Running down the street and around the corner, he said to Peter,
'What did he mean, the lock's broken?
If the trunk's not locked why can't she just crawl out? What's he talking about?'
'I don't know, babe.'
'Maybe she's tied up. Tape, handcuffs, something so she can't move.'
'Maybe.'
'Oh, Jesus, Pete—'
The car was where it was supposed to be, a battered Tempo several years old, its windshield starred
and the passenger door deeply dented. The trunk lock was missing altogether. Kenan flung the lid open.
No one in there. Just packages, bundles of some sort. Bundles of various sizes wrapped in black plastic and secured with freezer tape.
'No,' Kenan said.
He stood there, saying 'No, no, no.' After a moment Peter took one of the parcels from the trunk, got a jackknife from his pocket, and cut away the tape. He unwound the length of black plastic— it was not unlike the Hefty bags in which the money had been delivered— and drew out a human foot, severed a couple of inches above the ankle.
Three toenails showed circles of red polish. The other two toes were missing.
Kenan put his head back and howled like a dog.
Chapter 2
That was Thursday. Monday I got back from lunch and there was a message for me at the desk. Call Peter Curry, it said, and there was a number and the 718 area code, which meant Brooklyn orQueens . I didn't think I knew a Peter Curry in Brooklyn orQueens , or anywhere else for that matter, but it's not unheard-of for me to get calls from people I don't know. I went up to my room and called the number on the slip, and when a man answered I said, 'Mr. Curry?'
'Yes?'
'My name's Matthew Scudder, I got a message to call you.'
'You got a message to call me?'
'That's right. It says here you called at twelve-fifteen.'
'What was the name again?' I gave it to him again, and he said,
'Oh, wait a minute, you're the detective, right? My brother called you, my brother Peter.'
'It says Peter Curry.'
'Hold on.'
I held on, and after a moment another voice, close to the first but a note deeper, a little bit softer, said,
'Matt, this is Pete.'
'Pete,' I said. 'Do I know you, Pete?'
'Yeah, we know each other, but you wouldn't necessarily know my name. I'm pretty regular atSt. Paul
's, I led a meeting there, oh, five or six weeks ago.'
'Peter Curry,' I said.
'It's Khoury,' he said. 'I'm of Lebanese descent, lemme see how to describe myself. I'm sober about a year and a half, I'm in a rooming house way west on Fifty-fifth Street, I've been working as a messenger and delivery boy but my field is film editing, only I don't know if I'll be able to get back into it—'
'Lotof drugs in your story.'
'That's right, but it was alcohol really stuck it to me at the end.
You've got me placed?'
'Uh-huh. I was there the night you spoke. I just never knew your last name.'
'Well, that's the program for you.'
'What can I do for you, Pete?'
'I'd like it if you could come out and talk with me and my brother.
You're a detective and I think that's what we need.'
'Could you give me some idea what it's about?'
'Well—'
'Not over the phone?'
'Probably better not to, Matt. It's detective work and it's important, and we'll pay whatever you say.'
