Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
Vic notices that Rocky has set down his spoon and is absorbing everything he’s saying, wearing a thoughtful expression.
Before he can ask Rocky what he’s thinking, Vic’s phone rings.
It’s the New York field office, calling with a lead on one of the hijackers.
On his feet immediately, he throws a couple of bills on the table. “I’ve gotta go. Sorry. Story of my life.”
“Mine, too,” Rocky tells him wearily, and offers a grim, silent farewell toast with a cup of bad coffee.
W
ell, this really hasn’t been a good day for Jamie.
Not unless you count what happened in the wee hours of the morning, in Marianne’s apartment down on Greenwich Street.
That was good. That was great. That was sheer
bliss
.
But it’s all been downhill from there.
When Jamie first left Allison at her office building this morning—alive and well, regrettably—there was considerable comfort in the prospect of seeing her again.
Not just seeing her.
Touching her. Killing her.
Maybe even cutting off her finger, taking it along to add to the collection.
Jamie smiles, remembering.
With Kristina, that was a fitting punishment—cutting off the finger she’d used to humiliate Jerry after he’d worked up the courage to ask her out.
When Jamie sawed it off, she was still alive, still conscious—at the beginning, anyway. She passed out before it was completely detached. Jamie woke her up, showed her the bloody stump of bone and tendon between her index and ring fingers.
“Look! See what you made me do? Look at that!” Jamie shoved the severed finger in her face. “How do
you
like it? How does it feel to have someone give
you
the finger?”
She didn’t answer, of course. She couldn’t. Jamie had gagged her with a dish towel from her kitchen.
But her eyes registered enough horror and pain to make up for the screaming or moaning Jamie yearned to hear, but couldn’t risk letting others hear.
And then there was Marianne.
She might not have actually given Jerry the finger, but Jamie cut hers off anyway, just for the hell of it. Just because it was fun, and funny, and oh so satisfying.
The moment the knife split the skin about an inch below the knuckle, bright red blood appeared, like water filling an irrigation ditch. Just a little added pressure was needed to cut through the thin layer of flesh. And then came the hard part—sawing through the bone. The blade was nice and sharp, though. It didn’t take too long.
In fact, it didn’t take long enough.
Jamie made Marianne watch. She didn’t pass out, but she vomited and, because she was gagged, nearly choked to death.
Jamie couldn’t have that. Marianne still had to talk to Jerry. By the time the vomit-soaked gag was removed, she was too weak to scream and alert the neighbors. But she managed to do what she was told. She told Jerry she was sorry, told Jerry she loved him. That made Jerry feel a lot better, after the way she had treated him.
All Jerry needs is love. Such a simple thing, and yet, such a difficult thing for someone like him to find.
It isn’t his fault that he is the way he is.
It’s his mother’s fault.
And finally, she’s been punished.
So have Kristina and Marianne. Next, it will be Allison’s turn.
Should I cut off her finger, too, when the time comes?
How will she react? Will she faint? Struggle? Try to scream?
Jamie can’t wait to find out.
Yet as the afternoon dragged on, even the anticipation of Allison’s murder has worn thin.
I really thought it was going to happen today. I wanted it to happen today. I so wanted to see blood, feel blood, touch blood . . . today.
Today . . .
Even now, Jamie’s hands ache to grab hold of that knife handle again; they’ve been aching so badly that Jamie couldn’t bear to leave the knife behind at the apartment.
No, it’s right here, in Jamie’s pocket, just like the old days.
There’s something deliciously empowering about walking down the street knowing the knife is at the ready, just in case . . .
No. I’m not going to use it.
I could, though, if I felt like it. That’s what counts.
But Jamie won’t be taking any chances. Not today. Not with the police actively investigating Kristina’s murder, and undoubtedly aware—thanks to Allison—that Jerry was in the vicinity that night.
It wouldn’t be easy for them to track down Jerry, though. He gets paid off the books, strictly in cash; there’s no record of his address in the office files—Jamie checked—and Dale Reiss probably doesn’t even know where he lives.
But what if he does?
Or what if his nosy wife, Emily, the good-deed-doer, has Jerry’s address written down somewhere for some reason, like to send a Christmas card or something?
For all Jamie knows, the cops are on their way to the apartment right now. And if they get inside, they’re going to find a lot more than they bargained on.
Dammit
.
This is all Allison Taylor’s fault.
She has to be punished. The sooner, the better.
But first . . . Jerry needs cake. It’s the only way to keep him quiet and content.
Mo’s bodega is open, of course. Today there’s an enormous American flag hanging in the window.
Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, given the sudden burst of patriotism all over the city, but something about it seems . . .
off
. Jamie isn’t sure why. Maybe the flag is just too big, or too prominently displayed, covering all the sale signs taped to the glass. Just too . . . deliberate.
Inside, Mo is behind the counter, as always. Today, though, he’s not lost in a newspaper. He’s keeping a wary eye on a young man who’s standing over by the refrigerated soda compartment.
Potential shoplifter? Probably.
He’s just a kid, really—sixteen, maybe seventeen. Short and skinny. He’s wearing low, baggy jeans and a backward Mets cap. Leaning against the open door to the compartment, he’s obviously taking his sweet old time looking through the soda cans.
Jamie brushes past him and checks the end cap where the bakery goods are kept. The shelf is bare.
Dammit!
Ah, that’s right—Jamie bought the last box of chocolate cake yesterday, and restocking is obviously an issue with all that’s gone on. Still . . .
Jamie’s hand twitches, wanting to touch the knife . . . just to make sure it’s still there, of course. Not to . . .
do
anything. Because of course, there’s nothing to do. Running out of cake—that’s not a reason to—
“Excuse me,” Mo calls.
Startled, Jamie looks over, and is relieved to see that he’s talking to the kid.
“Keep door closed until you figure out what you want! If you let warm air in, fridge doesn’t work!”
“Shut up, freakin’ towel head,” the kid mutters.
Mo didn’t hear him.
Jamie did.
The cake shelf is still bare, and the kid is still standing staring at the soda cans, and the store is suddenly feeling hot and close despite the draft from the propped-open door to the street and the propped-open door to the fridge.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” Mo calls again. “You need to close door!”
“Yeah? What are you going to do if I don’t? Blow me up?”
Mo scowls, but ignores him, turning away. He opens a newspaper, jerking the page so hard the paper tears.
Jamie looks from him to the young punk, and back again.
Poor Mo. He doesn’t deserve this . . . this . . . misplaced hatred.
He looks up as Jamie walks toward the door. “Can I help you?”
“No, thanks,” Jamie tells him.
But I can help you.
T
hursday evening, Allison takes a deep breath and knocks on the door to Mack’s apartment.
He’s inside—she knows that, because she heard him come in about ten minutes ago.
She’d been waiting for hours for his return from the grim task of delivering his wife’s DNA to the midtown Armory, where a registry has been set up for those missing after the attack.
Earlier, Allison watched live televised news footage of the mob scene there. The cameras unabashedly zeroed in on distraught family members pushing their way past satellite trucks and reporters, curious bystanders, religious groups keeping vigil . . .
She looked for Mack, but she didn’t see him.
She wishes he hadn’t turned down her offer to go with him, or even instead of him. But he was adamant that it was something he needed to do alone.
After he left, she walked to Union Square and found an open supermarket. The shelves and cold compartments were picked over, and one of the clerks, an NYU kid working part-time, said the delivery trucks hadn’t been able to get into the city since Monday.
“We’re hoping they’ll get here tomorrow,” he said, “so if you live in the neighborhood, you might want to wait.”
“I don’t,” Allison told him. “I’d better get stuff now, while I can.”
“Where do you live?”
“Hudson Street, off Canal.”
“And you’re
staying
there?”
“I’m not in the evacuation zone.”
“But still. There’s asbestos in the air down there.”
Allison didn’t know what to say to that.
There’s probably asbestos in the air up here, too
.
Or,
Do you think I’d be breathing asbestos if I had anywhere else to go?
She didn’t say anything. Not then, and not as the kid told her his politics, which basically translated into the United States being filled with crass capitalists and warmongers who asked for it and got what they deserved.
Allison lugged home heavy bags filled with chicken and vegetables and milk and bread, all of which could be fresher. But at least none of it was past the expiration date.
Back at her apartment, safely locked inside, she made soup.
It wasn’t something she’d ever attempted to do before—unless you counted mixing a can of Progresso lentil soup with a cup of cooked ditalini.
But it suddenly seemed like a good idea to learn how to cook, a good idea to do something for Mack, a good idea to keep her hands and her thoughts occupied.
Busy, busy, busy . . .
Stay busy, and you won’t think about the scary stuff.
After browsing through an Internet recipe database, Allison put the chicken in a pot with carrots, onions, celery, and salt and filled it with cold water. Eventually, it smelled like chicken soup, and it looked like chicken soup, so . . . it must be chicken soup, right?
Pleased with herself, she deboned the chicken, added noodles to the broth, poured it into a jar, and waited for Mack to come home.
Now that he’s here—now that she’s knocked—she suddenly wonders if she’s overstepping her boundaries. Remembering all those people she saw on the news, gawking at the victims’ families, she wonders if he’ll think she’s just another curious ghoul.
But she’s not. She’s . . . a friend. A friend he’s known just a few days, but perhaps the only friend who’s here, in person, right now when he so clearly needs someone.
Or does he?
How do you know what he needs?
Maybe she’s the one with needs. Maybe she needs to help him more than he needs—or wants—to be helped. Maybe she’s sick of being alone, or . . .
No. She’s not afraid to be alone.
It’s more the opposite, actually. She’s afraid
not
to be alone. When you let people in, you’re vulnerable. When you don’t, you have nothing to lose.
Mack’s door opens, and it’s too late for second thoughts.
He stands there, looking even worse for wear than he did earlier. Looking like he needs a friend, or soup, or sleep, or . . . something.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says. “I just wanted to bring you this.”
He looks down at the jar she offers, then up at her face.
“It’s chicken soup,” she hurriedly goes on. “I don’t know if you have any food in the house, or if you’ve eaten, or if you’re hungry, but . . .”
Shut up, Allison. You’re rambling.
She stops talking and looks at him, wishing she knew him well enough to know what he might be thinking behind that opaque gaze.
“Thank you,” he says, and takes the jar. “Do you want to come in?”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“It’s okay. I was just . . .” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Oh, hell, I don’t even know
what
I was doing. Come in.”
Walking into the apartment, she experiences a flicker of misgiving, remembering what happened to Kristina.
But then, she no longer has any doubts about Mack, does she? He’s ensnared in his own tragedy; he doesn’t deserve a shred of suspicion.
The apartment looks exactly the same as it did when she was here yesterday, right down to the red coat still hanging over the back of a chair where Carrie presumably left it.
Seeing her glancing at it, Mack says, “I should probably hang that up, shouldn’t I? Or . . . figure out what to do with it?”
What is she supposed to say to that?
She watches him pick it up and stare at it for a moment. Then he puts it back on the chair. “I’ll do something with this later. God knows what. What do you do?”
She shrugs helplessly.
When her mother died, the church ladies came and bundled up all her clothes and sent them to charity. That’s what you do, they said. Give them to someone who needed them.
I needed them
, Allison remembers thinking, one day when she was sitting on the floor in her mother’s empty closet and crying. It wasn’t that her mother had anything she would have worn—not in public, anyway. But she could have slept wrapped in one of her mother’s shapeless sweaters, smelling her mother’s scent in the yarn embrace.
No one ever gave her the chance. She was seventeen. Everything was handled for her.
Mack is a grown man. He can do this himself, in his own way, whenever he’s ready.