The Survivors Club (10 page)

CHAPTER 11

Jillian

D
ETECTIVE
F
ITZPATRICK AND
S
ERGEANT
G
RIFFIN STUCK
around the restaurant for another five minutes. They thrust, Jillian parried. They punched, she counterpunched. The two cops grew frustrated. Jillian didn’t much care. She’d been telling Meg and Carol the truth. They didn’t have to say anything or go anywhere. As of this moment, they were still merely Eddie Como’s victims. They might as well enjoy that advantage while it lasted.

One year ago, when Jillian had first thought up the Survivors Club, she’d had no illusions about the road ahead. She’d woken up that morning with the crushing realization that Trisha was still dead and she was still not. She’d lain there, terrified of each noise in her own home, painfully aware of just how physically weak and inadequate she was, and then she’d gotten mad again. No—she’d gotten furious. She didn’t want more police questions. She didn’t want DA’s walking through her hospital room, cops grilling her about what she had done and said the night her little sister was viciously raped and murdered. She didn’t want to get out of bed knowing that the man was still out there. He had killed Trish. He had attacked two other women. And the police hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

Jillian had gotten out of bed then. And she had picked up the phone.

Perhaps Meg and Carol had joined the group looking for comfort. Maybe, these days, it even was a source of comfort. But Jillian wasn’t ready for soft things yet. First and foremost, she had needed action for Trish, for herself, for all of them. She had formed this group, then honed this group to be their sword.

“We are not the Victims Club,” she had told them at their inaugural meeting. “We are the Survivors Club, and while we may have lost control once, we aren’t ever going to lose control again. These attacks are our attacks. That rapist is our rapist. And we’re going after him. The three of us are going to use the press, we’re going to use the attorney general’s office, we’re going to use the police and we’re going to find the man who did this to us. And then we’re going to teach him what it means to have messed with us. I promise you that. From the bottom of my heart, I promise you we will get this man and we will make him pay.”

And in a matter of three short weeks, they watched the police lead Eddie Como away. What Providence detectives hadn’t been able to do for nearly two months, the Survivors Club had accomplished in half that time.

Detective Fitzpatrick and Sergeant Griffin left. A waitress came by. Her look was both curious and sympathetic.

“More chai?”

They shook their heads.

“Stay as long as you’d like, girls. Oh, and don’t fret the bill. After everything you’ve been through, this is on the house.”

The waitress bustled away. Jillian looked at Carol and Meg. No one seemed to know what to do next.

“Free breakfast,” Carol murmured at last. “Who said being raped didn’t have its advantages?”

“We didn’t get free breakfast for being raped,” Jillian countered. “We received free breakfast for killing Eddie Como. Quick, let’s run to Federal Hill. There’s no telling how much free food we can get there.”

Federal Hill was Providence’s Italian section, famous for its restaurants, pastry shops and Mafia connections. Maybe they could get toasted by various mob bosses or receive free cannolis from made men. It was a thought.

Meg spun her now empty mug between her hands. She looked up at Carol, then Jillian. Then she shocked them both, probably even herself, by speaking of serious matters first.

“Maybe you should’ve told them,” she said to Jillian. “You know, about the disk.”

“Why? Eddie has contacted us before without the police doing anything about it.”

“But this time was different.”

“‘Sticks and stones may break my bones,’ ” Jillian quoted, “‘but words will never hurt me.’ ”

“He sent the tape to your
house
.” Carol now, clearly agreeing with Meg. Carol hated the fact that Eddie Como could access their private residences. As she had told Detective Fitzpatrick six months ago, when the first phone call had come, it was like letting a murderer return to the scene of the crime. Eddie had been charged with three counts of first-degree sexual assault, one count of manslaughter and one count of assault with the intent to commit first-degree sexual assault. After all that, how was it that he still had the freedom to make phone calls and send mail? Eddie Como might have been the one behind bars, but most of the time, they agreed, they were the ones who felt as if they were in prison.

“He’s contacted all of us at our homes,” Jillian said. “Face it—he likes to play games. He likes trying to mess with our minds. This was just his latest effort.”

“But he threatened to kill you,” Meg argued. “Detective Fitzpatrick told us he could do something if Eddie became threatening. And that video file”—Meg shuddered delicately—“that was definitely threatening.”

The computer disk had been sent to Jillian’s house on Friday. The return address had been Jillian’s business—yes, Eddie was very smart in his own way. So she’d opened the manila envelope, thoughtlessly popped in the disk, figuring it was from Roger or Claire, and then . . . Then Eddie Como’s face had been staring back at her from her own computer screen. And as she fumbled for the eject button or the mouse, or the escape button, or for God’s sake, some kind of button, he had begun to speak.

“You fucking bitch,” Eddie Como told her as she sat in her own home, ten feet away from her ailing mother, fifteen feet away from her mother’s live-in assistant, two feet away from a photo of Trisha, smiling and happy and still so full of life. “You fucking bitch, you’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined my kid’s life, my mother’s life and my girlfriend’s life. Why? Because I’m a spic? Or just because I’m a man? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I’m gonna get you even if it’s from beyond the grave.”

Jillian had gotten the disk out then. She had flung it back into the manila envelope and quickly resealed it, as if it were a poisonous spider that might try to escape. Then she’d sat there a long time, breathing too hard, shaking like a leaf, and in all honesty, very near tears.

Jillian hated being near tears. Crying never helped. Crying never changed the world. Crying certainly didn’t fend off the likes of Eddie Como.

“If I was going to contact Detective Fitzpatrick, I would have done it Friday night,” she told the group now. “I didn’t. So there you go.”

“You should’ve told him,” Carol said, voice still disapproving. Carol was very good at disapproving. “Maybe he could’ve done something.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. “It was after eight by the time I opened the envelope. Detective Fitzpatrick was already gone for the day. And . . . and it seemed juvenile at the time. A last-minute scare tactic by Eddie with the trial about to start on Monday. Besides, he’s sent this thing out, he’s probably already waiting for the police to come or the prison guards to come, or someone to come and give him a bad time. Then he could sit back and amuse himself with how much he rattled my cage. But if I say nothing . . . Then he spends all weekend waiting. Wondering. Not knowing. I liked that.”

“Punishing him with silence,” Meg said softly. “It’s not half bad.”

Jillian shrugged modestly. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Whatever Eddie has done, whatever he’s threatened to do . . . It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead.”

A strange silence descended over the group. For the first time, alone with confirmation that Eddie Como had indeed been fatally shot, the words began to penetrate, grow real, become the new state of the universe. They looked at each other. No one knew what to say. No more Eddie Como. It defied the imagination. For the last year he had been the center of their world. Everything they hated, despised, feared. Weekly they met simply to talk about how mad he had made them, or how determined, how confused, how heartbroken, defenseless, shattered. Was there a thought that went through any of their heads that did not connect back to Eddie Como? A resolution that did not start with him? A good day, a bad day, a good episode, a bad episode that wasn’t directly attributed to him? Meg could not remember her life. Carol couldn’t turn off her TV. Jillian couldn’t relax, and one way or another it all had to do with Eddie Como. Except now he was gone and the world kept turning and the other patrons kept eating and . . .

“I don’t think we can talk about it,” Jillian said shortly.

“We need to talk about it,” Meg said quietly.

“We have to talk about it!” Carol seconded more vehemently. “We’d better talk about it! I for one—”

“We can’t,” Jillian interrupted forcefully. “We’re suspects. If we talk about the shooting, or the fact that he’s dead, later someone—hell, maybe Ned D’Amato—could construe that as conspiracy.”

“Oh for the love of God!” Carol cried. “The College Hill Rapist is dead and you’re still making up rules and setting agendas. Give it a rest, Jillian! We have spent the last twelve months gearing up for a trial that will suddenly never happen. Oh my God, I don’t know where to begin.”

“We can’t—”

“Let’s vote.” Carol was emphatic. “All in favor of dancing around Eddie Como’s grave, raise their hands.”

Carol raised her hand. After a second, Meg’s hand also went into the air. She gazed at Jillian apologetically. “When the news report came on, I was so sure they were wrong,” she said quietly. “How could someone as evil as Eddie actually die? Did the shooter use a silver bullet? But then the cops came, so I guess this is all really happening, and well . . . I think I’m a little confused. He’s dead, but in my mind, he can’t be dead. Everything’s different, but everything’s the same. It’s . . . surreal.”

Jillian frowned. She still smarted from Carol’s agenda comment. But then . . .

Her skin felt funny, too tight for her bones. The air felt strange, too cool upon her cheeks. Meg was right. Everything was different, yet everything was the same, and had there been a night in the last twelve months when Jillian had not gone to bed wishing for Eddie Como’s death, praying for Eddie Como’s death,
willing
Eddie Como’s death with every fiber of her being?

She had won. The Survivors Club had won. And then she finally understood what was wrong. Eddie Como was dead. But she didn’t feel victorious.

“Perhaps . . . perhaps we can talk about how we feel,” Jillian said slowly. “But no getting into specifics of the shooting. Agreed?”

Meg nodded. More reluctantly, Carol followed suit.

“Well, I for one am happy!” Carol stated immediately. “I’m bursting! Hell, yes. This is a great day in America. The bastard finally got what he deserved! You know what we need? We need champagne. We need to celebrate this properly, that will put it in perspective. Where is that waitress? We’re going to get ourselves some champagne, and why not, that piece of chocolate cake.”

The waitress magically materialized. Carol ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon, then the entire chocolate cake.

“Don’t worry, we’ll pay for it,” she told the waitress. “We’re not trying to abuse anyone’s generosity, we just need a good toast. Do you have any strawberries, honey? Put a strawberry in each glass. That’ll be perfect. And then the cake. Don’t forget the cake. My God, that looks luscious.”

Carol was waving her hands about enthusiastically. Her blue eyes were overbright again, her expression at once glowing and brittle. Meg and Jillian exchanged looks across the table.

“Now then,” Carol said in her overloud voice. “Bubbly is on the way. In the meantime, let’s tick off all the ways our lives will be better. I’ll start. One, we no longer have to worry about testifying at trial. No horrible recaps, no vicious cross-examination, no showing crime-scene photos of our own bodies to complete strangers. Survey says, no trial is a good trial. Thank you, Dead Eddie. Oh look, here’s the champagne.”

The waitress was back. She had the Dom Pérignon and yes, glasses with fresh strawberries. She popped the cork, poured the three glasses and began dishing out the cake.

Jillian accepted her glass, already picturing the headline.
Eddie Como Is Shot, The Women Eat Cake
. But then, in the next instant, Carol’s mood infected her as well. What the hell were they supposed to do? Cry in their coffee? Wring their hands? Maybe this wasn’t sane and maybe it wasn’t socially acceptable, but they’d had lots of moments less sane than this one. And they had endured plenty of things that should not be socially acceptable.

Trisha tied up, stripped naked, then viciously assaulted as her throat swelled shut, as her lungs gasped for air. Trisha struggling furiously. Trisha trying to scream. Trisha, dying, with her last conscious moments being a strange man looming over her body . . .

“Okay,” Jillian said. She held up her champagne flute. “My turn. Here’s to no more phone calls in the middle of the day, no more notes in the mail, no more twisted video displays. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“Here’s to no halting our lives every ten years for parole hearings,” Meg said. “No worrying that if we don’t halt our lives and relive our rapes for some parole board, he will end up back on the streets. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“No more fear that somehow he’ll get out and attack someone else,” Carol continued.

“No more fear that somehow he’ll get out and attack one of
us,
” Jillian amended.

“No more fear!” Meg said.

They drank. The champagne tasted startlingly good. Brought color to their cheeks. What the hell. Jillian poured another round while Carol dug into her cake.

“Good thing the cops left,” Meg said somewhere around the third glass. She had barely eaten a bite for breakfast, and the champagne was going straight to her head.

“Oh they’ll be back,” Carol said. She’d stopped drinking champagne after the first glass and instead gone after the cake. Her lips were chocolate stained. She had a smear of frosting on her cheek, two more smudges on her hands.

“The new one is cute,” Meg declared. “Those deep blue eyes. And that chest! Did you see his chest? Now there is a man who looks like he knows how to serve and protect.”