of her skull. Her stomach hitched and she lay back against the pillow.

The male doctor who came in to examine her looked as if he had just graduated from puberty.
MASS
.
GENERAL HOSPITAL
was stitched above the breast pocket of his white jacket. He shone a light in her eyes and started asking her questions.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Darby McCormick.’

‘And where do you live, Miss McCormick?’

‘Temple Street in Boston.’ Her voice felt raw and hoarse. ‘The month is August and I know the name of the president. Both my short- and long-term memory are fine.’

The doctor smiled. ‘They warned me you’d be a pain in the ass.’

‘They?’

‘Your friends waiting in the hall.’ He clicked off the pen light. ‘You’ve suffered a Grade Three concussion, but you’re not exhibiting the more dangerous symptoms – memory loss or vision impairment. The CT scan shows no brain trauma. Your face sustained several lacerations from glass. When you take off the bandages, you’re going to see jigsaws of sutures. They’ll heal in about three to four weeks. You shouldn’t have any scarring.’

‘I suffer from SIS.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Shitty Irish Skin,’ Darby said. ‘I’ll definitely have some scarring.’

The young doctor chuckled. ‘Well, we can correct that down the road, so don’t worry. Are you feeling up for visitors?’

‘Absolutely. When can I leave?’

‘Probably this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We shot you up with small doses of Demerol for pain management and to help you sleep. Do you feel nauseous?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Demerol never agreed with her stomach.

‘That should dissipate in a few hours,’ he said. ‘You’ll need someone to take you home. And you’ll need to –’

‘Stay off my feet, relax, don’t push myself, etcetera, etcetera.’

The doctor gave her instructions on how to clean the wounds and promised to write her a prescription for Percocet. After he left, Darby used the hospital phone to call MCI-Cedar Junction, got Superintendent Skinner on the phone and explained where she was and what had happened. Skinner said he could arrange the meeting with Ezekiel for any time during the day; all he needed was an hour’s notice. She promised to call him as soon as she left the hospital.

The door opened. She expected to see Coop. Instead, she saw Artie Pine. He pulled up a chair next to her bed.

‘You were passed out when I found you,’ he said. ‘By the time I helped you to the ambulance you were talking, although I’ll be goddamned if I could understand what you were saying.’

‘What happened to Coop?’

‘Who?’

‘Jackson Cooper. The forensic guy who looks like David Beckham. You were talking to him when the house exploded.’

‘Oh, him. The one with the muscles. Took a hell of a spill but he’s fine. The commissioner is here. She’s on the phone at the moment. She wants to – in fact, here she is.’

Darby tried to sit up.

‘Lay back,’ Pine said. ‘I’ll elevate your bed for you.’

Chadzynski, dressed in one of her utilitarian black power suits, stood at the foot of the bed. Darby’s attention was on the man wearing a frumpy tan suit. He had cauliflower ears and a large, ugly nose that had been broken too many times. He leaned on the wall next to the door and looked at her with a humourless, dour expression – a man, she suspected, who preferred working with numbers and statistics to working with people.

‘This is Lieutenant Warner,’ Chadzynski said. ‘When I heard about what had happened, I had him posted outside your room.’

Warner nodded hello.

‘Detective Pine told me about the explosion,’ Chadzynski said.

‘
Explosions
,’ Darby said. ‘There were two. First the house and then the crime scene vehicle. The way the house went up, I thought it might have been a gas explosion. No flames, it just blew apart. Then the Explorer went next and I knew it was a bomb – two bombs.’

Chadzynski’s normally emotionless face pinched with anger. Or was it fear?

‘How many?’ Darby asked.

‘It’s too early to say.’

‘Edgar was in the house with his grad students.’

‘Yes, I know. They’re among the missing.’

‘What about Stan Jennings? He’s the lead detective from Charlestown.’

Chadzynski looked at Pine.

‘I don’t know about Jennings,’ he said. ‘I was on my way to the house when I ran into your forensic partner. I was asking him for an update when the house blew.’

Chadzynski said, ‘Detective Pine, would you give us a moment?’

‘Sure.’ He looked at Darby and said, ‘Doc says you can’t drive home.’

‘I live across the street.’

‘No matter, I’ll take you.’ He patted her hand. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

Chadzynski spoke. ‘Thank you for your generous offer, Detective Pine, but I’ll take care of the transportation arrangements for Miss McCormick. And I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to Belham, cleaned up and back to work.’

Pine looked as if a door had been slammed shut in his face. Darby watched him walk all the way to the door.