The River Killings Page 19

  “I been here. Sleeping.” Tony’s eye twitched. “I just woke up now, with all the noise down here.”

  I strained to follow their conversation while the long gloved fingers of the dark-skinned EMT unwrapped my throbbing skull.

  Officer Olsen rubbed his chin. “You were here, sleeping, Tony? All night?”

  “Yeah. Since … I don’t know… midnight? Maybe one.”

  But wait, I thought. Tony hadn’t answered when I’d banged on his door. I tried to remember what time that had been. Around three? I heard the scrape of Velcro. A pair of hands wrapped my arm and took blood pressure; another pair repackaged my head. Someone mentioned running a bag. Running a bag?

  Officer Olsen pushed his belly forward; Tony took a step back. “Ever hear of the Gordo, Tony?” Wait, why was he asking about the Gordo? Did he believe Molly’s story, after all?

  Tony’s eye twitched again. His mouth began to open, then snapped shut. He blinked rapidly. “The what?”

  “The Gordo. We have a little girl says she saw the Gordo here tonight.”

  “A little girl?” Tony smirked, shaking his head. “Here? Not possible. Nobody was here tonight, least of all a kid.”

  “Tony, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Because there was.”

  “A kid? Here? No fucking way. Oh, shit . . .” He looked at me, putting pieces together. “Your kid? She was here again?”

  Oh, damn. Why had Officer Olsen mentioned Molly? Tony didn’t need to know she’d been there. He’d be furious, and I’d be on probation—or worse—for leaving her there. But then it hit me how ridiculous I was being. Who cared about probation or Tony or rowing or Humberton? None of that mattered anymore; nothing did, except for Nick. I saw him again lying on the stretcher, and I let my eyes roll, pretending to be half-unconscious. Wishing I were.

  “The kid says this Gordo character was looking for you.”

  Tony’s eyes bounced from Officer Olsen to me, and back again.

  I felt a jab in my arm. An EMT was hooking me up to an IV.

  “Well, the kid’s wrong,” Tony insisted. “Nobody’s been looking for me, cuz, if they were, they’d’ve found me. And nobody did. So what’s going on?”

  “There’s been a homicide.” Officer Olsen stared into Tony’s eyes; his belly pressed Tony against the staircase. “And a police detective’s been shot.”

  “A homicide?” Tony’s hand tightened on his towel. “Who got killed?” He didn’t ask about the detective. My heart twisted. Nick.

  “You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper, anyway, Tony. So I might as well tell you. The dead guy’s Preston Everett. A coach. Friend of yours?”

  “Shit. Preston Everett?” Tony echoed, sounding hollow. His legs seemed to cave. I hoped his towel wouldn’t fall. “For real? No shit. He’s dead?”

  Four arms reached behind and under me.

  “On three,” the redhead said.

  “Oh, yes. He’s dead. But luckily, the other victim survived.” Officer Olsen moved to the window, frowning, his face flashing red and yellow, reflecting ambulance lights. “It’ll be interesting to hear what he has to say.”

  “One, two—three.”

  Suddenly, I was airborne. Arms lifted, then deposited me flat onto a wheeled stretcher. Hands busied themselves strapping me on.

  “Okay, I guess that’s it for now, Tony. But let’s keep in touch. And, whatever you do, don’t leave town.”

  Tony forced a grin. “Oh, blow me. Real cops don’t say that.”

  Olsen leaned into Tony’s face, and I saw his eye twitch. “This cop does.”

  Lying flat on my back, I watched the dome of the boathouse foyer, then the branches of trees, then the night sky being washed away by the pink hue of dawn as EMTs rolled me to the ambulance. I waved good-bye to Officer Olsen and let myself drift.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  NICK WAS IN SURGERY FOREVER, AND, SLIPPING IN AND OUT OF wakefulness, I waited for word of his condition for what seemed like days. Finally, long after my gash had been closed and other wounds tended to, eons after I’d showered and changed into a donated pair of hospital scrubs, Nick’s gurney rolled out of Recovery and I followed it to his room in Intensive Care. He was hooked up head-to-toe, oxygen tubes in his nostrils and an IV tube in his arm. Another tube carried urine from his bladder. Wires connected to a monitor measured the beats of his heart. Gauze peeked out of his hospital gown, covering the wound on his chest, and his skin was stained orange with antiseptic. All in all, he looked gorgeous. Alive. Sometimes, his blue eyes opened and floated around aimlessly. Settling on me, they focused for a moment, then slipped back into their haze and closed again.

  I held Nick’s hand, stroking it as I talked to him. I told him he’d be okay. The doctors hadn’t said so; in fact, they’d called his condition “critical,” but I told him anyway. A thousand times I told him I loved him. And I made a thousand promises. I’d never argue with him again, never give him a hard time. I’d trust him, even if I thought he was lying. I’d never interfere with his work or pry into his past or doubt his intentions. And I’d marry him. He’d be Molly’s official dad. And we could have more kids, too. Babies, as many as he wanted—two, three, a dozen. All he had to do was hang on and get better.

  I talked nonstop, partly to cover the labored sounds of Nick’s breathing and the whirring and beeping of his machines. Partly to keep myself awake. Partly to hear my own assurances, to convince myself that, despite the doctors’ reservations, Nick would survive. Other people came by during those first, hazy hours. Most of them were cops, keeping a vigil outside Nick’s room around the clock. A few were FBI. Some asked questions, probing my memory for details of finding Nick. What had I heard? What had I seen? Why had I gone there? How had I found him? I answered the questions, but I wouldn’t let anyone get close to Nick. Everyone, even cops, had to stay outside the room and pay their respects from the window. I sat beside him, fierce as a guard dog, even when nurses came to change a bag or dress his wound. I held his hand even while I dozed in the fake leather armchair, refusing offers of relief and suggestions of rest, skipping meals, unable to eat. And I obsessed, reliving the darkness of the island, the awful, isolated helplessness of finding Nick there in the night. Again and again I replayed the scene in my mind, watching myself stumble off the island and row for help, wondering who’d been in the launch, whether he’d thought I’d seen him and could recognize him. What he’d do when he found out I’d survived.

  Tony’s face popped suddenly to mind, the way he’d jumped when he saw me. Why had he been so startled? Was it because he’d thought I was dead? Had Tony been the man in the launch, swinging an oar at my head? I considered it. As boathouse manager, Tony had access to the launches. And Molly and I had heard him arguing with Coach Everett; now the coach was dead. Was Tony a killer? No. I couldn’t believe that. Tony was crude, but he was too nervous to be a killer. He was just a rough-edged young guy who liked to row. He’d argued with the coach, and he’d been stressed out, but that didn’t make him a murderer. No, I told myself. It couldn’t have been Tony. But a fragmented thought shuffled in my brain, trying to fit itself together. Something was bothering me.

  Resting my battered head against the back of the chair, clasping Nick’s fingers, I let that thought rebound through my mind until,

  too tired to fight anymore, I gave in to fatigue. Dozing, I saw Tony again in the foyer of the boathouse being questioned by Officer Olsen. And suddenly, even in my dream, I knew what had been bothering me: If Tony had been upstairs sleeping as he’d claimed, why had his hair been wet?

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  SOMEONE WAS THERE. IN THE ROOM. CREEPING AROUND. SNEAKing up on me. Oh, God. Kicking and slapping—smack—I made contact—

  “Jeez—dammit, Zoe!”

  I opened my eyes, trying to orient myself, and saw someone in motion, fluttering. Susan? And then, beside me, I saw Nick’s tube-covered, sleeping face. I felt a stab, remembering where we were. Already, his suntan had turned sallow, gave him a
sickly, jaundiced look.

  “Here, take this.” Susan was annoyed. She held out a steaming cup in one hand, wiped at her aqua sundress with a napkin in the other. “You spilled soup all over me.”

  “What?” She wasn’t making sense.

  “You almost knocked the cup out of my hands.”

  “Susan. I was asleep—”

  “Well, I tried to wake you gently.”

  “You startled me.”

  “I said your name about forty times but you didn’t move. Finally, I touched your shoulder, lightly, like this, and you flew at me like a Tanzanian devil.”

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t, but it seemed as if she wanted me to be.

  “Drink the soup. We have to talk.”

  Oh, Lord. I took the cup, but I didn’t want any soup. The very thought of food was sickening. The smell of chicken soup made me choke, but I didn’t say so. Susan believed that food cured anything, apparently even a gash on the head and a comatose boyfriend.

  “How’s Molly?”

  “Fine.”

  “She’s ‘fine’?” What did ‘fine’ mean? Susan was exasperating. She knew I was worried about Molly; why was she being so vague?

  “Yes, she’s fine. Don’t worry about Molly. I can manage Molly.” “And Nick? I was sleeping … Is there anything new?” Susan put a hand on my shoulder. “He’s stable, Zoe. He’s going to be fine.”

  “Really? You swear?” “Swear.”

  I closed my eyes, thanking God.

  Susan’s eyes were teary. “Now, you need to go home and rest. You’re not in great shape yourself. You’re all banged up. Look at you. Your skin’s purple, yellow and green and scary shades of gray. You look terrible.”

  “Come on, Susan.” I smoothed my hair. “Don’t dress it up; I can take the truth.”

  “Sorry, but somebody has to be honest. You need to go home.”

  It was no surprise that I looked like hell; I felt like it, too. My neck and back were cramped from sleeping in the chair; the gash on my head throbbed, and my body was tender all over with bruises and scrapes. I felt weak and dizzy, and my legs were going numb from sitting. But no way was I going home; I was not going to leave, not until Nick woke up.

  “Drink the damned soup,” Susan ordered. “I made it myself and brought it all the way over here. The least you can do is swallow it.”

  I looked into the cup, at a sloshy yellow liquid, felt its steam coating my face. I wanted to puke.

  “Go on, Zoe. Drink it. You need your strength or you’ll be no good to anyone. I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

  What did she know? I’d forced down a package of crackers and half a plastic container of vanilla pudding. But I knew Susan; she wouldn’t quit until I obeyed. I closed my eyes and put the cup to my lips, faking it. I forced a swallow, pretending to have actual soup in my mouth. She watched, waiting for a reaction.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s delicious.” When I spoke, a few drops trickled through my lips onto my tongue; they tasted rich and salty. Soothing. Not so bad. Not sickening. I lifted the cup again and took a small sip. Warmth ran down my throat, reminding me that my stomach was empty. I drank again. And one of Nick’s machines began to beep.

  Technically, patients in Intensive Care had extremely limited visiting hours. Because Nick was a cop in critical condition, the rules had been bent for us. Even so, when the nurse came in to respond to the beeps, she scowled.

  “You’d be more comfortable in the waiting area, ladies.” Meaning, of course, that she’d be more comfortable with us in the waiting area. “I have to change his IV bags. Why don’t you two step out for a few?”

  My legs were stiff and wobbly, but Susan hustled me out of the room.

  “Come on, Zoe. Let’s go for a walk. You need to move around. And I have stuff to tell you.”

  We stepped into a waiting room furnished with upholstered love seats and easy chairs, one of which held an elderly man who was snoring. Paintings of flowers and the seashore hung on the walls. There was a nighttime baseball game going on the television, but the sound was off. We sat.

  Susan smoothed her dress, examining the soup stain.

  “What do we have to talk about?”

  She looked around as if to make sure no one was listening. “A few things.” She leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “First, I spoke to Ed. The cops combed Peters Island all day, looking for evidence.” I leaned closer; I could hardly hear her.

  “And?”

  “And they didn’t find a damned thing. No clear footprints. No weapons—”

  “Wait, no weapons? Then how did they shoot each other?”

  Susan watched me, waiting for the facts to sink in. Gradually, they did. If there were no weapons, Nick hadn’t shot Preston Everett, and Coach Everett hadn’t shot Nick. If they’d shot each other, their weapons would still be with them. Obviously, they’d both been shot by someone else, a third person who’d been on the island with them. The man in the launch. Who might have been Tony.

  But even that didn’t make sense. “Susan, the guy who came after me didn’t have a gun,” I began. “If he had, he wouldn’t have hit me with an oar. He’d have shot me—”

  “His gun’s probably at the bottom of the river. He must have chucked it after he shot them.”

  It made sense. I pictured a gun flying off the island, the plop it would have made hitting the water. The bubbles as it sank. Who had thrown it? Had Nick seen him? Would he come after Nick again? Or me?

  “Zoe, there’s more.”

  I swallowed. “Okay.”

  “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “Susan, tell me. What is it?”

  “It’s on the news—you’ll find out anyway. Maybe it’s better if you hear it from me. So . . .”

  She stopped jabbering and fingered her rings. Damn, Susan could be maddening. Did I have to beg? Or smack her?

  Okay, I’d beg. “Susan, tell me.”

  Still she hesitated.

  “Please don’t make me hurt you. What did they find?”

  She folded her hands and looked at her grease-blotted lap. “It wasn’t a ‘what.’ It was a ‘who.’ They found two more bodies.” I stiffened, felt my heart rate kick up.

  “They were way down below the dam, near the South Street Bridge. And, guess what. There were three curvy lines carved into their cheeks, just like Agent Ellis had.” Oh, no. Two more murder victims. I pictured Agent Ellis, the carvings on her face. The logo of the cartel.

  “So who were they? More slaves?”

  She shook her head. No. Not slaves.

  “FBI?”

  No again.

  “But the cartel killed them?” I breathed. After all, the three lines were their trademark. Who else would use it? “It looks that way.”

  But Nick had said the slave smugglers weren’t killing people. Had he been wrong? My mind was racing. Why would the cartel label the bodies with their logo, announcing their responsibility for the crimes? Until now, the traffickers had kept a low, even invisible, profile. Why were they now advertising their presence, staying in the headlines day after day, attracting attention? The nineteen women apparently had died accidentally, resulting in unavoidable but unwanted press. But Agent Ellis’s death had been deliberately public, right in the park. And now there were two more?

  “So, who were they?” If they weren’t FBI, maybe they were the bungling deliverymen. The guys who messed up and let the nineteen women die.

  Susan watched me for a moment, pressing her lips together.

  Then she spoke slowly, as if to a child.

  “I’m not sure who they really were, Zoe. They had no identification on them. And they were disguised. One wore the wig of an old lady, and the other was dressed like a priest.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  THEIR THROATS HAD BEEN SLIT, AND THEY’D BEEN IN THE WATER, dead, for about two days. Sonia and the priest had approached us in the park three days ago. Which meant that, not long after our encounter, they had been killed.
Why? What did it mean?

  I pictured the two of them in the park, Father Joseph scanning the playground, Sonia rocking an empty baby carriage. And now they were dead. Oh, God. First Agent Ellis. Now, Sonia and the priest. All murdered.

  “Susan.” I felt faint. “What’s going on? Who killed them?”

  “I told you they were fakes. They weren’t who they said they were.”

  “But who were they? Why would someone kill them?”

  “I don’t know. I’m clueless. I thought they worked for the slave traffickers. But if they did, why would the traffickers kill them?”

  Good question. “Maybe they messed up somehow. The traffickers seem to be killing anyone who ticks them off.” I thought of Nick, his role as FBI liaison. Maybe it was good that he’d be out on sick leave for a while.

  “Or maybe there’s a power struggle going on among the traffickers. Or rival smugglers fighting for turf?”

  Maybe.

  “Or maybe Sonia and the priest were FBI informants, working both sides, like Agent Ellis. Maybe the traffickers found out.”

  I nodded, felt my brain slog inside my skull. Probably Susan was right. Whatever the reason they’d been killed, their deaths probably had nothing to do with us. Or Nick. It was bad guys killing bad guys, fighting bad-guy battles. But I wondered. Who were Sonia and the priest really? Whose side had they been on? Had they actually been working for the traffickers?

  I heard Sonia’s sweet, syrupy voice. “Be careful, dear,” she’d warned. I pictured the gaping slash in the folds of her throat, the bloated features of the priest’s face as he drifted in the Schuylkill. I stood up too fast, trying to escape my thoughts.

  Susan reached out to steady me and helped me back onto the love seat. The old man in the easy chair stirred at the commotion. Opening his eyes, he stared our way, and I had the sense that he hadn’t been asleep at all. That he’d been listening to us the whole time.

  SIXTY

  NICK’S NURSE IMPRESSED ON ME THAT HE WAS WEAK AND EXhausted. That he needed to rest undisturbed, that he wouldn’t be ready for company—even mine—for at least the next twenty-four hours. So reluctantly, assured that various police would remain round-the-clock at his door, I went home with Susan and crashed with Molly at her house.