The platform was crowded when we pulled into Jamaica. There was a heavy flow of people on and off the train, but Mills didn’t move and neither did I. After a few minutes, the doors closed and we pulled out again. The conductor came around for tickets, and I bought one for Bellerose.
I tried my cell again. The signal was still flaky. I punched Neary’s number and this time heard him clearly. Unfortunately, I was hearing his voice mail greeting. I left a message, telling him where I thought I was headed. Then I tried Sikes. He answered right away. I could barely make out his words, but I heard urgency in his voice. I gave him my status quickly, and he started to tell me something about Compton when the signal cut out completely. I tried to get him back but couldn’t.
The Hollis station came and went, and so did Queens Village, and then we were in Bellerose. Mills was standing by the door, ready to go. Lots of people got off at Bellerose; Mills was the first. He walked briskly, like he knew where he was going. I stayed well back. I wasn’t worried about losing him now; I knew where he was going too. Mills walked out of the station onto Commonwealth Boulevard. I followed.
It was colder now, a wet, penetrating cold, and snow was coming down in big, ragged flakes that were too heavy to float. They melted on the pavement, and the streets around the station glistened under sodium lights. Mills walked north, toward Hillside Avenue. His stride was stiff and jerky, like he was fighting the urge to run. He never looked back.
He was two blocks ahead now. I remembered how the streets ran here, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before Mills turned east off Commonwealth. He didn’t disappoint me. When he turned, I did too, onto a parallel street. It was quieter back here, with little traffic and no pedestrians. Warm light spilled from the windows of the small houses, and it was easy to imagine dinner on the table and kids doing homework inside. A lot of the places were lit elaborately for Christmas, and the falling snow was painted in gaudy colors.
I could follow this street east for three blocks, then turn north again to get to Trautmann’s house. If I was fast enough, I might even get there before Mills did. I broke into a run. It wasn’t pleasant. There was a burst of pain with every footfall. It was work to get air into my lungs and work to get it out again, and each breath burned. After a block, the muscles in my side began to seize up. I slowed to a jog and then to a walk at Trautmann’s street.
I stopped behind a parked panel truck. Trautmann’s house was less than a block away, across the street. It was dark, and as shuttered and guarded looking as it had been the first time I’d seen it. My heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the run. I took some slow, deep breaths, trying to dissipate the building adrenaline.
I hadn’t been there two minutes when Mills crossed the street and climbed the concrete steps to Trautmann’s front door. He rang the bell and waited. He rang again, and waited, and rang again. He stepped away from the door and looked up and down the street and looked at his watch. Then he walked down the steps and up Trautmann’s narrow driveway and disappeared around the side of the house. I stayed put. Nothing happened for a minute or two, and then I saw lights through the tall hedges at the back of the house.
I waited some more. The snow was falling faster now, in smaller flakes that stuck on the bushes and the tiny lawns. It was quiet, and the snow made it seem even quieter. I walked down the street at an even pace, past Trautmann’s house on the opposite side. No car in the driveway. I kept on walking for another block. A station wagon drove by but did not pause. I crossed the street and turned back.
The For Sale sign was still up at the house next door to Trautmann’s, and its windows were still dark and empty. I glanced around the street. No one. I walked quickly up the driveway and around to the back of the vacant house. The yard was a square of brown grass, now dusted in snow. It was bordered in the rear by a low cinderblock wall, and on the far side by a section of the fence that ran around Trautmann’s property. I crossed to the far corner of the yard, where it abutted Trautmann’s detached garage. There was a narrow strip of dirt between the rear of the garage and Trautmann’s tall hedge. I scaled the fence and dropped quietly into the gap.
I crouched, listening, and a low growl came from the other side of the hedge. In the yard behind Trautmann’s, the Rottweiler was running in agitated circles, snorting and grunting. His growls grew angrier, and his grunts became barks. Shit. I moved slowly along the back of the garage and then down the side. The dog quieted down. I stood in the shadows for a minute, getting my breathing under control, listening. Nothing moved. I peered into the small garage window. No car.
The rear of Trautmann’s house was dark, except for some windows on the far side. I crossed the driveway and edged toward them, staying close to the back of the house. As I drew nearer, I saw that they were kitchen windows, set on either side of a metal storm door at the top of four concrete steps. I put my hand on the iron railing and my foot on the first step. I heard a scraping sound and a crackling noise.
And something white exploded behind my eyes, and swallowed me whole.
Chapter Twenty-six
Something cool was resting on the side of my face, pressing up against my cheek. It was smooth and flat. It was heavy. I opened an eye, and the world was dim and red and tilting away. I shut my eye, but things kept on tilting in the darkness.
Something cool was resting on the side of my face, pressing up.. no. My face was resting on something cool. My cheek was pressed against something cool and smooth and flat. A floor. I was facedown on a floor. My body was loose and liquid and drifting, and I was tethered to the earth only by my face on the floor, and by my head, which was as dense as a crate of mud.
I heard sounds-murmuring, rising, falling, loud bursts. After a while, the sounds became words, many of them, coming rapidly, one after the other. I strained to catch them, but they were like live fish, slippery, wriggling, and I couldn’t hang on. After a longer while, the words became speech.
“Stop whining, for chrissakes, and bring that box from the hall.”
“You’re sure he’s not awake? His arms and legs keep moving.”
“I told you, a jolt like he got, they twitch around. I gave him a pretty good boot in the head, too. He’s not going anywhere. Just keep your pants dry.”
“Shouldn’t we put a plastic thing on his ankles too?”
“Go ahead, if you plan on carrying him around. Me, I’d rather he walk. Listen, take a deep breath and shut the fuck up for a couple of minutes, will you? Make yourself useful, bring that box in here.”
“You fit it all in three boxes?”
“Everything we picked, videos and all.”
“What about the rest?”
“Had a little bonfire on Sunday. Don’t need any of that shit, and I sure as hell don’t want it turning up around here. They’ll be on our butts soon enough, thanks to you. Don’t want to make it any easier for ’em than you already have, huh Millie?”
“I told you…”
“Now is not the time for you to talk. I don’t give a shit what you told me. If you could’ve held your fucking water, none of this shit would be happening and I wouldn’t be packing my fucking bags now.”
“He knew…”
“Didn’t they teach you English at prep school? What don’t you understand about ‘Shut the fuck up?’ Christ… and this was such a sweet deal, too. Bought you that fucking hacienda down in Santa Whatever. Got me my place in the islands. And it had legs. We could’ve run this out for years. But you have to shit your pants the first time somebody asks a question. And calling the Federales… fucking incredible. Make us rush things with ’ole Ricky P. And now this.”
“He knew about Welch…”
“How did you get this far, being so stupid, huh Millie? If he knew so much, he wouldn’t be making phone calls, telling you to meet him on some street corner, you putz. He was fishing, and you were the fish. And he hooked you and gave you lots of line so you could fucking drag him here. And now what? Now I’m getting out of Dodge, thanks to you.”
The voices approached and retreated, accompanied by footsteps, the hard sounds of heels on bare floors. The voices were familiar, but I couldn’t find the names. A twitch shot through my shoulders and arms, and I realized my wrists were bound behind me. I tried opening my eyes. One was pressed against the floor and squeezed shut. The other was sticky, crusted with something. I worked it open, and when I did, the world began to
