“What have you got for me, girl? And, please God, make it good,” blustered Yolie as she barreled across the lawn from her cruiser, fists clenched, jaw clenched, clenched. “Because I really need a break here, understand?”
Des was stretched out on one of Mitch’s lawn chairs savoring the fresh sea breeze after spending so many hours at that damned desk-searching high and low on her computer screen, working the phone. Quirt lay underneath her, his tail swishing in the grass. The geese were flying overhead. The grill was lit. Augie’s killer was still on the loose. The Dorset Flasher, who either was or was not the same person, was still on the loose. Her father was having his chest cut open in three days. It was just a typical Sunday evening in paradise. “I understand, Yolie,” she said. “Chill out, girl. You’re so wired you’re giving off sparks.”
“Damned media people keep messing with my head,” she huffed in response. “Demanding I feed them something for the six o’clock news. What do you tell them when you have nothing to tell them?”
“That this is an ongoing criminal investigation. That you are pursuing numerous fruitful leads, are making excellent progress and have no new information that you can share with them at this time.”
Yolie stuck out her chin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.”
“Then you should be fine.”
“Rico really doesn’t like me putting my face out there.”
“Rico will really have to deal with it. Sit yourself down, will you? You have to learn how to pace yourself. We’ll talk it out over dinner.”
Mitch had gone to fetch a bucket of sweet corn from Bitsy’s garden. His own fresh-picked salad greens were taking a bath in the kitchen sink. Two organic free-range chickens were marinating in olive oil, lemon juice, rosemary and garlic.
He came trudging up the path now, a Corona in one hand, his bucket of corn in the other. “Hey, Yolie,” he called to her. “Can I get you a beer?”
She shook her head. “No slow juice for me. I’m on duty tonight.”
“In that case, how would you like a cranberry spritzer with a twist of lime and a sprig of my very own homegrown mint?”
“Do I look like some skinny East Side Gap bitch to you?”
“Down, girl,” Des cautioned her.
Yolie puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, Mitch. Didn’t mean to bite you. I’m just a little stressed right now.”
He grinned at her. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“That cranberry… whatever sounds great.”
“One spritzer, coming right up,” he said as a buzzer went off inside the cottage. Someone was at the causeway gate. Mitch fetched his binoculars from inside of the door and had a look. “Ah, good, it’s Lieutenant Very.”
Yolie’s eyes widened with alarm. “What’s he doing here?”
“I invited him to dinner. Hope you don’t mind.” Mitch pressed the buzzer to raise the security barricade and then went inside to make her drink.
Des watched the New York cop ease his motorcycle across the wooden causeway, hearing its throaty roar.
“I-I had no idea he was coming. None.” Yolie sounded even more wound up now-if such a thing was even possible. “It would have been nice if you’d warned me, girl. Just a teeny-tiny heads-up, know what I’m saying? I’ve been wearing the same clothes since yesterday. Smell like I’ve been living in a damned Dumpster for the past…” She broke off, fanning her face with her fingers. “Am I acting whack?”
“Not at all. He’s really cute. And Mitch thinks he’s a nice guy.”
“He does seem nice, doesn’t he?”
Des got up and went inside. Mitch was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on Yolie’s drink. “Is this you pulling a Bella or what?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Master Sergeant.”
“You do, too, Mister Matchmaker.”
“Ohh… I see where you’re going with this. But you could not be more wrong. I had no idea Yolie was coming to dinner when I invited him.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “Uh-huh…”
“But now that you mention it I’m glad she’s here.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because the guy’s desperately lonely. And when I first mentioned Yolie’s name to him he went ‘Woo…’ ”
“Woo…? What’s that mean?”
“That he thinks she’s hot.”
“Mitch, he’d better not hurt her.”
“What makes you think he’d do that?”
“He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“I knew it. Film noir weekend was a huge mistake. I should never have screened Out of the Past for you. Let’s try to think positive, okay? Lieutenant Very isn’t Robert Mitchum and Yolie’s not Jane Greer. Just leave them be.”
He started back outside with Yolie’s spritzer and a cold Corona for the lieutenant. Des followed him. Very stood next to his bike yakking a mile a minute with Yolie, the two of them so hyper Des was sure they were about to lift right up off of the ground.
Mitch handed them their drinks. “Any luck finding somewhere to stay tonight, Lieutenant?”
“Afraid not. There isn’t a motel room to be had anywhere.”
“I just spoke to my neighbor Bitsy. You’re welcome to bunk with her. She lives in that giant natural-shingled place over there. I can introduce you after dinner.”
“Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.”
“How did you make out with that other thing?”
Very took a long, thirsty gulp of his Corona. “I made out,” he replied, leaving it there. Des had no idea what they were talking about.
Mitch checked the grill and decided the fire was good to go. Fetched the platter of marinated chicken from the kitchen and set the pieces on the grill to sizzle, arranging the ears of corn around them.
Very flopped down at the picnic table. “You get anywhere today, Sarge?”
“Not unless you call nowhere somewhere,” Yolie grumbled, sitting down across from him.
“Your people still haven’t turned up that ski mask?”
“No mask. It’s gone. Or was never there to begin with.”
“How about Dawgie’s body? Did they find any hairs or clothing fibers on him?”
Yolie shook her head at him. “Nothing. And they can’t tell us much more about his assailant than we already knew. He, or she, swung that bat right-handed. Height’s anywhere between five six and six foot-depending on how low Augie was crouched as he crept through the brush in the dark.”
Des took a seat with them. “How about the force of the blows?”
“Average strength for a man. Above average for a woman. Meaning we can cross Bertha Peck off our list. Except she’s so tiny and ancient that she was never on it to begin with.” Yolie took a sip of her spritzer. “Those shoe prints they found down by the riverbank? Tread pattern belongs to a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars. It’s a unisex shoe. A man or woman could have been wearing them. Same old song-average-sized foot for a man, above average for a woman. They gave me their usual boatload of blah-blah-blah about the perp’s estimated weight and corresponding height, for whatever good that does.”
Des made a face. “Which isn’t much.”
“I don’t even pay attention,” agreed Very, nodding, nodding. “I’ve turned up big, fat perps with little, tiny feet. Pip-squeaks who wear a size twelve triple-E. That stuff’s meaningless. Sure sounds good when they do it on Law and Order though.” He peered across the table at Yolie. “So you’re nowhere.”
“As I believe I just told you.” She turned her gaze on Des. “I’m still waiting to hear from you, Miss Thing. Got any news I can use?”
“I do. For starters, I tracked down Hal Chapman’s alibi.”
Yolie brightened. “This would be Terri E as in maybe Edsen?”
“It’s Ensor,” Des informed her. “Hal told you she worked for some New York outfit that recovers peoples’ lost assets, right? I surfed the Web sites of a gazillion companies until I finally found one called Equitrust. It’s headquartered in White Plains, not the City. I accessed their employee directory and found a Terri Ensor. Then I located a Gregory and Terri Ensor in West Nyack. Called them up and got Greg. Identified myself and asked him if his wife was home. Right away, he wanted to know why. I told him she may have witnessed a vehicular accident in Dorset last evening. He acknowledged that she was out here visiting a college friend, just got home this morning. He went and fetched her. When Terri got on the phone I told her I needed to talk to her about Hal Chapman. She said ‘Who?’ I said ‘You know, your trainer at the Dorset Fitness Center.’ After a really long silence she went ‘Ohhh…’ Clearly, Greg was still standing right there and she was scared he’d find out. I told her I just needed to know if Hal was with her last night at nine o’clock. She wouldn’t be called to testify in court. This was strictly off the record. But I needed to know.”
Yolie stared at her expectantly. “And…?”
“She backed him up, Yolie. Everything Hal told you.”
“That’s good work, girl. Thanks.”
“Excuse me, did I say I was done?”
“You’ve got something more?”
“I checked with Amtrak on the comings and goings of Kenny Lapidus over these past three weekends. The first weekend that our Dorset Flasher waved hello, Kenny bought himself a ticket on the Northeast Regional that left Boston’s South Station on Friday at 5:35 p.m. It arrived on time in Old Saybrook at 7:34. He caught a train back to Boston from New London at 10:20 p.m. on Sunday. Made it home just after midnight.”
“Why did he leave from New London?”
“The late train doesn’t stop in Old Saybrook on Saturday or Sunday.”
“So he was here in town while the Flasher was doing his thing?”
“He was here,” Des confirmed.
“No way,” Mitch protested as he turned the chicken on the grill. “Kenny’s not the Dorset Flasher.”
“I’m not saying he is, baby.”
“But Dawgie was all over his mother,” Very pointed out. “Kenny had a definite motive for swinging that bat.”
“How about the other two weekends?” Yolie asked her.
“Amtrak had no record of him purchasing tickets last weekend. He must have driven his Prius down. We already know he drove here this weekend. He told us so. What we don’t know is whether he got here on Friday in time to leave that little present on my welcome mat.”
Yolie considered this for a moment. “You think Captain Rundle would mind if you took a personal day tomorrow?”
“Captain Rundle would be thrilled not to see my long face hanging around his barracks. You want me to drive up to Boston and check out the security cams at the MassPike toll booths, am I right?”
“You are. Let’s nail down exactly when Kenny came and went. I’ll run his credit card receipts. Maybe he bought gas somewhere along the way.”
“You people are wasting your time,” Mitch argued insistently. “Kenny’s a total wimp. Hell, I used to protect him from playground bullies. Do you honestly think a guy like him could murder a retired police detective?”
“It doesn’t take balls to commit murder, dude,” Very said. “Just desperation.”
“We have to look at him, Mitch,” Yolie added. “These Flasher incidents coincide with his visits. The victim was putting the screws to his mom, like the lieutenant says. And he has no one to vouch for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Kimberly told us he was in his bedroom sending e-mails, but he could have slipped out the bedroom window.”
“No way,” Mitch shot back. “If he’d gone out the window Des would have seen him. She was staked out right there.”
“True enough,” Des conceded. “Except the window wasn’t his only way out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Kimberly was out on the porch, right? Kenny could have just tiptoed through the apartment without her knowledge and gone out by way of the front door of the building. Then I wouldn’t have seen him.”
“Maybe somebody else did,” Very said.
“Maybe.”
“Now that you mention it,” Yolie said, “that scenario plays for Kimberly, too. She was alone on the porch. No one to vouch for her. And she’s plenty strong.”
“Why would she kill Dawgie?” Very asked.
“Because Kenny wasn’t up for it. The man’s a wimp, like Mitch said. What we don’t know is why they’d go to such lengths to protect his mom. I mean, so what if Augie was hassling the lady? All she had to do was just Say No-unless he was a total creepaholic stalker, in which case Des would have gotten involved, right?”
“Actually… there’s a bit more to it than that,” Very put in slowly. “Another angle that I worked this afternoon with my man Mitch here.”
Yolie glowered across the table at him. “What angle?”
“Augie was absolutely convinced that Beth Lapidus and her married boyfriend, Vinnie Brogna, were up to no good together.”
“What kind of no good, Romeo?”
“It’s Romaine. Are either of you ladies familiar with the Seven Sisters?”
“Wait one second…” Des said. “Augie asked me that on Friday. I thought he was talking about the colleges. He called me a hick.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Dawgie.”
“So what is the Seven Sisters?” Yolie demanded.
“A somewhat legendary Jewish crime family,” he replied. “They got their start a hundred years ago on New York’s Lower East Side. And still exist to this day. I happen to know a little about them because I’m a member of the family. So is Beth Breslauer. We’re both descended from the same long line of thieves. The two of us are cousins.”
Yolie looked at Des in amazement. “Okay, I didn’t see that one coming, did you?”
“Not even.”
“Wait, wait, there’s more,” Mitch said eagerly. “Beth’s not the only one who’s connected to the family. Back in the thirties, when she was a young chorus girl, Bertha Peck-nee Bertha Puzewski-was the mistress of Beth’s grandfather, Saul, a big time racketeer.”
“Okay, now this is just plain whack,” Yolie said.
“Very,” Des agreed.
The lieutenant looked at her. “Yeah, Master Sergeant?”
“Um, it’s very weird.”
“I’m down with that,” he said, nodding, nodding. “Beth claims that she’s kept her thing with Vinnie a secret from Kenny. He doesn’t know about them. She never entertains the guy at her condo. Won’t even let him pick her up there.”
Des mulled this over. “So she’s saying she slipped out the back door last night to go meet Vinnie?”
“Exactly. Told us he picked her up down the block and the two of them hit the Mohegan Sun. Saw Linda Ronstadt. Got themselves a room.”
“The front desk can confirm whether or not her story’s the real deal,” Yolie said.
“Augie told you that Beth and Vinnie were up to no good together,” Des said. “You still haven’t told us what kind.”
“He thought they were working the Mohegan Sun. You know, snatching handbags, wallets, jewelry. Beth insists not, naturally. And her criminal record is spotless, but…”
“Wait, why am I just finding out about this now?” Yolie demanded, glaring at Very.
“Because I’m telling you about it now. You want to hear my thing or throw down?”
“Did Augie have any evidence to back that up?” Des asked.
“He sent me some photos that, in his opinion, show Beth lifting a lady’s bracelet. You can look at them and see what you think. Mitch has seen them.”
“And I don’t think they show Beth stealing a thing,” Mitch said. “Augie saw what he wanted to see.”
“The photos are inconclusive,” Very acknowledged. “They for damned sure aren’t anything a prosecutor could run with. And yet I’m positive that both Beth and Bertha were playing me this afternoon.” He took a drink of his beer. “I found another roll of film hidden in his apartment, Sarge.”
“Hidden where?”
“Inside a jar of mayo in the reefer.”
Yolie glared at him once again. “We made a deal, remember? You promised you’d tell me if you found anything.”
“Which is exactly what I’m doing.”
“How many hours after the fact?”
“I had to get the roll developed, Sarge.”
“Do you have to keep calling me that? Makes me sound like some grizzled old gee with a potbelly. Make it Yolie, will you?”
“Or Precious,” Mitch said. “She really likes to be called Precious.”
“I can shoot you, hon,” Yolie reminded him.
“You wouldn’t dare. You’d leave Des bereft.”
“What’s on this roll of film?” she wanted to know.
Very fetched the photos from his knapsack and laid them out on the picnic table, one by one, without comment. They were photos of Beth Breslauer. Beth on her screened-in porch in a shortie nightgown, sipping her morning coffee. Beth in a halter top and shorts, painting her toenails. Beth in a one-piece bathing suit soaking up some sun out on the lawn. Her figure was quite good for a woman her age. Toned and shapely. She was showing skin in most of the photos, and was generally barefoot. The longer Des looked at them the more they creeped her out. They’d been taken by a lonely voyeur who had a schoolboy crush.
“The fifty-year-old girl next door,” Mitch observed, studying them closely. “A lot of these remind me of those old issues of Playboy in his footlocker-minus the R-rating, of course.”
“I’m with you,” Very said. “It’s pinup stuff.”
“And they aren’t that recent, Lieutenant. See this one? The cartoon daisies behind her are in full bloom. That was in mid-July. This roll’s been sitting around for weeks.”
“Playing you how?” Yolie said suddenly.
Very looked at her blankly. “Sorry?”
“You said you had a feeling that both she and Bertha were playing you.”
“Totally. They were holding something back. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I’ll have a go at her myself in the morning-minus Bertha. Squeeze her a little. See what pops out.”
“And I can go at Vinnie in the City,” Very said. “Dawgie’s photos of him with Beth give me big-time leverage. I’ll threaten to drag his wife in for questioning. No way he wants that to happen. Yeah, Vinnie I can squeeze plenty hard-if you want me to, that is. Your case, Yolie.”
“Squeeze away,” she urged him. “I really want to break this tomorrow.”
“I know you do. We’ll get there,” he promised.
Mitch had fallen strangely quiet. Just stood there gazing out at a sailboat on the water.
“Are you okay?” Des asked him.
He looked at her, frowning. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your dream girl isn’t exactly who you thought she was.”
“I’m fine, Des.” He went back to the grill to turn the chicken. “Besides, this whole thing is much harder on the lieutenant. He’s combing his own family’s unsavory history. How does that feel?”
“Needs doing,” Very said with a shrug. “I’m good.”
Des nodded politely, thinking, You are both so full of crap.
“Me, I’m just plain confused,” Yolie said. “If Augie’s killing has something to do with Beth and Vinnie’s activities, criminal or otherwise, then what about the rest of it? Was Augie the Dorset Flasher or wasn’t he? What’s the connection? Is there a connection?”
No one answered her. No one had an answer.
“I’m still waiting to hear the Berger version,” Des said finally. “My man’s not a member of the reality-based community. His mind operates on an entirely different astral plane. He sees things that the rest of us don’t.”
“And this helps you how…?” Very wondered.
Mitch, meanwhile, was standing there at the grill staring at the lieutenant, his eyes narrowing.
“Dude, why do you keep looking at me that way?”
“Because it’s your family.”
“Right, and I just said I’m… Hold on, are you thinking I killed Dawgie?”
“Why not? You showed up here out of nowhere waving a tin star
…”
“Gold shield, actually.”
“You knew the access code to Augie’s garage. Knew where he kept the spare key to his apartment. Knew that he hid the murder weapon under his bed. Maybe he was about to expose one of the Seven Sisters’ deep, dark secrets. Maybe-okay, here it is-maybe you didn’t go straight after all. Yeah, that’s it. You’re actually one of them. A loyal family member. They planted you on the force, which Augie never knew about until now. And so you had to kill him to protect your cover. You’ve stuck around Dorset because you’re trying to influence Yolie’s investigation. Steer it toward Vinnie and away from yourself.”
“That’s… really awesome, dude,” Very marveled. “Way cool. Except it’s not real life. It’s a movie with, like, Harvey Keitel.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Johnny Depp.”
“No, Colin Farrell,” Yolie said with tremendous certainty.
“Just out of curiosity, am I the Dorset Flasher, too?” Very asked. “Or is that an icebox question?”
“An icebox what?” Yolie wondered.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“You’re not the Flasher,” Mitch told him. “There’s no connection between the two cases. He’s just some horny, frustrated high school kid. Which is exactly what Des was thinking before Augie turned up dead.”
“He’s right about that,” Des admitted.
“Mitch, you are one major-league twisted mother. I’m serious, dude. So what happens now? Do I pull a piece and try to shoot my way off of this island?”
Mitch frowned at him. “I haven’t worked that part out yet. Give me a sec, will you? This plot’s only two minutes old.”
Very let out a laugh. “I love this guy.”
“You’re out of luck, wild thing,” Des informed him. “He’s taken.”
“I think I’ll run up to the Mohegan Sun after dinner,” Yolie said. “Try to nail down what time Beth and Vinnie checked in last night. I’ll need pictures of them I can show around.”
“You’re welcome to whatever you need,” Very said. “Want some company?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I could ride along with you.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
Des’s right foot collided with Yolie’s shin under the table.
Yolie looked at her, startled, before she cleared her throat and said, “If you want to ride along, it’s fine by me. Happy for the company.”
“Cool.” Very drained the last of his beer, swiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Anybody in class have anything else they’d like to share?”
Mitch raised his hand. “Yeah, I do. Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”
Later, after Yolie and Lieutenant Very had driven off to the casino in Yolie’s cruiser, Des and Mitch walked the island’s beach together in the moonlight, enjoying the quiet and each other. They shed their clothes and dove naked into the cool water. Floated on their backs and gazed up at the stars, bobbing up and down on the gentle swells until Des’s teeth began to chatter. Back at the cottage they jumped in a hot shower and Mitch soaped her, nose to toes, with a bar of L’Occitane milk soap infused with sinfully rich shea butter. He was very dutiful and thorough, his hands gently massaging and kneading her flesh, lingering lovingly over her booty. And lingering. And…
“I think I’m good and clean back there now, Armando.”
“Sorry, I got a little captivated. It’s like being allowed to stand in the Louvre running your bare hands over the Venus de Milo.”
“Yeah, that’s me-Venus. Except I’ve got arms.”
“And legs.” He knelt behind her, soaping them. “God, you’ve got legs.”
She stood there smiling inside. No man had ever made her smile inside like Mitch did. For sure not Brandon. With Brandon she’d been one big knot.
Upstairs in the sleeping loft, the oil lantern glowing soft and golden, she needed something different from Mitch tonight. Maybe it was that extreme dose of Richie Tedone and his tranny skank Eboni. But when Mitch reached for her, Des took his face in her hands and said, “Do me a special favor, will you?”
“I don’t have to wear the handcuffs, do I?”
“Nothing like that. Will you just hold me, squeeze me and never leave me?”
“Done.” Mitch gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight. “This is the deal from now on, you know. Our parents aren’t getting any younger.”
She blinked at him in surprise. It never ceased to amaze her how he knew her. “The Deacon just seemed so… vulnerable.”
“Get used to it. Before long they’ll be the ones sitting in a diaper talking gibberish and we’ll be the ones spoon-feeding them vanilla pudding.”
“You make it sound so appealing, Armando.”
“Okay, my turn now. To ask you for a special favor, I mean.”
“You want me to do that thing to you with the feather?”
“No. Well, yeah. But no, that’s not where I was going. We, that is to say you, decided that since I’ve lost so much weight, my old pet name no longer applied. But the truth is I really, really miss it.”
“You want me to go back to calling you that?”
“More than anything in the whole, wide world.”
She caressed his cheek, kissing him softly. “You got it, doughboy.”
“About the Deacon…”
“What about him?”
“There’s more going on here than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”
She nodded. “The Brass City boys want his job. They’re trying to use that scuffle I had with Augie to push him out. If he’ll retire then Internal Affairs will drop any investigation into my actions.”
“But they have no case against you.”
“Doesn’t matter. They can put a stink on me that’ll stay with me throughout my career. They know he won’t let that happen.”
“So what are you doing about it?”
“Pushing back. But please don’t ask me how, okay? Because I’m not real proud of myself. Which reminds me, I’ve got a loose end that’s driving me crazy. Can you think of any connection between the Dorset Flasher, Augie Donatelli and York Correctional?”
“The women’s prison?” Mitch frowned. “Not really-aside from the fact Kimberly teaches yoga there two afternoons a week.”
“She does?”
“Yeah, she’s a volunteer. Does that mean something?”
“I have no idea. Probably not.” Des yawned contentedly, feeling herself getting drowsy. Her eyelids were heavy, circuits fried. She surrendered, snug and safe in Mitch’s arms.
Until her cell phone rang on the nightstand.
She answered it and listened. “But I’m on desk detail now, remember?” And listened some more before she said, “Okay, Oly. I’ll be there in five.”
“What’s up?” Mitch asked as she climbed hurriedly out of bed.
“I’m not entirely sure. But it’s nothing good.”
She could hear the screams from out on Maple Lane.
It was just past 1:00 a.m. when Des pulled in at the same little dead-end road off of Dorset Street where she’d tripped over Augie’s dead body. Oly’s cruiser was parked there next to Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van. Rut Peck’s place was dark, same as last night. Over at Ray Smith’s, the porch light was on. Ray stood outside in his bathrobe, pulling on a cigarette and watching the action.
It was going on at Nan Sidell’s. Lights were blazing inside the little farmhouse that the blond middle school teacher shared with her two sons.
The screams grew even louder as Des rushed up the front steps to Nan’s open screen door. They were the screams of a terrified boy. And she could make out words now: “We’re next, Petey! Look out, we’re next!”
In the parlor, Oly was seated on the sofa with Dawn’s wide-eyed ten year-old, Peter, who was wearing a pair of Boston Celtics pajamas. The family’s big yellow Lab, Josie, was stretched out at Peter’s feet, whining uneasily. The screams were coming from Nan’s bedroom, where Des found Nan’s gangly older boy, twelve-year-old Phillip, in a state of uncontrolled hysteria.
“Look out, Petey! Look out!” he screamed, his eyes bulging with panic as he scrabbled around on the floor underneath his mother’s antique four-poster bed, trying to hide from a monster that he alone could see. Sweat was pouring from him, soaking his pajamas. “We’re next! Run, Petey! Run!”
A distraught Nan knelt there by the bed in her nightshirt, trying to calm him. “Philly…? Mommy’s right here, honey. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
But the boy wasn’t responding. Didn’t hear her. Didn’t know her. Just kept screaming: “Run, Petey! Run!”
Marge and Mary Jewett, the two no-nonsense sisters in their fifties who ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service, were standing just inside of the bedroom doorway. It was a small, sparely furnished room. Aside from the unmade bed, which had a patchwork quilt on it, there was a nightstand, a chest of drawers. No art on the walls. No rugs.
“Don’t make any sudden movements,” Marge cautioned Nan in a quiet voice as the boy continued to scream his head off. “Just be real gentle. Don’t grab for him or try to shake him. He’ll come out of it on his own.”
“Come out of what?” Nan sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She was trembling. “What is happening to my son?”
“We’re next, Petey! Run, Petey!” Phillip cried out, bug-eyed with terror as he crawled frantically around under the bed. Until, abruptly, he stopped and became quiet. And calm. So calm that he curled into a fetal ball right there on the floor and fell asleep.
Marge knelt before him and felt for his pulse. “Returning to normal,” she whispered, lifting one of his eyelids to check his pupil. “Let’s get him back into bed.” She started to pick Phillip up off of the floor but halted with a grunt of pain. “Dang, my old back isn’t what it used to be.”
“Here, let me…” Des gathered the tall boy up in her arms and carried him into the other bedroom, which had twin beds and Celtics posters all over the walls.
“His bed’s the one over by the window,” Nan said softly.
Des set him down there. Nan wrestled him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into fresh ones. The boy mumbled a bit in his sleep but was docile and compliant. She tucked him in and turned out his bedside light. They backed slowly out of the room into the narrow hallway, shutting the door.
“He’ll be okay now, honey,” Mary assured Nan.
The tears were still streaming from Nan’s blue eyes. She was such a tiny little thing in her bare feet that she looked more like a girl than a full-grown single mother. “Are… are you sure?”
“Positive. We’ve seen this before.”
“I-I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea. I’ve never…” She ran a hand through her long blond hair, exhaling slowly. “Des, I’m so sorry to drag you out of bed like this.”
“Not a problem, Nan. What I’m here for. Want to fill me in?”
“Little Petey came in and woke me up about, I don’t know, a half hour ago. Told me that Philly was having a terrible nightmare and he couldn’t wake him up. That’s when I heard Philly screaming. And then he came running into my room, too. He followed Petey in there, I swear. His eyes were wide open. He-he was awake. I swear he was awake. And he was screaming and screaming and I-I couldn’t get him to stop. Or get him out from under my bed. He was panting and gasping and-and
… well, you saw him. He was possessed. So I called the girls.” Nan turned to Mary now and said, “You’ve actually seen this sort of thing before?”
Mary nodded. “They’re called night terrors. Not at all uncommon among kids Phillip’s age. The episodes can last ten, fifteen minutes. Sometimes longer. It’s basically an extreme nightmare.”
Nan shook her head. “Philly was awake. You saw him. He was awake.”
“They seem to be awake,” Marge said. “But they’re actually asleep. Generally, they return to normal sleep when the episode’s over-and they don’t remember a thing. That’s why it’s best not to shake them out of it or frighten them.”
“Night terrors,” Nan repeated, sounding unconvinced. “I was afraid he’d gotten into drugs of some kind.”
“That’s a definite no,” Mary assured her. “His heart rate slowed right back down. His pupils were normal. He didn’t ingest anything.”
“But you were smart to play it safe,” Marge said. “We had a pissed-off eleven-year-old girl on Whippoorwill just last Wednesday night who swallowed a whole bottle of her mother’s Vicodin.”
“That’s why I wanted you here, Des,” Nan explained. “You know what these kids are into. Not that Philly has ever given me the slightest reason to think he’s… I just… he was like a totally different person. I’d better let Petey know he’s okay. Will you excuse me for a moment?” She darted into the parlor to comfort her other boy.
Des and the Jewett sisters went out onto the front porch. Oly joined them.
“How did it go out there tonight?” Des asked him.
“Nice and quiet,” he replied. “Until now.”
“No Flasher sightings?”
“Not a one. I think our Flasher’s on a slab in the morgue, don’t you?”
“Oly, I don’t know what to think.”
Nan followed them outside a moment later. The boy remained on the sofa with Josie at his feet. “Petey seems just fine.”
“Sure he is.” Oly smiled at her. “He’s a rock, that one.”
“Please explain these night terrors to me,” she said to the Jewett sisters. “Because Phillip has never, ever had anything even remotely like one before. What causes them?”
Marge and Mary exchanged an uneasy glance. They were, as a rule, careful not to stray too far above their pay grade.
“They’re often caused by a psychological trauma of some kind,” Marge answered gingerly. “It’s entirely possible he won’t ever have another one, Nan. But you should phone his pediatrician in the morning. He’ll want to see Phillip.”
“Did you folks happen to have a family situation this weekend?” Mary asked her.
Nan frowned. “Such as…?”
“Did their father visit them? Not that I mean to pry, but an emotional upheaval like that might explain it.”
Nan’s face hardened. “Donald hasn’t made time for our boys for over a year. He and Heather have a baby girl now who occupies all of his attention.”
“I’m standing here wondering about something else,” Des said, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Phillip and Peter were right there in that room of theirs last night when Augie Donatelli was murdered. Something pretty awful was happening out there in the dark. Josie was barking her head off. That’s scary stuff. Major bogeyman material. Seems to me it would be perfectly natural for a boy’s imagination to get the best of him.”
Marge nodded. “I absolutely agree.”
“Then again, it’s possible there’s more to it than that.”
Nan studied Des closely. “You think the boys saw something, is that it?”
“Did they, Nan?”
“I honestly don’t know. They haven’t told me a thing.”
“Do you mind if I talk to Peter?”
“No, of course not. As long you don’t upset him.”
“Not to worry. I won’t.”
“We’re going to take off now,” Mary told Nan. “If anything changes, just call us. Don’t even hesitate. We’re here for you.”
Nan walked them to their van, thanking them profusely. Oly climbed into his cruiser and took off.
Des went back inside and joined Peter, who was sitting there petting Josie. The boy had his mother’s big blue eyes and soft blond hair, but not her delicacy. His jaw was strong and stubborn, his hands unusually large for a boy of ten.
“Hey, Peter,” she said, showing him her smile.
“Hey,” he responded sullenly.
“Listen, I need for you to man up. Can you do that for me?”
He peered at her suspiciously. “Man up… how?”
“By telling me what’s really going on.”
The boy shrugged. “Mom said Philly had a bad dream.”
“A bad dream about what, Peter?”
He didn’t answer her.
“Phillip is real scared about something,” she said. “And so are you.”
“Am not.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I’m a professional, that’s how. That’s why I get to wear this big hat and carry this big semiautomatic weapon. Because I know things.”
He glanced at her uneasily. “What things?”
“I know that you boys saw what happened to Mr. Donatelli last night. That’s why Phillip had his bad dream. That’s why he kept screaming, ‘We’re next, Petey!’ Because he thinks the killer will come back for the two of you. That’s why Phillip’s so scared.”
“I’m not scared,” the boy insisted.
“Peter, I can’t protect you unless I know what you boys saw.”
“We didn’t see anything! Philly just had a bad dream is all.”
“Tell me the truth, Peter. Who killed Mr. Donatelli?”
“I don’t know!” he cried out. “And don’t try to make me say I do because I don’t. We didn’t see anything, okay? Not a thing!”
Peter jumped to his feet now and ran out the front door of the house to his mom-leaving Des alone in there with Josie wondering just exactly what in the hell was going on.
If Josie knew anything she sure wasn’t talking.