Part 13 (1/2)

”Wow,” I remarked. ”That's love.” He looked at me. ”Of cannolis,” I amended quickly. I drank some more wine.

Something dawned on him, and he jumped up from the table. ”I almost forgot! I brought you a T-s.h.i.+rt.” He pulled it out of the grocery bag and held it up proudly. ”You can't get these in any store.”

I looked it over. ”What size is that?”

He looked inside at the tag. ”Triple extra large. I took it out of Fred's locker.”

I stared at it, horrified. I could have covered my dining-room table with it. ”Are you suggesting that I need a s.h.i.+rt that big?”

”No, I took it out of Fred's locker. I just told you that.” He looked disappointed that I wasn't more excited.

I imagined getting one that was close to my size, not one for the both of us to live in. ”Thanks,” I said.

”It's not like you can wear it out in public. It's police-issue. It's from the Fred Wyatt Law Enforcement collection.” He folded it and put it back on the counter. He sat back down at the table.

”Thanks. Whenever I wear it, I'll think of Fred.” I made a face and got up to finger the T-s.h.i.+rt. I held it up to my face, taking a deep whiff. ”Does it have the eau de cranky cop smell?”

He pretended to laugh, but it looked more like a wince. ”Such a funny lady.” He gave me a sly smile. ”Maybe you could wear it when you're performing your Joyce-reading lap dances.”

The phone rang. I jumped up and answered it, and when I heard his voice, I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Crawford, ”Ray.”

Ray was annoyed again. I wanted to scream into the phone, ”Listen, buddy, if anyone should be annoyed, it's me!” but of course, I didn't. I listened patiently. ”h.e.l.lo, Ray.”

Crawford stood and mouthed, ”Where's your other phone?” I pointed above my head. There was an extension in the guest room; he left the kitchen and went up the stairs. I could hear the floorboards creak over my head and an almost-inaudible ”click” as he picked up the extension. He was listening to our conversation, and I didn't feel any need to tell Ray. Ray kept nattering on.

”. . . so, I spent the day with Klein and do you know what he bills per hour?” I didn't answer, so he told me. ”Five hundred dollars! Can you believe it? But if it keeps me out of jail, it will be worth it. You have to believe me, Alison . . . I didn't do it. I knew Kathy, but I didn't kill her. I bet it was that crazy boyfriend of hers, that Vince hoodlum. Do you know him?” I remained silent, and he continued with his rant. ”He's crazy. She always felt threatened. She told me several times.”

I imagined that I heard Crawford breathing on the other end of the phone, and that made listening to Ray almost tolerable. ”And you called because?” I asked.

Ray paused for a second before starting up again. ”I need to tell you something, Alison, before you hear it from someone else.”

And then I knew where this was headed. Crawford must have changed position above me, because the floorboards creaked a little more. I was embarra.s.sed now that he was on the extension; now he had to hear the lies and half-truths that I had heard for so many years. He would think I was a giant a.s.s. I held my breath for a minute while Ray got up the courage to reveal his indiscretion. Although it would be humiliating for me to hear it with Crawford listening, I couldn't pa.s.s up the opportunity to make Ray confess.

”Kathy and I had a relations.h.i.+p, Al. We were in love,” he said, sounding almost sincere.

I couldn't even respond. This was worse than what I normally heard from Ray. Usually, it was ”she didn't mean a thing to me.” Now, he was telling me that he was in love with a girl half his age. And she was dead. I leaned over and tried not to puke.

”Thanks, Ray. I'm glad I heard it from you and not from someone else,” I said, as graciously as I could.

He let out a breath, relieved by my reaction, I suppose. ”You're a cla.s.s act, Al. You always have been.”

My tongue loosened by the wine, I remarked, ”No, Ray, I'm a f.u.c.king idiot, and I always have been.” And with that, I put the phone back on the receiver. I couldn't stand his complimenting me on my graciousness and cla.s.s. I was an idiot, and now Crawford knew it, too. I held on to my stomach for a few more seconds, a wave of nausea flowing over me. Ray and Kathy? It was too much for me to comprehend, especially after my epiphany about Terri. If he was capable of an affair with a girl-a teenager, really-what else was he capable of? When I thought about it, I really didn't want to know.

I strode toward the front door, catching a glimpse of Crawford at the top of the stairs. I ignored him and walked out the front door, down the front steps, and out into the night, the soft rain mixing with the tears running down my face.

Seventeen.

Crawford was wise and didn't follow me.

I walked down the street, feeling sad, woozy, and overly full from the dinner of wine and pizza. I reached the end of my block and was about to turn onto Broadway, thinking about the cannolis I had left behind, when a car screeched to a stop next to me. It was a Lincoln Navigator, black, with tinted windows. Loud, insistent rap music could be heard before the owner rolled down the back pa.s.senger-side window. I stood under the streetlight and leaned in to see who was in the car, a.s.suming it was one of my neighbors inquiring as to why I was walking in the rain. Before I could get a good look, the back pa.s.senger-side door opened, and just like in my dream, two strong arms reached out and attempted to pull me into the car. Only this time, I didn't get kissed. And the arms didn't belong to a cop.

When I realized what was happening, I pulled my body away and went into a full sprint. I stumbled in my clogs-sorry now that I had put them on my still-sore feet-and started running back toward the house, which was at least an eighth of a mile away. The rain was heavy, and I was drenched. The gravel crunched under my feet and made traversing the wet street in the clogs even more difficult.

The car screeched to a halt behind me, and I ran as fast as I could toward the house.

I could see it in the distance; the front door opened. I heard footsteps gaining on me as I watched Crawford amble down the front walk, umbrella in hand. G.o.d, he's slow, I thought, watching him take a leisurely stroll in the rain.

I screamed as loud as I could, but I knew the loud music would drown my voice out. ”Crawford!”

Two hands grabbed me from behind and dragged me backwards. I screamed again and Crawford looked up the street, grabbing his gun off his ankle and getting into a crouch. But he didn't shoot. I was in the way, an arm around my neck, being dragged toward the SUV. The hand at the end of the arm had a bandage across the palm. I struggled and fell to the ground, taking my a.s.sailant down, too. I got up and attempted to take off again, but whoever it was that wanted me grabbed me by the ankle, making me fall flat on my face on the pavement.

I struggled to get up again but was dragged down. I heard, ”Get her!” as we went down again. I rolled away from him and into a sewer grate, hitting the curb hard with my right knee. I was pulled up again and dragged backwards, this time, a little closer to the stopped car. My feet were off the ground and I clawed at the thick forearm around my neck.

Crawford was running toward the car, his gun out in front of him; he had it in a two-handed clasp. I was almost to the car as I heard the music get louder and my attacker scream, ”He's a f.u.c.king cop!” obviously noticing the gun and the NYPD s.h.i.+rt. Those white letters against an inky blue background were hard to miss; I guess that was the point.

”Police! Let her go!” Crawford screamed.

The arm around my neck tightened, and the air to my windpipe was cut off. I'm going to die out here, I thought to myself as my eyes watered. ”Shoot him!” I croaked with the air that remained in my lungs.

But he wouldn't, and I knew it. I was a s.h.i.+eld.

We continued moving backwards until I felt the seat beneath my legs.

The arm loosened around my neck. ”Crawford! Help me!” I cried as I was pulled in and thrown into the backseat.

I hit my forehead on the way in as the door swung closed. I immediately put my hand to my head and felt a giant goose egg grow under my hand, but I didn't feel any blood. I righted myself on the seat and attempted to get my bearings, but the speeding car and the loud music, coupled with what was probably my second concussion in as many weeks, made control of my limbs almost impossible.

I turned and looked out the back window but could only see Crawford's back as he ran down the street and back to the house.

Vince was driving. Not being familiar with pharmacology (where was Ray when you needed him?), I didn't know what he was on, but it was obvious that he was on something. My guess was his drug of choice, Ecstasy, but I couldn't be sure. He was tense, high-strung, and agitated. He turned around and screamed something at me which sounded like ”Where are those papers?” but I didn't have a clue as to what he meant. I attempted to put my seat belt on so that if we had an accident, I would at least be strapped in. It took me a few minutes, but I did it. And then I noticed the guy sitting next to me, the one who had succeeded in dragging me into the car.

It was John Costigan from my Shakespeare cla.s.s. He was a star athlete on a full athletic scholars.h.i.+p who played basketball, baseball, and lacrosse. He was big-Crawford's height-but had thirty or forty pounds on him. Since I was bigger than Vince, they probably figured John was the one who could manhandle me successfully. I had always imagined John to be the all-American boy; he was blond, handsome, and polite. He did well in my cla.s.s and his other cla.s.ses and was on the honor roll every semester. I couldn't imagine how he had gotten mixed up with Vince and in this kind of situation. I looked over at him in disbelief. ”John?” I asked, still holding my head.

He didn't answer me and stared straight ahead. He didn't look high like Vince, but he looked agitated. I tried Vince.

”Vince, what is this all about?” I asked, feeling nauseous and dizzy. As Vince took the corner to merge onto the exit for the Saw Mill, a sea of red swam before my eyes, and I struggled to stay conscious. Vince, seeing the stop sign at the entrance to the parkway too late, jammed on the brakes; the car skidded forward on the wet pavement and my head hit the seat in front of me.

”Vince, where are we going?” I screamed.

He kept driving, careening down the winding Saw Mill River Parkway and changing lanes every time a slower car got in the way.

We were going ninety miles an hour; the illuminated speedometer was visible from the backseat. I grabbed Costigan by the s.h.i.+rtsleeve and begged him to get Vince to slow down. He turned and looked out his window and didn't respond.

We sped past the Yonkers exits and the exit for the Cross County Parkway. As we approached the entrance for Moshulu Parkway and the Major Deegan Expressway and entered New York City proper, Vince stayed to the right toward the Henry Hudson Parkway. Three police cars came out of nowhere, two staying on either side of us and one behind us.

”Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you. Just stop!” I screamed. I found the b.u.t.ton to roll down the window and did. I turned and looked out the window; the police car was a blue-and-white NYPD cruiser. Or not. I'd have to ask Crawford, if I lived, if that const.i.tuted a cruiser.