Catch Me

Chapter 31

NINE P.M. FRIDAY NIGHT. Twenty-three hours to go.

Sun gone. Temperature plummeting. Sky dark.

My aunt had left, checking into a hotel for the evening. Tulip had left, going wherever the dog that was not my dog went. I paced my tiny room. I loaded and unloaded my gun.

I thought of my mom. I struggled to remember two tiny siblings, a baby sister and a baby brother, who’d never had a chance at life. Apparently, memory is a muscle, and having atrophied mine for most of my life, I couldn’t magically now fire it to life. I tried to picture a house, a yard, a family pet. A woman, a smell, something, anything that felt like my old life.

In the end, I downed two aspirin, then shadow boxed in front of my mirror.

The woman looking back at me was gaunt. Purple bruised throat. Slicked back brown hair. Crazed blue eyes.

I looked like my mom, twenty years later.

Abigail, Detective O had called me. Abigail…

I punched the mirror. Suddenly. Quickly. One two three, bam, bam, bam. Shattered it with my bare hands. Then, watched the broken fragments rain down onto the wood floor, a shower of silver.

And for a moment…

The kitchen. Fingers of silvery moonlight. Fire, climbing the walls.

My landlady, Frances, knocked on the door. “You okay?”

“Sorry. Um…accident. No problem. All’s well.”

I studied my bleeding knuckles. A mirrored shard of glass protruded from the back of my left hand. I picked out the glass. I licked at the welling blood.

Then, even though I’d be an hour early, I left for work.

OFFICER MACKERETH CAUGHT me in the parking lot. He’d just pulled up in his police cruiser. He popped open the driver side door, got out, spotted me walking down the dimly lit sidewalk behind him, and changed his direction from the warmth of the station to the cold of the street, where I was hoofing it from the T stop.

“Charlie,” he said, and there was something in his voice that was already a warning.

I drew up short, one streetlight behind me, one streetlight ahead of me. I planted my legs, left foot forward, gloved hand on the flap of my messenger bag.

Mackereth saw my change in stance and paused ten feet back, his right hand dropping to his holstered weapon, his own weight going forward, onto the balls of his feet. We stood like that for a full fifteen, twenty seconds, him haloed by one streetlight, me haloed by another. Neither of us at an advantage, neither of us at a disadvantage.

“You carrying?” he asked finally.

“Why do you ask?”

“I know. Call came in today. Shepherd is waiting for you inside to take the twenty-two. What’d you do, Charlie?”

I didn’t answer his question, my mind already racing ahead. Boston PD, had to be. They’d figured out what I’d done to Stan Miller. Detective O had basically admitted as much, trying to wheedle a confession out of me. I didn’t know how, but they were putting together the pieces. Maybe Tomika had told a friend of a friend. Maybe someone had spotted me entering the building not once, but twice that night.

Maybe it just made sense. I mean, a girl like me, growing up the way I grew up. Maybe murder and mayhem had always been only a matter of time.

How’d you know they were suffocated, Charlie? How’d you know?

Because I knew. Rosalind’s pale little body, wrapped snug in a pale pink polka-dotted blanket. She’d loved that blanket. Had clutched the soft fleece in her tiny fists, had sucked on the satin trim.

I’d wrapped her up. Afterward.

Take care of the baby, Charlie. Don’t let her cry. Can’t let her cry. Mommy will hurt us both if she cries.

Oh God, what had I done?

“Charlie?”

Officer Mackereth. Not stepping any closer, right hand still hovering at his waist. Ten feet between us. Car went by, then another. My hand was trembling on my leather messenger bag, though I couldn’t have told you why.

“I’m going to die tomorrow,” I heard myself say. “Sometime around eight P.M. I will be strangled to death, and I won’t fight back. No sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle. I will welcome my own death.”

Officer Mackereth, watching me.

“I’m a good shot. Good fighter, strong runner. I don’t want to die like my friends. I’ve already spent too much of my life taking shit. If I’m going out tomorrow, I want to take the killer with me.”

“Charlie-”

“I need my gun. I know you don’t trust me. Hell, you don’t even know me. But I need my gun. One more day. Twenty-three hours. No, thirty-six. Sunday morning dawns and I’m still alive, Boston PD can have it. I’ll hand it over to you. Let you personally take it to them. I’ll accept whatever happens next. I promise.”

“What’d you do, Charlie?”

“Randi’s dead. Jackie’s dead. Nobody knows why, nobody knows how, and nobody sure as hell knows who. But they were my best friends, Tom. I loved them too much, I understand that now. But they never complained. They loved me back and I owe them for that. Tomorrow night, eight P.M. A killer’s coming for me and I’m gonna make him or her pay. It’s all I got left, Tom. Nothing worth living for. Only something worth dying for.”

Officer Mackereth stepped closer to me.

“If I ask you to hand over your bag?” he asked quietly, hand on his holster.

“Please don’t.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Probably.”

“Where’s your dog?”

“She didn’t leave a note.”

He sighed. His hand didn’t come down, but his shoulders did. “I don’t know what to do about you.”

I said nothing, left him to the weight of his own consideration.

“Look me in the eye, Charlie. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do whatever it is Boston PD thinks you did, and I’ll let it go. Turn around, pretend I never saw you.”

I looked him in the eye. I didn’t say a word.

He sighed, heavier this time. His gaze appeared genuinely sorrowful. “Kinda liked you, Charlie.”

“Kinda liked you, too.”

“Guess I shoulda known. I have a habit of being attracted to train wrecks. Hero complex, my sister tells me.”

I had to smile. “I have a habit of wanting more than I can have. Guess we’re both consistent.”

“Doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I don’t know any other way.”

He took another step forward. Eight feet between us. Then six, five, four. Strike distance. One step forward and I could punch him, overhand right to the head. Or simply pop open the messenger bag and start firing.

I thought of Randi. I thought of Jackie. I wondered if their last moments had been like this. Willing themselves to fight back, or simply waiting for it to be over.

Officer Mackereth finally paused, close enough he could touch his nose to mine, the frost of our mutual breaths mingling in the frigid night air. His hand remained on the butt of his weapon, not drawing it, but protecting it.

“Five P.M., Charlie.”

“Five P.M.?”

“That’s when I’ll pick you up. Tomorrow night. I know about your friends. Did my own research. Someone wants to take a swing at you, he can deal with both of us.”

I didn’t say anything, just gazed up into his face. His expression was set, his blue eyes resolute.

“Sunday morning,” he continued firmly, “you’ll hand over your twenty-two, as promised.”

I nodded.

“I can’t help you after that.”

I nodded again.

“You saved my life the other night, Charlie. Guess I feel I owe you one. But as of Sunday morning, consider us even.”

His hand shifted. I thought he might touch my cheek. Maybe I even anticipated his gloved fingers on my icy cheek. Or his warm lips brushing across my mouth. Or his body, strong and solid, pressed hard against my own.

I’m cold, I thought, but realized what I really meant was that I felt too alone.

Officer Mackereth turned. Officer Mackereth walked away.

I waited another minute, standing in the darkness, resisting the urge to call him back.

His burly form disappeared inside the police station. Behind me, another car whizzed by. I waited until the street appeared clear, the parking lot empty.

Then I opened my messenger bag. I retrieved my Taurus. 22 semiauto, wrapped it in my scarf, and buried it in a snow mound beneath a prickly bush at the edge of the parking lot.

By firing my twenty-two in Stan’s apartment, I’d tied myself to his death. Meaning if Detective Warren got her hands on my Taurus, I’d be going to jail. Maybe I should just hand it over. Maybe, at this stage of the game, prison would be safer for me.

I remembered Tulip this morning. Instead of being grateful for a warm bedroom, she’d simply been aggravated at being shut up. Some of us just weren’t meant for confinement. We’d rather take our chances out in the open.

Twenty-one hours and counting.

I re-snapped my black leather messenger bag, squared my shoulders, and headed in for my last shift.