Don't Say a Word

  Then, for a moment, he saw the Con Ed man standing still on the platform, looking this way and that. But in a moment more, the train shot into the tunnel. The windows went dark. The man was out of sight.

  Bent over, hugging himself, Conrad took a painful breath. He stole a glance at the couple in the opposite corner. Flashes of red obscured them. He squinted until his vision cleared. He saw the girl whispering in the young man’s ear, stroking his cheek with her finger. The young man was looking straight ahead, smiling to himself.

  Conrad bent forward again. “They didn’t see me,” he whispered. The words were washed away under the roar of the subway. “I got away. Let me get away. Please.” He clutched his forearms, rubbing his palms against his sleeves to wipe the blood off. He thought he could still feel bits of glass eating into his flesh.

  The subway pulled into the Franklin Street station. Conrad started to work his way to his feet.

  Eleven-forty now. No chance anymore, he thought. No chance to get back to the office by midnight. Only one chance to help her: the chance that she would be there, that they were holding her at 222 Houses.

  He limped and stumbled down a small street, a small, deserted night street in Tribeca. Long loft buildings hung dark against the mist-gray sky above him. In the distance, a fire flickered up out of a garbage can. He saw the shadows of hunched men crowded around it, holding out their hands for warmth. He felt the chill, the night’s damp chill, crawling over his skin.

  He limped on, steadily working his leg forward against the barrier of pain. Anything could stop him now, he thought. A Good Samaritan; a cop; a mugger could lay him out in a minute, leave him on the street for dead. He coughed, steadily limping.

  Should have waited for them, he thought. Should’ve done what they said, waited till midnight like they’d told him to. He should’ve called the police when he’d gotten out. He should’ve trusted the Con Ed man, asked him to get help … He should’ve done something …

  Nice going, shithead.

  … something instead of this. This last, terrible mistake.

  Houses Street. Greenwich and Houses Street. He looked up and there it was. He could hardly remember guiding himself to it. He stood on the corner under a streetlamp. He blinked up at the small sign. He turned his head, looked down the road. Two short, dark blocks. The irregular line of buildings in the mist, no lights in any windows. The highway and the Hudson at the far corner. He could see the cars shooting past down there. He could see the black river sparkling with shore lights. He’d made it.

  He started down the street, leaving the streetlamp’s glow behind.

  He was walking faster now. He grunted with every step. His right knee was locked. His leg was stiff as a board. As the streetlamp fell behind him, the dark of the little street closed over him like a boy’s hands closing over a moth. One chance, he thought. He pushed on, dragging his leg. One chance. That she’s there. She has to be there. Jessie. The mist was at his side, the dark before him. He kept limping on.

  He limped past an empty lot grown high with weeds. It came clear to him out of the mist as he hobbled past it. The weeds were littered with silver soda cans and stone debris and paper flapping on the earth in the chill breeze from the river. He went past it, grunting; went on to the next building, a looming silhouette: a hunkered pile of brown stone that seemed to be pitched forward, as if it might collapse at any minute and shatter to rubble on the street.

  He reached it. Stood, panting, in front of it. Squinting up through the night, through the flashes and drifting red clouds before his eyes, he could read the number on the chipped lintel: 222. He raised his eyes a little farther.

  “Oh,” he said softly.

  There was a dim light burning in the second-story window.

  She had said that, hadn’t she?

  The apartment was on the second floor.

  Hadn’t Elizabeth said that? Yes. Yes, he was sure she had. The apartment was on the second floor. And the red-haired man’s face had been at the window. It had been hanging, ghostly, at the window, like a phantom, like her Secret Friend.

  But it was not her Secret Friend. It was a man. It was Robert Rostoff, the man whom Sport had killed. And if Robert Rostoff had been peering in through a second-story window then there had to be …

  “A fire escape,” he croaked.

  He started limping back toward the empty lot.

  Standing at the edge of the lot, he could see the shape of the fire escape zigzagging up the side of the building. He could see it passing underneath the lighted window on the second floor.

  One chance, he thought.

  He stepped into the weeds. The weeds were about kneehigh. He looked down as his feet disappeared into them. He took another step—and the weeds became alive all around him.

  He stopped. The weeds rattled and swayed. Rats—he could see them—a dozen rats—were wobbling away from him, weaving into the grass.

  Conrad started limping forward again. He traveled slowly. He watched his feet.

  Fucking rats, he thought.

  He shuddered. He glanced up from his feet at the brownstone for a moment. He stepped on something …

  Jesus, shit, a snake.

  … something lying in the weeds. He gasped, jumped back. He looked down—and saw a long, thin shape lying on the earth.

  … snake …

  But the shape lay lifeless. He bent down toward it. It was not a snake. It was a broom handle that had been snapped in half. One end of it was rounded, smooth. The other end, the broken end, came to a jagged point.

  Conrad reached down and picked up the handle. He weighed it in his hand. He gripped it. He hissed as his fingers closed on it, as the rough wood scraped against his wounded palm.

  He started limping again toward the brownstone. Now he was carrying the broom handle.

  One chance, he thought.

  One chance. Jessica.

  The fire escape’s ladder was already down. Conrad put his hand on the rung before him. The rusted iron seemed to bite into his flesh. He held on to the broom handle, put his other hand through the rung, braced his wrist against it. That felt better. He hoisted his left foot onto the lowest rung. Brought his right leg up stiffly until his two feet rested together. And that was how he climbed, one rung at a time, first his left foot, then his right dragged up behind it. One chance. One chance.

  He climbed up to the first landing, crawled up onto it, panting, the air whistling in and out of him. The cut in his side ached, but he could feel that the bleeding had stopped. Nothing vital damaged, he thought, no chance of bleeding out. Gripping the thin banister, he started up the stairs to the second landing. He raised his eyes to the lighted window. Even that dim light hurt his eyes as he got closer to it. The old red clouds kept bursting and spreading and fading on the surface of his vision. He came up onto the landing by the window.

  He pushed his head through the landing hole. Crawled up onto the little grated space there. He crowded himself onto that small space, crouched on all fours, coughing and wheezing. Shaking his head once, he looked up, looked through the window, peered through the filthy pane of glass.

  And he saw her.

  “Jessica.”

  She was there. Not twenty feet away from him. She was lying on a mattress on the floor. Lying on her side, her valentines nightgown bunched around her knees. He thought she was dead at first. She was so stiff, so still. He felt everything drop inside him. He stared through the window at her, holding his breath.

  Her hands were bound behind her somehow. A strip of white tape was plastered brutally over her mouth. Her hair—her pretty, curling, sandy hair, the same color as her father’s—was tangled and matted around her chalky face. Through her hair, her eyes were wide, staring emptily into some section of the room that he couldn’t see. And she was so pale, so pale …

  Oh, God, he thought. Dead? Had she died like that? Staring like that? Gagged. Terrified.

  Waiting for her Daddy.

  He raised himself t
o his knees for a better look. He peered in at her, oblivious to the pain, to everything.

  “Baby?” he whispered, barely whispered. “Sweetheart?”

  His eyes filled with tears as he looked. His hand shook as he lifted it, as he placed it against the window. He tried to clear the dirt away but the blood from his fingers streaked the glass.

  “Jessie … ?”

  And then his daughter moved.

  It was sudden. A sudden, whipping motion, her whole body coming to life at once. Snaking back on the mattress, coiling back and back until she was pressed against the wall. Still snaking back, still trying to retreat farther. Pressed against the wall, sitting up against the wall, kicking at the mattress to try to go farther. And her eyes went even wider still, and tears poured from them. And she shook her head: no, no, no. He saw her mouth moving behind the tape … He could feel her screaming.

  She was alive. He had to get help … She was still alive. He had to climb down, get the police. Alive. Jessica. She was …

  And then a shadow passed into the corner of his vision and he saw …

  “Oh, shit, oh, holy shit, oh, God. My God.”

  He saw Maxwell, moving toward her.

  Lewis McIlvaine and His Constitutional Rights

  “Now, Mr. McIlvaine … Lewis … things can go easy for you, or they can go very hard,” said Special Agent Calvin. “Do we understand each other?”

  The prisoner, whose name was Lewis McIlvaine, was sitting on the bed. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. He was looking up at Special Agent Calvin. He was nodding.

  “Good,” Special Agent Calvin said. He was standing in front of McIlvaine, leaning down toward him, pointing at him with his sharply chiseled chin. “I want you to tell me now,” he went on. “Just exactly what you’ve done with the little Conrad girl?”

  Lewis McIlvaine continued nodding. He smiled. He said quietly, “Special Agent Calvin. Special Agent, that is to say, Asshole. For the hundredth time, I would like to talk to my lawyer, please. I am not going to say anything to anyone until I talk to my lawyer. And when I do talk to my lawyer, what I am going to say is, ‘Oh, Mr. Lawyer, please bring me the testicles of Special Agent Calvin on a tray, so that I may eat them.’ You dig?”

  Detective D’Annunzio sighed heavily. He was leaning against the bedroom wall, leaning on his hands, bouncing his expansive ass against his knuckles. He yanked one of his hands—his left hand—out from under himself. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. D’Annunzio looked up again and watched Calvin hovering over the suspect. Calvin looked lean and intense in his tailored black suit.

  D’Annunzio watched him and thought about Mrs. Conrad. He thought about her soft, smart, tearful blue eyes. He thought about the shape of her breasts under her sweatshirt. When she had hugged him—when he had first come in and she had fallen into his arms—he had felt those large breasts pressed against him. This Dr. Conrad, he thought with an interior groan; this is one very lucky man. What must it be like to have a woman like that under you? A sensitive, intelligent woman like that, screaming and thrashing under you, with those breasts naked?

  “Lewis,” Calvin was saying. “Lewis, I’m sure you realize that time is of the essence here. If anything should happen to that little girl, no lawyer on earth is going to be able to help you, do you understand me? Now don’t you think you’d feel better if you got this off your chest?”

  McIlvaine sniffed the air. “Did someone fart in here?” He turned to D’Annunzio. “Hey, you. Fatso. You cut the mustard? What is this, some kind of interrogation technique?”

  Special Agent Calvin rolled his eyes. Slowly, shaking his head, he strolled over to where D’Annunzio was leaning on the wall. He spoke softly, out of the side of his mouth, so McIlvaine wouldn’t hear him.

  “I think we should bring Mrs. Conrad in here,” he said.

  “What?” D’Annunzio blinked out of his fantasy. “Uh … I mean, what for?”

  “Well, to appeal to him,” Calvin whispered. “To make a personal appeal.”

  D’Annunzio stared at the FBI man. He didn’t know what to say.

  Special Agent Calvin nodded confidentially. “Go on,” he said. “Go ahead. Bring her in.”

  Mrs. Conrad was in the living room. She was still kneeling on the floor, looking forlorn. Elizabeth was kneeling next to her, touching her shoulder. When D’Annunzio came waddling in, Mrs. Conrad looked up at him. She looked up at him with hopeful, trusting eyes. It made the flesh under D’Annunzio’s collar prickle.

  “Did he tell?” she asked. There were still tears in her voice. Her voice trembled. “Has he told you anything?”

  D’Annunzio took a deep breath. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Special Agent Calvin thinks it might be helpful if you came in and talked to him again. Sort of made an appeal.” It sounded stupid when he said it too.

  But the woman nodded uncertainly. Trustingly. D’Annunzio’s eyes automatically flicked down over her sweatshirt. What must it be like, he thought; a woman like that.

  He reached down and took hold of the woman’s upper arm. He felt the ample flesh under his fingers as he helped her to her feet.

  When D’Annunzio brought Mrs. Conrad into the room, the prisoner looked up at her from the bed. He grinned.

  “Hey there, ho there, Tits,” he said. “Howya doin’? You know, I wouldn’t come in here if I were you. Fatso over there’s been farting the place up but good.”

  D’Annunzio felt his face get hot. He quickly handed Mrs. Conrad’s elbow to Special Agent Calvin. He walked back to the wall and leaned against it again. From the wall, he looked at McIlvaine: at his merry eyes; at his white smile.

  D’Annunzio watched as Special Agent Calvin led Mrs. Conrad closer to McIlvaine.

  “Now, Lewis,” Special Agent Calvin said softly. “This is the mother of the little girl we’re talking about. I just want you to listen to what she has to say, all right?”

  Lewis McIlvaine gave her a big silly grin.

  Mrs. Conrad looked down at him a second without speaking. She was obviously trying hard not to cry. McIlvaine kept grinning, bouncing on the bed like a toy monkey.

  D’Annunzio looked down at his feet. Jesus Christ, he thought.

  “Please, Mr. McIlvaine,” the woman said then. Her voice shook badly. “Please. If you’ll tell us where my daughter is, I swear … I’ll do anything … I’m sure I could talk to your judge or … or testify at your trial … If you could just …”

  McIlvaine let out a high-pitched laugh. He rolled back on the bed with glee. “Sweetie pie—Titskies—there’s not going to be a trial,” he said. “Aren’t you listening here, honeypot? They fucked up. See? They haven’t read me my rights. They haven’t let me call my lawyer. Sweetie darling … I’m going free, I’m walking away from this.”

  Mrs. Conrad looked down. She couldn’t continue. Special Agent Calvin glared at McIlvaine very sternly indeed.

  Breathing hard, Detective D’Annunzio moved away from the wall. Humphing loudly, he walked over to the bed. He felt the gas twisting in his stomach but he held it in. He did not want to pass one next to Mrs. Conrad.

  “Detective?” said Special Agent Calvin.

  “I am going to read the prisoner his rights,” said Detective D’Annunzio. He glanced quickly at Mrs. Conrad. She was looking up at him. A single tear was rolling down her cheek.

  D’Annunzio turned to McIlvaine. He reached down and took hold of McIlvaine’s arm. With a quick, rough jerk, he hauled the prisoner to his feet.

  “Detective … ,” warned Special Agent Calvin.

  McIlvaine grinned uncomfortably. “Careful now, Mr. Blubber Guy,” he said. “You don’t want to get in any more trouble than you’re in already, do you? Just my rights, if you please.”

  D’Annunzio nodded for a long moment. “You have the right to bend over double and say ‘oof’,” he said.

  McIlvaine laughed. “What the fu … ?”

  D’Annunzio pulled his hand back, then drove it forwa
rd, shooting his stiffened fingers into McIlvaine’s solar plexus.

  McIlvaine bent over double. “Oof,” he said.

  “Detective!” Special Agent Calvin said. “Detective …”

  McIlvaine was bent over so far that D’Annunzio could see the handcuffs behind his back.

  “You have the right to fall to the floor like a sack of potatoes,” D’Annunzio said.

  He raised his fist over his head and quickly brought it down like a hammer. It hit McIlvaine square on the back of the neck. McIlvaine dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. His legs seemed to just turn to spaghetti under him, and slam, down he went.

  “Detective!” Special Agent Calvin cried out. His voice cracked as he said it. “Detective! Detective!”

  Detective D’Annunzio reached around to the small of his back. His service piece was there in its holster. He drew it out. It seemed very small in his pudgy hand.

  “Detective! My … Oh … Detective!” cried Special Agent Calvin.

  At Calvin’s cry, McIlvaine looked up. Lying there on the floor, he turned his head and peered woozily at D’Annunzio. His face had gone gray and his lips were snowy white. His eyes were moving strangely, as if they’d come loose in his head.

  Then he saw the gun. His eyes stopped moving. They went wide. They stared into the gun’s muzzle.

  “That’s enough!” said Special Agent Calvin. He stepped toward D’Annunzio.

  But in another second, Mrs. Conrad was between them. She was standing between Calvin and D’Annunzio. She had her hands up on Calvin’s shoulders. She was grabbing the lapels of his black suit.

  “No!” she said.

  The young agent looked down at her. His mouth moved as if he would say something. He did not say anything.

  “No,” Mrs. Conrad said again very clearly. “No.”

  She turned and looked over her shoulder at D’Annunzio.