The Survivors Club (14 page)

If you would promise to try to touch me, I would promise to try not to pull away. If you would promise to try to reach out to me, I would promise to try not to see you as another Eddie Como. If you would promise to try to love me again, I would promise to try to forgive you. And maybe, if you did try and I did try . . .

He said, “I have to go. The meeting starts at seven and I still need to prepare.”

“Dan—” She caught the rest of the sentence. Bit it back. Swallowed it down.

“You’ll lock the door behind me?”

“Of course.”

“And turn on the alarm?”

“I know, Dan.”

“Think of it this way, Carol—the press are bound to be back soon. Then you won’t be alone, after all.”

He came around the sofa, glanced at her shopping bags and grimaced on his way out of the room. The next sound she heard was the front door opening, then closing behind him. A moment later, his car started up in their driveway.

Carol’s gaze went outside, where the sun sank low on the horizon. Dusk falling. Night approaching. The dark coming, coming, coming to find her.

The silence, on the other hand, was already here.

On TV, the perky blond reporter said,
“Eddie Como’s family announced this afternoon that they will seek to claim his body from the medical examiner’s office no later than tomorrow night, in order to prepare for a Catholic funeral service first thing Wednesday morning. The family, still claiming his innocence, has also said that they would like to start a memorial fund to help other wrongfully accused men . . .”

Carol locked the front door, armed the security system. Then she went upstairs to the main hallway. She walked down its long, shadowed length to the tightly shut door at one end. She opened the door. And she looked inside the room, the room she had once shared with her husband, the room where she had once made love to her husband, and what she saw now was merely a collection of dusty furniture held captive behind wrought-iron bars.

No open windows. No wet, blood-spattered cotton sheets. No piles of latex strips still littered with pieces of long, blond hair.

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Her hands started to shake. Her heart picked up its pace. He’s dead, she tried to tell herself. He’s dead, it’s over, you’re finally safe.

No good. No good, no good, no good.

Carol slammed the door shut, recoiling down the hallway, grabbing blindly at the walls with her bare hands. She had to get away. The TV was still on. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter. The house was too big, the silence too powerful, and God knows Dan would come home much too late. On her own. Always alone. Run, Carol, run.

She stumbled into the upstairs bathroom. She slammed the door. And then she leaned over the white porcelain sink, where she vomited until she dry-heaved.

Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead. Eddie Como’s dead.

It’s over, Carol. You’re finally, finally safe.

But her whole body was shivering, trembling, quaking. And she couldn’t stop thinking about her empty bedroom. She couldn’t stop thinking about that one bedroom window. She couldn’t stop thinking that she would swear, she would swear, she would swear that Dead Eddie had been standing right there.

CHAPTER 16

Meg

“J
ESUS,
M
ARY AND
J
OSEPH, ARE YOU
DRUNK
?
”

“I just . . . it was champagne. Only a glass. Maybe two. I swear.”

“Mr. Pesaturo, if you would just calm down for a moment—”

“And you!” Mr. Pesaturo swung around on Jillian, beefy face bright red, thick finger stabbing the air. His blue electrician’s uniform strained over his gut, two of the white buttons literally quaking with the force of his rage. The effect was rather comical, and now that he was safely yelling at Jillian, Meg started to giggle again. Jillian tried shooting her a warning glance. Meg had had nearly six glasses of champagne. It was hopeless.

“How dare you serve my underaged daughter alcohol!” Tom Pesaturo boomed. “For God’s sake, haven’t you done enough already?”

Jillian blinked. “Done enough?”

“Daddy—”

“Tom, calm down, have a seat. Meg is home now and that’s what’s important.” Meg’s mother, Laurie, intervened, placing her hand on her husband’s bulging forearm. She was clearly the voice of reason in the family, thank God. Mr. Pesaturo glowered at Jillian again, but finally, reluctantly, sat.

Meg chose that moment to exclaim, “Holy Lord, I have got to pee!” and go racing from the room.

Mr. Pesaturo renewed his growl of disapproval. Jillian sighed, took her own seat on a threadbare blue recliner and realized she had a raging headache.

“Mr. Pesaturo—”

“Have you seen the news? Do you understand what happened this morning? Our phone has been ringing off the hook since nine
A
.
M
. The first news van was here by nine-fifteen. And we didn’t even know where Meg was.”

“We knew exactly where Meg was,” Laurie interjected again, her voice firm. “I told you she was having breakfast with Jillian and Carol.”

“That’s what Meg
said,
” Tom asserted, with just the right tone of doubt.

Jillian looked at him. “Mr. Pesaturo, do you think we were running around shooting Eddie Como this morning? Is that what you thought we were doing?”

“Hey, I’m not saying I disapprove . . .”

“We were at the restaurant, Mr. Pesaturo. All day, as a matter of fact. With witnesses. Though you should know that the police stopped by. Detective Fitzpatrick and a man from the state, Sergeant Griffin, definitely have us on their radar screen.”

“What did you tell them?”

“We didn’t tell them anything, of course. We don’t have to give them a statement, and personally, I don’t want to give them a statement. As far as I’m concerned, they’ll have my cooperation the day they bring my sister back from the dead.”

Mr. Pesaturo finally stopped scowling. After another moment, he grunted and settled deeper into the loveseat, probably as close as she’d get to praise. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly. Sitting beside him, his wife smiled.

“They will start looking into all of us,” Jillian said levelly. She’d been thinking of nothing but that for the last half hour. The state police were on the case. The state police were going to get serious. She wondered what that really meant. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin, who probably could’ve ripped off that pedophile’s head. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin with those penetrating blue eyes. She felt herself getting angry again, then confused. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin . . . She cut off the thought, focused again on the matters at hand. “I’m told that every detective in the state is now working this case. The next order of business will be examining our financial records for any unexplained withdrawals.”

Mr. Pesaturo rolled his eyes. “Good luck. I don’t have any unexplained withdrawals. I got a mortgage and I got two kids. That pretty much covers it.”

“I imagine they’ll also want to talk to your brother,” Jillian said. “You know, Uncle Vinnie.”

The smile vanished from Mrs. Pesaturo’s face. She jerked back, looking at her husband sharply. “Tom?”

“Oh come on. Let ’em talk to Vinnie. He don’t care.”

Mr. Pesaturo was looking at Jillian now. From the hallway, Jillian could hear Meg’s voice, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Meg was talking to her little sister, Molly. More laughter floated down the hall.

“You care?” Tom asked Jillian abruptly. Jillian was not an idiot. She understood the nuances of the question.

“I’m all right.”

“’Cause you know, if you needed anything . . .”

Jillian smiled. In his own way, Mr. Pesaturo was a very sweet man. It made it almost tempting, but the problems she had were nothing he could help her with. Now that she’d had more time to contemplate the impact of Eddie Como’s death, she figured she had twenty-four to forty-eight hours before she saw Sergeant Griffin again. Life would get tricky. Then again, had it ever been simple?

“I’m all right,” she repeated. Mr. Pesaturo was smarter than she’d given him credit for, however, and she could see the open doubt on his face.

“Vinnie . . . he’s got a lotta friends.”

“I know. In fact, I’m not sure if you know, but I believe Vinnie and my mother have some of the same friends.”

“No kiddin’?”

“Do you follow music? My mother used to literally sing the blues—”

“Wait a minute. Hayes. Olivia Hayes.
That’s
your mom?”

“She’ll be pleased you remember.”

Tom Pesaturo was clearly impressed. He rocked back, turning to his wife. “No kidding, Olivia Hayes. You ever hear of her? Pretty little thing about a hundred pounds soaking wet. Then she’d open her mouth and blow the place away. My father used to listen to her records all the time. I probably got a vinyl or two stashed in the attic. Fine, beautiful lady.” He turned back to Jillian. “What happened to her anyway? I haven’t heard her name in years.”

“She retired.” Said she was going to finally spend time with her daughters. Had a stroke. Lost her legs. Lost her voice. At least they’d never had to worry about money.

“You tell her I said hi.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Vinnie’s gonna flip.” Mr. Pesaturo suddenly smiled and sat up straighter. “My daughter is friends with Olivia Hayes’s daughter. Vinnie’s gonna have a fucking
cow
!”

“Tom . . .” His wife rolled her eyes at his profanity, then glanced at Jillian apologetically. Jillian smiled. She was genuinely pleased that Mr. Pesaturo was pleased. Her mother’s time, Jillian’s own childhood, was a bygone era not many people remembered anymore. When Trish had been little, stories from the nightclubs had been her favorite ones. The night their mother had sung for Sinatra. How later Frank had let eight-year-old Jillian sit on his knee. Jillian had done her best to tell the tales, though even for her they’d taken on a hazy quality, a life lived so long ago it now seemed more like a distant dream.

The days her mother had had a voice. Jillian had not even heard her hum in years now.

Tom Pesaturo had settled back into the sofa. His face was finally relaxed, his big hands resting comfortably on his knees. Jillian’s parentage had done the trick. They were now old friends and he was happy to have her in his living room. It was funny, but during the last twelve months that Jillian’s and Meg’s lives had been intertwined, she’d never visited Meg’s house. Not Carol’s home either. By some unspoken rule, the group always met in restaurants or other public places. It was as if after everything they’d told one another, they couldn’t bear to share this last little bit.

“I was worried,” Mr. Pesaturo said abruptly, maybe even a little apologetically. “When I heard the news on TV, when I couldn’t find Meg. I went a little nuts.”

“I understand.”

“You got kids?”

Jillian thought of Trish and her bright, bright eyes. She thought of her mother, wheelchair-bound since her stroke. “No.”

“It’s not easy. You wanna keep ’em safe, you know. I mean, you want ’em to go out in the world. Be strong. Make you proud. But mostly, mostly you want ’em to be safe. Happy. Okay.”

“She’s okay,” Mrs. Pesaturo murmured. “They’re both okay.”

“If I coulda been there, that night . . . That’s what kills me, you know. This Como guy,” Mr. Pesaturo spat. “He’s not even that big. If I’d been there that night, I would’ve kicked his sorry spic ass.”

Jillian thought of Trisha’s dark apartment. Her sister’s unmoving form on the bed. Those strong, strong hands grabbing her from behind. She said, “I wish you would’ve been there, too.”

“Yeah, well, I guess there’s not much I can do about it now. At least the guy’s dead. I feel better about that. Hey”—his head jerked up—“think Meg’ll be all right now?”

Jillian was puzzled. “I think Meg is already all right.”

“No, no. Start remembering. Get her life back. You know.”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure. I really don’t know that much about amnesia.”

“She don’t talk about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Her amnesia. What that asshole did to her. Don’t you girls talk about this stuff over coffee or something like that?”

“Mr. Pesaturo . . .” Jillian began, but Laurie Pesaturo beat her to the punch.

“Tom, shut up.”

Mr. Pesaturo blinked at his wife. “What?”

“Jillian is not going to tell you about our daughter’s state of mind. If you want to know what Meg is thinking, ask her yourself.”

“I was just asking,” Tom said defensively, but he hung his big head, suitably chastised. Jillian took some pity on him.

“For the record,” she told him. “I think Meg is doing remarkably well. She’s a strong young lady, Mr. Pesaturo. You should be proud of her.”

“I
am
proud of her!”

“Are you? Or are you mostly afraid for her?”

“Hey now!” Mr. Pesaturo didn’t like that much at all. But when he found Jillian staring at him steadily, and his own wife regarding him steadily, his shoulders hunkered again. “I’m a father,” he muttered. “Fathers protect their daughters. Nothing wrong with that.”

“She’s twenty years old,” Laurie said.

“Still young.”

“Tom, it’s been years . . .” Laurie said. Which Jillian didn’t get. Didn’t she mean one year?

Mr. Pesaturo said, “Yeah, and we’ve been lucky to get her this far.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re telling me.”

Jillian was very confused now, which must have shown on her face, because suddenly both Mr. and Mrs. Pesaturo drew up short. They looked at their guest, they looked at each other, and that was the end of that conversation.

“I should get going,” Jillian said at last, when the silence had gone on too long. Meg’s parents didn’t waste any time getting up off the couch.

“Thank you for bringing Meg home,” Mrs. Pesaturo said. “We’ll make arrangements to retrieve her car.”

“The champagne . . . Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Mrs. Pesaturo smiled kindly at her. “It’s been a long, strange day, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jillian said, and she didn’t know why, but at that moment she wanted to cry. She pulled herself back together. Her nerves were rattled, had been all day, and her private conversation with Sergeant Griffin had only made things worse. But her weariness didn’t matter. There were probably still cameras outside. You had to wear your game face. Besides, she would need her strength for when she returned home, to where her aphasia-stricken mother had probably already heard the news and was now sifting through her picture book, trying to find an image that could communicate
My daughter’s murderer died today and I feel . . .

Meg was back. “Come on,” she told Jillian. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Jillian followed her down the narrow hallway. Meg’s little sister, Molly, peered out at them from around the corner, a mass of dark corkscrew curls and big doe-brown eyes.
Trish,
Jillian thought. She had to get out of this house.

When Meg opened the door, Jillian was startled to see that it was already dark outside. The night wind felt cool on her face. The street was long and empty. Not a reporter in sight, which made her both grateful and more unsettled. Where were all the flashing lights and rapid-fire questions? Where had the day gone? It was already a blur.

Meg was swaying slightly in the breeze. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” Jillian was still staring into the night. On her right, something moved in the bushes.

“I’m starting to feel better already, you know. The shock’s wearing off, I guess. I didn’t think it would be this fast, but now . . . I feel like for the first time in twelve months, I can finally breathe.”

Jillian just stared at Meg. And then she got it. Meg was talking about Eddie Como’s demise. She was thanking Jillian for Eddie Como’s murder.

“But you’re right,” Meg continued expansively. “We shouldn’t talk about it. The police will probably still be coming around, at least for a few days. Then the worst will be past. The dust will settle. And we’ll be . . . we’ll be free.”

“Meg . . .”

“Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

“Oh God, Meg . . .”

“Such a lovely, lovely night.”

“You’ve had more to drink! Why do you keep drinking?”

“I don’t know. The doctors said not to push. The mind will heal itself. But it hasn’t, and really, as of today, I thought it should. So I added some bourbon. But you know, it didn’t work.”

“Meg, you just need rest.”

“No, I don’t think I do. I think it’s all much weirder than that. I’ve had rest, I’ve had peace and now I’ve had closure. But I can still feel the eyes following me. What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I want to be happy. I don’t think I was. Because if I had been happy, shouldn’t I be able to remember it? Shouldn’t it come back to me?”

“Meg, listen to me—”

“Shhhh, the bushes.”

Jillian stopped, drew up short. She looked at the bushes, still twitching on the right. She looked at Meg. This close, she could see the glassy sheen to the girl’s dark eyes, the red flush of bourbon warming her cheeks.

“Whoever is hiding in the bushes, you’d better come out,” Jillian called.

“Beautiful, beautiful night,” Meg singsonged. “Oh, what a lovely night, just like the last night, that night.”