He took it cautiously.
“No wedding band,” I said. I caught Gertie out of the corner of my eye. She stood in the shadows of the adjacent room.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“You’re not wearing your wedding band today.”
He smiled confidently. “I haven’t worn a wedding band since my first wedding anniversary some twenty-five years ago,” he said. “Lost it on safari in Botswana. Never got it replaced.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because it clears you.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Clears me from what?”
“From being arrested for the murder of Chopper McNair.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t murdered anyone or thought about murdering anyone.”
“I know you haven’t,” I said, picking up my phone and texting the word GO to Burke. They had a team on standby outside of Weston Morgan’s apartment in Lincoln Park, waiting for my signal. “Your son did. I just wasn’t so sure until I shook your hand.”
Merriweather looked down at his right hand, confused.
“Sure money says Weston wears his wedding band on his right hand. He got married in Denmark. They don’t wear their bands on the left like we do.”
Merriweather pulled his phone out of his pocket and started dialing frantically.
“He won’t be able to answer,” I said, walking toward the door. “Right now he’s handcuffed in the back of a patrol car.”
52
IT WAS MIDWAY THROUGH summer camp, and I’d already had enough of Michael Weiland and his bullying ways. That day he was the worst he had ever been, calling me names, promising to beat me during our sports session that afternoon, and making stupid jokes about my name and fires. I had ignored him at first, but he just wouldn’t stop. We were equally athletic, but Weiland was also wild, a daredevil who grew only more foolish the larger the crowd that had gathered. He was also a prankster who knew no bounds, deriving the most pleasure from belittling and humiliating the weaker kids, who were too timid to stand up and fight back. While I might not have been a daredevil, one thing was certain—I was fearless. I liked to be challenged, and I was a fierce defender of those who suffered under the torments of bullies.
That day was just too much for me. Weiland had put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in Eric Runyon’s shoes. Runyon was a small immigrant kid from the West Side who panicked at the sight of his own shadow. The PBJ smeared all over his socks and shoes, the rest of the campers roared as Runyon cried, and I grew infuriated as Weiland walked around collecting high fives. That was when I decided it was finally time for Weiland to learn a lesson.
The camp had a naturalist by the name of Mrs. Geddis. She was an affable woman with long red hair and a smattering of freckles that marched across her round face. She taught us everything from information about birds and trees to determining whether a wild plant was poisonous. Mrs. Geddis was also a professional beekeeper, using a small open area on the perimeter of the campgrounds to keep her hives. We weren’t allowed to go near the bee colonies for insurance reasons. One camper had gotten stung many years ago, had an allergic reaction, and almost died. The rules quickly changed, and while we were no longer allowed to dress up and visit the hives, we could stand some thirty yards away and watch Mrs. Geddis go about her work.
I had heard that Weiland had an allergy to beestings, not one that would kill him but one that would cause him to swell pretty badly, to the point he needed medication. During our lunch session that day, I sneaked through the woods to the edge of the property and took one of the little metal cabinets Mrs. Geddis used to keep one of the smaller colonies. I carried it back to our empty bay, opened Weiland’s locker, and set the cabinet inside, making sure I opened the lid before closing the locker door. I rejoined the rest of our tribe outside as everyone was finishing lunch, my absence undetected.
Quiet time always followed lunch. We were allowed to take a nap, read a book, do an arts and crafts project—anything we wanted as long as it didn’t require a counselor’s help and didn’t make a lot of noise. We all returned to the lodge while the counselors sat outside under a nearby tree, as they often did, talking about sports, cars, and girls. I sat on the bench in front of my locker and watched as Weiland and his crew made their way to theirs at the opposite end. They were laughing about something, patting each other on the back. The other campers sat quietly, minding their own business.
Weiland opened his locker, and the scream was immediate. Everyone looked in his direction as the bees flew out, buzzing around Weiland’s head; he was now running circles as he swatted wildly at the swarm. I couldn’t help but smile, the sight of his panic and humiliation bringing a visceral satisfaction that was exceeded only by how it felt seeing the smile on little Eric Runyon’s face.
Now Marco had me in the water, half drowning, struggling to breathe. This was my punishment. The silence of the water was so loud in my head. Everything moved in slow motion, and time seemed to stand still. Marco was on me again, angry that I had almost made it out of the water before he was done punishing me. He gripped my head tighter and put his arm across my throat. My air supply totally cut off, I could feel the energy draining out of my body. My eyes started to bulge. I felt dizzy. I could no longer see my feet. But I could see the image of my mother’s face. She was calling to me, though I couldn’t hear her. She was always present when I needed her. The thought
