The Dead Room

41

Jamie sat behind the wheel of the minivan, its windows rolled up and the air-conditioning left on low to keep her from sweating underneath clothing more suited to an early-autumn morning – jeans, her beaten and battered Timberland work boots, and one of Dan’s baggy sweatshirts. It hid her breasts and the Magnum’s shoulder strap nicely, the cotton a bit more breathable and much more comfortable than the windbreaker she’d worn inside Mary Sullivan’s basement.

Jamie had also helped herself to Michael’s knockoff Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and one of his favourite baseball caps – a ridiculously bright yellow one with the phrase LADIES MAN stitched next to a patch of a barely awake Homer Simpson dressed only in a saggy pair of tighty-whities. She wore the brim pulled low to hide the surgical scars on her forehead. She had used the clippers to shave her hair down to a crew cut. From a distance, especially in this ashy predawn light, she could easily pass for a man.

She leaned forward in her seat and for the second time this past hour checked her reflection in the minivan’s rear-view mirror. Up close she looked like a lanky man – one with slightly effeminate features, sure, but the visible scarring along her jaw line, coupled with the fresh bandage slapped across the raw skin on the side of her face, would balance that out.

A skinny guy who got his ass kicked, she thought. Perfect. She needed to look the part of the driver Ben Masters had hired to take Kevin Reynolds to safety.

Jamie checked the minivan’s dashboard clock: 4.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until show time.

She grabbed the bottle of Gatorade. A fine white residue had settled across the bottom. She had taken six of her Xanax pills, crushed them with a spoon and poured the fine powder into the bright red water. One pill mellowed her out; an elephant like Reynolds would need at least three or four. Six, she figured, should probably put him to sleep. After he went nighty-night, she would tie him up, cover him with a tarp and then drive ten minutes up the road to a secluded spot on the other side of these woods.

If Reynolds didn’t cooperate, she’d have to take him down here.

She wasn’t particularly concerned about being spotted or heard. Unless someone had an avid interest in studying or weeds, there was no reason to come to Waterman Park. Her father, back when he was alive, had told her how the recession of the eighties had hit Belham hard, and the first thing on the chopping block was funding for the city’s Department of Public Works. Waterman Park’s fountain, jungle gyms, swings and slides had all been removed. All that remained was a long, wide field of tall burnt grass and bald patches of sun-baked dirt. And the bridge.

The bridge was the main reason she had selected this spot. One way in and one way out. You could walk across the bridge but you couldn’t walk through the woods – not unless you wanted to fight your way through the thick brush. No way for Reynolds to sneak up on her.

Leaning back in her seat, her thoughts drifted back to Michael.

You thought you could save only one of us, he had told her, and you chose Carter.

Michael was right. She had chosen Carter. Wilfully, maybe even deliberately. And, while she could tick off a list of logical reasons why she went to him first – Carter was the youngest, her baby – she couldn’t escape the truth that had lived inside her every waking thought since the day Michael was born. Michael was difficult. He had been a colicky and fussy baby who had grown into a stubborn young boy who took a peculiar delight and satisfaction in fighting her at every turn. She recalled one particularly nasty fight inside the grocery store when Michael was six. She had refused to buy him a sugary cereal he’d seen on a TV commercial and he responded by knocking the boxes off the shelf and stomping on them. She carried him out of the shop kicking and screaming.

By the time she reached the car she had lost her cool, yelling at him until her throat was raw, and when he smirked at her with grim satisfaction she had wanted to hit him. She later confided to Dan that Michael was an emotional vampire, a creature that fed off her anger. Dan told her that she was being too harsh. Dan could say those things because Michael didn’t act that way with him, just her.

Carter was the polar opposite. Carter was easy. Carter smiled and enjoyed people. Sure, he could be fussy and yes, he had his moments like any other normal kid. But even at almost seven Carter was remarkably empathetic. He felt bad when he did something wrong and apologized. Michael never did. Like Dan, Michael lived inside his skin, didn’t show emotion or let anyone get too close to him.

Not true. Michael had allowed Dan to get close to him.

By turning to Carter that night, had she severed whatever thin thread she and Michael shared as mother and son? She wondered how Michael would react if he knew that the man who had shot him was dead, floating inside the boot of a car submerged beneath the waters of Belham Quarry. The scars on Michael’s chest and back would heal, but what about his mental scars? Would knowing how Ben had suffered help Michael heal?

Killing Ben Masters had certainly helped her.

Jamie looked around the empty park. The last time she had been here was on that hot July afternoon she had buried her father. Dan was with her. She had come to Waterman Park, a favourite spot of their childhood, and told Dan stories about the long summers they had spent at the park with her parents. Back then, you could climb monkey-bars or wait your turn to use the swings or go down one of the four slides. Then you’d cool off in the concrete wading pool in the centre of the field, and sometimes around noon the high school gym teacher, Mr Quincy, would pull up in his Winnebago and sell sodas, shaved ice, hot dogs, hamburgers and snotties – French fries drenched in Velveeta cheese. An ice cream truck always rolled in twice a day. During the long winter months, the city turned the pool into a skating rink.

That afternoon with Dan, not one car or person had entered the park. The city’s joggers, bikers and dog walkers took advantage of trails on the north side of the woods – a good eight miles away from where her minivan was now parked. She was the sole person here.

Make that two. A compact car was slowly making its way across the bridge.

42

Jamie slid her right hand underneath a copy of the Globe that was spread across her lap and gripped the Glock resting against her stomach. She had plenty of ammo left.

She let her mouth hang open as if she’d fallen asleep while waiting. From behind her sunglasses she watched the dark-coloured car come to a full stop at the end of the bridge. The driver didn’t turn. The car just sat there, idling.

If it’s Reynolds, she thought, he’s probably checking out the place to make sure he’s alone.

She glanced down at her lap. The papers hid the handgun and silencer perfectly. No way would Reynolds see it.

The car was making its way across the curving road of broken asphalt.

That odd mixture of dread and adrenalin was shooting through her veins. She felt jumpy and anxious but not afraid. She was definitely not afraid. No matter what Reynolds threw at her, she’d find a way to handle it.

Provided he comes here alone, Jamie. It all hinges on that single fact.

The car, a navy-blue Ford Taurus with a sagging back bumper, pulled up against the kerb near the entrance of the car park. The windows were rolled down and she could make out the face of the driver.

Kevin Reynolds perched his arm across the front seat and looked in her direction. Nobody else inside the car; he had come alone.

Reynolds took a drag from his cigarette and kept staring.

Was he waiting for her to come to him?

She had planned for that possibility. Michael’s backpack, stuffed with his dirty laundry to give the appearance