Authors: Nancy Werlin

The Rules of Survival (22 page)

BOOK: The Rules of Survival

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“Wait for me right there,” I said. “Emmy—”

You had disconnected. It didn’t matter, though. I knew where you were.

PORT OF BOSTON

Aunt Bobbie was snoring so loudly, it shook the house. I paused outside her bedroom for maybe three seconds, thinking about waking her, about making her drive me down to the port, where I was sure you were. But then I remembered that near empty bottle of wine.

On my way down the stairs, I called Murdoch on his cell phone. It rang and then went to voice mail. I hung up, and then called back and left a message.

I just got a call from Emmy. She’s alone in a trailer in what sounds like the South Boston dockyard—she mentioned the blue cranes. She’s vomiting. I’m going to go get her now. Oh, and one more thing? Thanks for answering your phone. Thanks for being there for me.

I was sorry the second I’d disconnected, and then I wasn’t sorry at all. Why shouldn’t Murdoch understand how bitter and angry I felt? With you missing, the least he could have done was to answer his phone. Right?

I had this moment when I longed for Callie like mad.

Then I ran. My plan was to get you back from Nikki myself. There was no point calling anybody else or expecting anybody else to help. Nobody ever helped, not when it mattered. I might even have had some vague vindictive thought that that would show them all. And that I didn’t need anyone anyway.

But mostly, I don’t remember thinking at all. There was no time. One car passed me, but other than that, I was alone on the streets of South Boston.

I ran up L Street and then down Broadway, on the sidewalk where they’d swapped out the regular streetlights for fake Victorian lampposts with fake gas lights. I was grateful for the light. My way was downhill, past the expensively rehabbed town houses crammed in on both sides of the wide street. Five, six, seven minutes. The ocean smell got stronger and stronger. I reached the boulevard next to the ocean, and turned left and ran along Pleasure Bay toward Sullivan’s.

How many times had I taken you swimming in the safety of that big, shallow bowl of water? And how many times had Callie and I taken turns pushing you on the swings?

My feet hurt; I had the wrong shoes on for real running. My jeans were all wrong, too—I could feel my cell phone, an uncomfortable bulge in my hip pocket.

But none of that mattered. I reached Sullivan’s. On a normal summer day, people would line up to get hot dogs or fries or ice cream there. The parking lot would be crowded. The contrast with its emptiness now made me feel even more alone.

I realized I didn’t know exactly where the main entrance to the port was. I’d only ever seen it from the other side of the fence at Castle Island, and instinctively, that was the way I’d come. But probably the entrance was way over on the west side of Southie—blocks and blocks from here.

No matter, though. I raced to the fence and leaped up, grabbing the top. I levered myself up and over, and dropped down easily into the commercial dockyard of the Port of Boston. And just like you had said, there were a lot of lights, industrial-strength lights suspended from utility poles and strung on wires above the ground.

I paused, looking around, trying to catch my breath. A trailer, you’d said. But because of the shipping containers that crowded the dockyard, all of them approximately the size and shape of any normal trailer, I couldn’t at first see any.

Blood pumping, eyes scanning, I began walking toward the center of the dockyard. I had an impulse to keep to the shadows, and obeyed it. I was trespassing, after all, and maybe there’d be security guards.

There were signs posted: Hard Hat Area and Safety First. I could see why. Many of the shipping containers were stacked, three or four or five containers high, six or seven wide. While they looked secure, too big and square to topple, I couldn’t help imagining them being lifted by heavy machinery. You wouldn’t want to step in the way of one of the forklifts used to move a container. And what if a crane, which was used to haul the containers off the ships and place them on the ground, were to break mid-carry? The huge container would come crashing down from thirty feet in the air, or more. Suddenly my head felt very vulnerable.

I sped up, passing a row of Porta Potties. I still didn’t see a trailer. Was I even going in the right direction? From the outside, the dockyard hadn’t looked all that big, but now that I was inside, it seemed huge. I was afraid of walking over near the wharves, even though I might be able to get a better view from there. I felt I’d be too visible.

I looked at my watch. It had now been about forty minutes since you had called me. Were you still sick? Would you believe I was really coming? Would Nikki have come back by now? Worst thought of all—would you still be there?

And then, finally, I turned warily around the corner of a tall bank of containers and spotted two shabby-looking trailers near what looked to be the front gates of the port. One of them had a wooden set of stairs attached to it and was labeled “Office.” There was a very bright light on a post just beside the stairs to the office.

Somehow, I knew that was where you were. I took a deep breath and walked, rapidly, out of the shadows of my container bank. I was up the wooden stairs in a flash, grasping the knob of the office. The door was locked.

“Emmy?” I yelled instinctively. My voice was way too loud, and it scared me. I rapped at the door instead. “It’s Matthew,” I called, more moderately. “Can you let me in? The door’s locked.” I looked over my shoulder. I prayed no one was around to hear me.

I prayed Nikki wasn’t around, that she hadn’t yet come back. Although, then again—what if you had passed out in there? Or worse? My fist clenched on the doorknob.

The knob moved under my hand. I heard the tiny scrabble of a lock being drawn back. And then the door moved inward, and I pushed it the rest of the way, gently.

There you were, staring big-eyed, teary, at me. You were still in your school clothes, from Friday. Also, you hadn’t lied about being sick, Emmy. You were covered in vomit.

And you stank of alcohol.

THE O.K. CORRAL

I wish I could say I grabbed you up in my arms anyway, but I didn’t. “Ew,” I said. Then I noticed that you were holding on to the trailer door for dear life.

“Matt!” you wailed.

At that point, I had to reach out and catch you, because you started to fall. I heaved you up over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and tried not to breathe through my nose. I spared a glance inside the trailer; I saw a desk, cluttered with papers, a wall full of bookcases with binders on them. No Nikki, though, and that was the important thing.

I said, under my breath, “Em, what have you been
doing
? You reek.”

You murmured, “She made me.” Then you shifted on my shoulder, and nearly toppled off it. I hugged you hard, just for a second.

I said, “Stay as still as possible, can you? You’re heavy.” I started down the stairs, trying to keep you balanced. It wasn’t easy, and I was grateful for my workouts at the gym. Then I hesitated. Could I actually carry you all the way back across the dockyard, the way I’d come, and somehow get you over the fence by Sullivan’s? I doubted it.

Maybe we could just leave through the main gate? It was nearer. I could see that it was closed, but that didn’t mean it was locked. Or we could just jump and scramble over the gate, the way I’d gotten over the fence? I would need you to cooperate to do that. “Stay
still,
Emmy,” I said sharply again. Before I was aware of making a decision, I started trudging unevenly toward the gate. It was only about twenty yards ahead. I’d figure it out when we got there.

I could feel the weight of my cell phone in my pocket—maybe I could call a cab to pick us up? But I didn’t have any money on me. Call Aunt Bobbie, and hope that she woke up when the phone rang? Or maybe I could just call 911? I thought about that. Yes, I would call 911, as soon as I got outside the dockyard and found someplace to put you down. It was best, too, because you had gone completely limp and I knew you had passed out.

I staggered toward the gate. I was feeling your slow breath, in and out, in and out, against my back, when I heard a mechanical rumbling. I looked up to see the double gates to the dockyard swinging open. A large Ford truck nosed in, and its headlights caught you and me squarely in their glare. Its brakes squealed as it came to a halt on the concrete road a few yards in front of us.

The passenger door of the truck swung open, and our mother jumped out. I could see her unmistakably silhouetted behind the lights, and I knew that she would see us clearly, too. She stood next to the truck for a second, and then she laughed.

“Matthew!” she called. “Fancy meeting you here!” She slammed her door shut and started walking toward us.

I don’t know exactly why I did what I did. Maybe it was just that running was obviously useless. So I kept a tight grip on you and walked grimly forward to meet her, like it was the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. And me packing a cell phone in one pocket and a seven-year-old sister on one shoulder.

Meanwhile, the driver of the truck had gotten out, too, and stood uncertainly beside his truck with his door still open. “Nikki?” he said. “Nobody’s supposed to come in the yard. Nobody’s supposed to know I ever let you in. I told you that. It’s my job on the line here.”

“No worries. That’s just my other kid,” my mother said. We were within a couple yards of each other now. We stopped, facing each other. For a long, long minute there was silence.

I said, “You got Emmy drunk.”

“It was the only way to shut her up. It wasn’t hard. She likes sangria best, and it turns out she’ll only drink beer if I make her, but she really had a party with the bourbon tonight, once I got her started. It was pretty impressive.”

I had this moment of dizziness. The world went white for a second or two. And then, when I recovered, I was different. I can’t explain it any better than that. I was different. I have stayed different from that moment to this one.

It wasn’t that I was no longer afraid of Nikki. It was that I didn’t care that I was afraid. Fear was not going to rule me anymore. Not with Nikki. Not with anyone.

No more.

Nikki was saying sweetly, “And I needed her to sleep so that I could spend some quality time with Bob here.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the truck driver. “I needed to thank him for giving us shelter. I mean, it’s his job at risk.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

“It really is!” said Bob defensively. “I told you—”

I cut him off, though my eyes didn’t leave my mother’s face. My voice came out strong. Loud. “Then you’d better get out of here, Bob, before I get a good look at you and your license plate. Because there’s a warrant out for Nikki’s arrest on kidnapping charges. If you’re involved with that, you’ll lose your job for sure. To say the least.”

“Nikki,” Bob began.

I didn’t let him get any further. “So far, Bob,” I said, “I haven’t actually seen you at all. I couldn’t describe you. I don’t know your name. And I don’t have any reason to want you to lose your job. Yet. That means you have thirty seconds to get out of here.”

I still didn’t look at Bob. I didn’t need to, Emmy. You see, I knew him. I knew a hundred men like him, and I knew what he’d do. I knew what his fear would make him do.

And he did it. He got back into his truck. The door slammed, and the wheels squealed as he put it into reverse. He got the hell out of Dodge, leaving you and me alone with our mother.

She was still smiling.

“Where’s Murdoch?” she said.

I blinked.

“Isn’t he here?” Nikki said. “Didn’t you call him before coming on your big rescue mission, Matthew? You’re so predictable. Don’t tell me you’re going to surprise me now.”

“He’s not here,” I said steadily. “I’m here. I don’t need Murdoch or anyone to take Emmy away. Or to tell you that you won’t be allowed to see her ever again. I’ll make sure of that. Me. Alone, if necessary.”

I could do anything that I had to do now. I knew it. I could even—I saw it suddenly—I could kill Nikki. I could. It would be easy. I would feel no remorse. She deserved death.

Right here. Right now. Put you down, Emmy. Then knock Nikki to the ground and kick her head and chest until she died.

Easy. It would be easy.

She had kidnapped you. She had gotten you drunk. I could even claim she had threatened us. I would get away with it. And so what if I didn’t? Who cared? You and Callie had Ben and Bobbie and Murdoch to take care of you. You wouldn’t need me.

And Nikki would be dead.

Nikki would be dead.

My mother would be dead.

It took only a few seconds for these thoughts to fill me. To empower me.

“Aren’t you the big man now?” Nikki was saying.

Emmy, I leaned over. I put you down. And then I was in front of Nikki, lifting my hands to her, grabbing her, throwing her to the ground.

BOOK: The Rules of Survival

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