Rachel was standing in the doorway of the room, looking at the carnage and squinting in the light. She had the gray blanket wrapped around her and held with both hands closed at the neck.
I walked over to her and said, “Okay, Jane Eyre, I got you.”
Tears began to run down her face, and I put my arms around her, and she cried. And I cried. In between crying I said, “I got you. I got you.”
She didn’t say anything.
The first cops to show were cruiser people—three cars’ worth despite the snow emergency—and one of them was, Foley, the young cop with the ribbons and the wise-guy face. They came up the attic stairs with guns drawn, directed by the frightened maid who’d called them. He was first. He knew who Rachel was the first look he took. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “You found her.” His partner with the belly squatted down beside English and felt his neck. Then he and another prowlie half-lifted, half-helped Momma English off her son’s body. While the prowlie held her, the pot-bellied cop got down on his hands and knees and listened to English’s chest. He looked at the young cop and shook his head.
“Gonzo,” he said. “So’s the horse at the bottom.” He nodded at Mingo, still sprawled at the foot of the attic stairs. They must have had to climb over him. “Two in the head,” he said. He stood up and looked at me. I still had my arms around Rachel. “What the hell you crying for?” he said. “Think how these guys feel.”
Foley spun around. “Shut up,” he said. “I know why he’s crying. You don’t. Close your fucking mouth up.”
The older cop shook his head and didn’t say anything.
Foley said to me, “You ace these two guys?”
I nodded.
Foley said, “Chief will want to talk with you about all this. Her, too.”
“Not now,” I said, “now I’m taking her home.”
Foley looked at me for maybe thirty seconds. “Yeah,” he said. “Take her out of here.”
The cop with the belly said, “For crissake, the chief will fry our ass. This clown blasts two guys, one of them Lawrence English, and he walks while we stand around. Foley, we got two stiffs here.”
I said to Foley, “I need a ride.”
He nodded. “Come on.”
His partner said, “Foley, are you fucking crazy?”
Foley put his face close to the older cop’s face. “Benny,” he said, “you’re okay. You’re not a bad cop. But you don’t know how to act, and you’re too old to learn.”
“Chief will have your badge for this and mine for letting you do it.”
Foley said, “Ain’t your fault, Benny. You couldn’t stop me.”
Mom English said, “If you let that murderer escape and allow that corrupt degenerate to go with him, I’ll have every one of your badges.”
There were four other cops besides Foley and Benny. One of them had gone downstairs to call in. One was supporting Mrs. English. The other two stood uncertainly. One of them had his gun out, although it hung at his side and he’d probably forgotten he had it in his hand.
“They murdered my son,” she said. Her voice was flat and heavy. “She has vomited filth and corruption long enough. She has to be stopped. We would have stopped her if he hadn’t interfered. And you must. She is a putrefaction, a cancerous foul sore.” The voice stayed flat but a trickle of saliva came from the left corner of her mouth. She breathed heavily through her nose. “She has debauched and destroyed innocent women and lured them into unspeakable acts.” Her nose began to run a little.
I said, “Foley, we’re going.”
He nodded and pushed past Benny. We followed. Rachel still had the blanket around her.
Momma shrieked at us, “She stole my daughter.”
One of the other cops said, “Jesus Christ, Fole.”
Foley looked at him, and his eyes were hot. Then he went down the attic stairs, and Rachel and I went with him. In the front hall on the first floor the two maids stood, silent and fidgety. The cop on the phone was talking to someone at headquarters and as we went past he glanced up and widened his eyes.
“Where the hell you going?” he said.
Foley shook his head.
“Chief says he’s on his way, Fole.”
We kept going. On the porch I picked Rachel up—she was still in her bare feet—and carried her through the floundering waist-deep snow. The cruisers were there in front with the blue lights rotating.
Foley said, “First one.”
We got in—Foley in front, me and Rachel in back. He hit the siren, and we pulled out.
“Where?” Foley said.
“Boston,” I said. “Marlborough Street, Arlington Street end.”
