“You’re not gonna find me. Look, I can only talk for a minute.”
“About the girl.”
“She’s gone, Pete. Gone forever.” The absolute truth, though his interpretation will be: I killed her.
He doesn’t respond right away. “Is that so.”
“Our parting did not go well. It was a struggle to let her go.” She fought me to her death.
Another delay. “Where was she relocated to?” Where’d you dump her?
“Lower East Side.” The East River.
“She moved in the middle of the day, just like that?”
He’s right: Dumping a body in the East River on a Sunday afternoon is not the easiest thing to do, especially alone, but we’ve done it before, being well acquainted with the most concealed spots, the trash-filled and polluted places so rarely visited. He knows it’s possible, and if I had to dump a body fast, it would be there—especially now that he knows I don’t really have the stones to carry a dead body around in the trunk of my car.
“Problem is,” I say, “she left all her stuff in my car.” Her blood is everywhere.
“No big deal, John. Come on back, we’ll get all her—”
“I gotta get out of here, Pete. I don’t think I can live without her.” I can’t handle what I just did.
“Relax, there’s plenty of other fish out there.” Not sure what the direct decoding of his statement is, but it comes across as a near-literal, so many dead bodies on the floor of that waterway. I hope they don’t ever try to drag the East River, for my family’s sake.
“I can’t do it, Pete. I can’t live with it. You know I was never built for a relationship like what I had with her.” You knew murder would be too much for me to handle. “I’m out of here. I’m gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just too much.”
“Slow down, let’s talk. Where are you? Let me catch up with—”
“I’m gone, Pete. You’re never gonna see me again.”
“Wait, wait, wait—”
“Listen to me. This is real, okay? I want you to hear and comprehend every word I’m about to say.”
My brother’s sudden silence, his unexpected compliance, indicates he knows something sobering is forthcoming, something that will impact his life. The white noise of his car disappears; he has pulled over.
“All right,” he says.
I take a deep breath and begin. “Understand this: No matter what you see or hear over the next few days, you trust me, you got it?”
Nothing.
“I need you to trust me, Pete. Pop would never go for what I’m about to do. And if this works, you won’t just be a kid in a candy store; you’ll be running your own chain. No matter what, you trust me.”
He sighs quietly. “Why me? I’m the least trustworthy person in this family.”
“Exactly. Now break Pop’s trust for me and convince him what I’m doing is not going to hurt anyone.” Except me.
I can hear Peter rub his stubbly chin, breathe off to the side.
“Also,” I say, “I may give you a name in a few days. And if I do, I want you to take it very seriously.” Very seriously was one of the first terms I learned as an adolescent, used to imply someone falling under our clumsy version of surveillance, followed by the inevitable slaying.
“Someone nearby?”
I don’t have time for him to start guessing. I redirect: “Just remember I am not the bad guy, okay?”
“The candy store thing. I don’t follow.”
I contemplate whether I should declare this key component of my plan, how potentially empowering my solution may be for him, but I know it could only jeopardize it. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
“I’m not so sure—”
“Goodbye, Pete.”
It feels weird to hang up on my brother—but not unreal. I’m like a snake that just shed a layer of skin. There are so many more left. I can only hope that if I shed enough layers I’ll turn into something better than a slimy reptile.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, take a series of deep breaths, wish I had a bottle of water to chug. I drive for miles and try to think of anything except where Melody is right now.
As I pass the exits for Trenton, I call Sean’s pager, punch in my cell number, and wait.
Upon the first exits for Philadelphia, I finally get the call.
“Marshal Douglas,” he says. His voice comes out strong, but weariness seeps through like he could use a nap. Or a drink.