The Survivors Club (4 page)

“Kid dropped straight down. Dead before he hit the ground. You hear about this stuff, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I yelled ‘gun.’ ”

“He did. Jerry yelled ‘gun,’ we all dropped into a crouch. You know, with the sun coming up behind the roof like that, you just can’t see a damn thing. Scariest goddamn moment of my life.”

“I thought I saw movement. Maybe somebody running. That’s it, though.”

“Then we could hear all the reporters yelling across the street. ‘On the roof,’ they were shouting. ‘There he goes, there he goes.’ ”

“Distinguishing features?” Waters prodded. “Height, weight?”

“Couldn’t even make out if it was a man or woman,” Jerry said bluntly. “I’m telling you, it was more like catching the flash of a silhouette. Moved fast though. Definitely one well-conditioned sniper.”

Waters gave the marshal a look. “‘One well-conditioned sniper,’ huh? Well, let me run straight to my lieutenant with that. I mean, by God, Jerry, let’s get out the APB.”

The three marshals squirmed. “Sorry, guys,” Jerry finally said with a shrug, “but from here . . . Look up yourself. You can’t see a damn thing.”

“Try the reporters, though,” George spoke up. “They had a much better vantage point. Hey, they might have even gotten the guy on film.”

The three marshals, not above getting a little revenge after they’d been put in the hot seat, smiled at them. While they’d been talking, the roar from the reporters had grown even louder outside the courthouse. Now they sounded kind of like King Kong—right before he burst his chains.

Waters sighed. Looked miserable. Then morosely hung his head. He hated the press. Last time he and Griffin had worked together, he’d let a statement slip within a reporter’s earshot and paid for that mistake for weeks. Besides, as he’d later confided to Griffin, his butt looked even bonier on camera. Two fine citizens had written letters to the editor requesting that somebody in the Rhode Island police department start feeding him.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything?” he prodded the state marshals one last time.

The state marshals shook their heads, this time a bit gleefully. But then, Jerry, kind-hearted bastard that he was, took pity on him.

“If you don’t want to mess with the press, you can always go straight to the women,” Jerry said.

“The women?” Griffin spoke up.

“Yeah, the three women Eddie attacked. Haven’t you seen them on the news?”

“Oh, those women,” Griffin said, though in fact he hadn’t watched the news in months and knew very little about the College Hill rape case.

“Let’s face it,” Jerry was saying. “If anyone has reason to turn Eddie into liver pâté, it’s the three ladies. My money’s on the last one, the business one, what’s her name? Jillian Hayes. Yeah, she’s a cool one, could kill a man with her eyes alone. Plus, after what Eddie did to her sister . . .”

“No, no, no,” George interrupted. “The Hayes woman wasn’t even raped. You want to know who did it, it was the second one, Carol Rosen, the high-society wife from the East Side. My brother’s wife works in the ER at Women & Infants and she was there the night they brought in Mrs. Rosen. Man, the things Eddie had done to her. It’s a miracle she didn’t need plastic surgery to repair her face. Twenty to one, the shooter wore pearls.”

“You’re both wrong,” Tom spoke up. “One, no way some woman made this shot. Like an ad executive or rich socialite is going to go climbing all over the courthouse roof with an assault rifle. Key to this shooting is the first victim. The pretty young coed, Pesaturo—”

“Oh, leave the girl alone.” Jerry looked stern. “Meg Pesaturo doesn’t even remember anything. ’Sides, she’s just a kid.”

“She
says
she doesn’t remember anything. But that always sounded pretty fishy to me. Maybe she just wanted to keep it private. A family matter. And you know who her family is.” Tom gave them all an expectant look. They obligingly leaned forward, even Griffin. Law enforcement officers were never above a bit of juicy gossip.

“Vinnie Pesaturo,” Tom said, in the waiting hush. “Yeah, the Carlone family’s favorite bookie. If Vinnie wanted something done, you can be sure it got done. So maybe pretty little Meg doesn’t remember anything. Or maybe she’s adopting the party line, while Vinnie sets everything in motion. A rooftop sniper, a nearby explosion. Oh yeah, this has got the Carlone family written all over it. Mark my words, Meg Pesaturo is the one.”

CHAPTER 5

Meg

S
HE IS LAUGHING.
S
HE DOESN
’
T KNOW WHY.
T
HE POLICE ARE
here. Some girl, her roommate, she is told, is crying. But Meg is standing outside. She is looking up at the dark night sky, where the stars gleam like tiny pinpricks of light, where the breeze is cool against her cheeks, and she is hugging herself and laughing giddily.

The police want to take her to the hospital. They are looking at her strangely.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she tells them. “Look, it’s a gorgeous night!”

The concerned officers put her in the back of a police cruiser. She hums to herself. She touches her cheek, and she has a first glimmer of memory.

A touch, whisper light, impossibly gentle. Eyes, rich chocolate, peering into her own. The beginning of a slow, sweet smile.

“Who am I?” she asks the officers up front.

“Why don’t you wait until we get to the hospital.”

So she waits until they get to the hospital. It’s all right with her. She’s singing some tune she can’t get out of her head. She is daydreaming of whisper-light touches. She is shivering in anticipation of a lover’s kiss.

At the hospital, she is whisked through the emergency room doors, led to a tiny exam room where a special nurse, a sexual assault examiner, comes bustling in. She seems to know the officers, which is fine by Meg, because she doesn’t know anyone at all.

“How bad?” the nurse asks briskly.

“You tell us. The roommate came home and found her tied to the bed. She claims she doesn’t remember a thing, including her name—”

“What’s my name?” Meg speaks up.

They ignore her. “She claims she doesn’t remember her roommate either,” the police officer says, “not anyone, not anything. The roommate gave us contact information, so the parents are on the way.”

The nurse jerks her head toward Meg. “Original clothes?”

“No, the roommate released her from the bindings and dressed her before calling us.” The police officer sounds disgusted. “Someone’s gotta teach these people to know better. We found a ripped T-shirt on the floor, plus a pair of panties. They’re already on their way to the lab.”

“I’ll bag these clothes as well, just in case any hair or fiber has rubbed off inside them. I’ll mark them as second-set clothing. That work for you?”

The officers shrug. “We’re just the limo drivers; what the hell do we care?”

“Hey,” Meg says again. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

The officers roll their eyes. The nurse dismisses them and comes over to Meg. The nurse has blue eyes. The eyes look at her kindly, but they are also sharp.

“What is your name?” she asks as she snaps on a pair of gloves.

“I don’t know. That’s what I was asking them. That girl called me Meg. Maybe I’m Meg.”

“I see. And how old are you, Meg?”

Meg has to think about it. A number pops into her mind. “Nineteen?”

The nurse nods as if this is an acceptable answer. “And what day is today?”

This is easier. “Wednesday,” Meg says immediately. “April eleventh.”

“All right. I just need to check a few things, Meg. I know this may feel uncomfortable, but I’m not going to hurt you. Please understand we’re all here to help you. Even if it seems that we’re asking too much, we have your best interests at heart.”

The nurse reaches out. She takes Meg’s wrist with her gloved fingers. Immediately, Meg recoils. She yanks back her hand.

“No,” Meg says, though she doesn’t know why. She is shaking her head. The night is not so beautiful anymore. “No,” she says again. “No, no.”

“Your wrist is bleeding,” the nurse says patiently. “I just need to look at it, see if it needs treatment.” She reaches out again with her gloved hand and takes Meg’s wrist.

“No!” This time Meg flies off the table. She clutches her bleeding wrist against her chest, feeling her heart pound as she searches frantically for some means of escape. The door is closed. She is trapped in the tiny exam room with this woman and those gloves. The gloves smell. Can’t the woman smell them? They have a horrible, horrible smell.

Meg turns around and around. No place to go. No way to escape. She shrinks down onto the cold, white floor. She cradles her bleeding wrists against her, and for reasons she can’t explain, she whimpers.

The nurse is looking at her. Her face has not changed. Her expression is set, unreadable, but at least she doesn’t come any closer.

“Does your wrist hurt?” the nurse asks quietly.

Meg has not thought about it. But now that the woman mentions it . . . Meg looks down at her wrists. Big, huge welts circle the tiny forms. She can see fresh blood and dark purple bruises marring her skin.

“They . . . they sting,” Meg says. Her voice holds a trace of wonder.

The nurse squats down until she is eye level.

“Meg, I’m here to help you. If you let me, I will treat your wrists and help them feel better. I also want to help you another way, Meg. My job is to assist in catching the person who did this to you, who made your wrists sting. To do that, I need to take some pictures. And I need to examine the rest of you as well. I know this isn’t easy right now. But if you will trust me, I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, Meg nods her head. She isn’t afraid of this woman. In fact, she has come to like her stern face and unwavering gaze. This woman seems strong, in control. Meg rises back up. She holds out her raw, torn wrists.

But the moment the woman touches her again, places those latex-covered fingers against her skin . . .

“I’m going to be sick,” Meg says, and just barely makes it to the stainless steel sink.

The door opens, then closes as the nurse leaves the room. Meg runs the water for a bit. She rinses off her face, which she had already done twice before the police came, another thing that made them growl in disapproval.

Meg’s mouth hurts. She finds a mirror and studies her face for a long time. The corners of her mouth are bleeding slightly. The flesh there is torn.

Meg is honestly confused. She searches her memory for some kind of hint, but all she can recall is a faraway sensation of whisper-light touches against her skin. Soft, teasing caresses. And she is holding her breath, hoping he will come closer, closer.

Please, kiss me.

She shivers. And a moment later, she realizes that for the first time all night, she is afraid.

From outside comes the sound of voices. The nurse and the police officers are once more talking about her.

“Latex? She was tied up with strips of
latex
? For God’s sake, gentlemen, that’s the kind of detail you might want to mention to me. I just approached her all gloved up and she about climbed the walls. No wonder she was scared out of her mind.”

“So you think she was raped?”

“Of course she was raped. Have you looked at her mouth? Consensual lovers don’t generally gag their partners.”

“Yeah, yeah, but . . . listen to her. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night.’ And she’s humming all the time and smiling to herself. What’s that about?”

“It’s called euphoria, Officer. Because even if Miss Pesaturo doesn’t consciously remember being raped yet, her subconscious knows damn well what happened and it’s telling her she’s grateful to be alive.”

The officers don’t say anything more. A moment later, the door bursts open and the nurse comes bustling back in. Meg stares at the woman’s hands, but they are bare now. The woman opens a cabinet, pulls out a separate box. She hands the box to Meg.

“Are these okay with you?”

Meg looks into the box. It also contains gloves, but these are different. She takes one out, holds it in her hand. It is thin and smells of rubber. The box says it is a vinyl glove. She sniffs again. She has an instant memory of dish soap and sudsy water. That’s all.

She hands the box back to the nurse. “Okay,” she says and her voice is now equally grave.

The nurse spreads a white drop cloth on the floor. Meg stands on the drop cloth and takes off her clothes, including her bra and panties. The nurse puts each item in a separately marked bag. Meg holds out her arms. The nurse shoots Polaroids of her naked body, including her mouth, wrists and ankles. The nurse runs a comb through her pubic hair. The results go into another bag.

Then Meg must lie back on the table. Her feet go into stirrups. Her heart is pounding again. She tries not to think about it. She tries to remember she must trust this woman, because something horrible has happened even if Meg can only recall rich chocolate eyes and a gentle lover’s kiss.

Meg shivers. The room is too cold. She is frightened by the swabs the nurse is taking. Frightened by the things they might know that she doesn’t. She is overexposed, and even when the nurse hands her a pink hospital gown, it is not enough.

There is evidence of vaginal penetration, the nurse tells her. Traces of fluid in the cervix. Is Meg on birth-control pills?

This sounds right to Meg. She nods. It is only the beginning, however. She doesn’t have to take the morning-after pill unless she really wants to, but there is still the risk of sexually transmitted disease. Herpes. Gonorrhea. AIDS. She will give blood samples today, and more in the coming weeks as they continue to look for signs of infection. For example, it can take up to six months to detect the first sign of AIDS after initial exposure.

Meg nods again. Her euphoria is gone. She is tired. More tired than she has ever felt. Her mouth hurts. Her ankles, her wrists. She sits with her legs tightly crossed and she hopes, somewhere way down deep, that no one will ever touch her again.

A knock on the door. An officer sticks in his head. Meg’s parents are here. A Providence detective is here. They need to ask her some more questions . . .

“You’re going to be all right,” the nurse tells Meg.

Meg just looks at the woman. She finally understands that this kind, stern woman is paid to lie. Meg has been raped. Meg has lost her mind. Meg does not recognize the man and woman now rushing into the room sobbing her name.

Meg will be many things in the days, weeks, months to come. But she will not be all right. That will be a much longer-term project. It will take years. Most likely, it will take the rest of her life.

Monday morning, 7:10
A
.
M
., Meg finally crawled out of bed. She hadn’t slept well last night, though she wasn’t sure why. Today might be the big day, but it would be a bigger day for everyone other than her. The prosecutor, Ned D’Amato, wasn’t even going to call her to testify. As D’Amato so bluntly put it, what could she contribute? She still didn’t know anything about that night. During cross-examination, the defense would eat her alive.

Kind, gentle Meg. Sweet, lucky Meg, who still didn’t remember a thing.

From downstairs came the distant clang and clatter of pans. Her mother must already be in the kitchen, whipping up breakfast. Then came a high-pitched giggle, followed by a shrill demand for “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” Meg’s little sister, Molly, liked to get up at six.

Meg’s lack of memory didn’t bother her so much anymore. About four months ago, she realized she possessed a deeper, instinctive knowledge of things if she was just willing to listen to her inner voice. For example, she couldn’t remember her mother’s name, age or general description. But the minute her mother had burst into the hospital exam room and wrapped her arms around Meg’s trembling shoulders, Meg had known that this woman loved her. She felt the same way about her father and Molly. And when they brought her back here she’d definitely had a sense of coming home, even if she couldn’t have given a street address.

Sometimes, little things got her going. A song on the radio would shake the cobwebs in her mind. She would feel a memory stirring, rising up, like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue. If she tried too hard, however, strained her mind, the thought would disappear almost immediately. She’d have to wait for the song to air once more, or the scent to ride the wind, or the déjà vu to return.

Lately, she’d been working on not working so hard. She focused on her inner voice more. She let the moments of semiclarity linger like a fog in front of her eyes. She spent long periods of time thinking of nothing and everything. Post-traumatic amnesia was the mind’s way of coping, the doctors had told her. Forcing the issue only created more trauma. Instead she should rest, eat healthily, and get plenty of exercise. In other words, take good care of herself.

Meg took good care of herself. These days, she didn’t have anything else to do.

Now she heard the sound of voices, closer, down the hall. Hushed voices, the way people spoke when they were fighting and didn’t want others to hear. Her parents, again. She’d gone to sleep listening to the same sound.

Her Uncle Vinnie kept coming by. Yesterday he’d been here until almost ten at night, speaking low and furiously with her father. Her mom didn’t approve of Uncle Vinnie. Her mom didn’t like him coming over so much, and obviously didn’t like whatever he and her father had been talking about.

Meg herself didn’t get it. Uncle Vinnie had a loud, booming laugh. He smelled of whiskey and stale cigars. His head was nearly bald, his stomach bursting huge. He looked to her like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus. How could you not like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus?

Meg waited on the other side of her door until her parents’ voices finally faded away. Molly was still downstairs. Probably now decorating the floor with bits of pancakes. Her mother had probably returned to her. Her father had to get ready for work. Meg crossed the hall unnoticed and crept into the upstairs bathroom, where she took a long, steaming shower.