Cracked Page 23

  Jack pulled over to consult the address he’d written down at the Four Seasons.

  “Get down,” he said, firmly. “We’re here.” This screwed up our plan a bit. We were going to circle whatever block the place was on, suss out which window I could see. But without meaning to, Jack had pulled into a parking spot right by the entrance.

  I slumped into the space in front of my seat gracelessly, thankful that he had rented an Escalade. I couldn’t imagine myself doing this in Darren’s Fiat. Jack took off his leather jacket as he opened the car door, and threw it over me casually. If someone was looking out the window, they wouldn’t have thought a thing. I hoped.

  “Window on this side of the street,” Jack mumbled, pretending to lean in and grab his keys. “If I put my hand flat on the window, come in. Stay down,” he said. “I may go up the fire escape and see if I can see what’s going on in there, before I go knocking on the door. See if anyone else is there.”

  I didn’t have to say anything. Jack knew I heard him.

  Jack walked away, and I stayed down. I put my hand into my purse and pulled out the .38, and stuck the knife into the back pocket of my jeans.

  After ten minutes, I felt safe enough to stick my head up. We were parked thirty feet or so off Yonge Street, equidistant, I judged, between Sheppard and Finch. Jack had gone left, which meant that Jeanette was above the crappy-looking bar on the corner. The boys were probably up there too. I tried to see if the window looked like the windows in the picture, but I could only see the side of the building. The back and front windows were out of my sightlines.

  Crouching in the footwell of a pricey SUV isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I’m not short, but nobody would find a comfortable position here. And I knew that we were parked in such a way to make any movement on my part dangerous. We had stumbled onto this place by a bit of fluke, without any prior knowledge. If Jeanette Vasquez decided that she didn’t trust Jack and wanted to check out his vehicle, I was in perfect view for her.

  To occupy myself, I sang old standards in my head. My parents had reared us on Cole Porter and the Gershwins and Irving Berlin. I sang every Frank Sinatra song I could remember, especially the 60s swinging ones. I sang old Dinah Washington tunes, and Billie Holiday. I sang every song I could remember from Porgy and Bess. Crouched in the footwell of a Cadillac Escalade on a side street off Yonge Street in North York, I covered as much of the American Standards Songbook as I could remember.

  Jack, as far as I knew, was fifty feet away, with the woman who murdered my sister.

  I kept glancing up at the windows. I couldn’t see anyone in the window, and certainly not Jack giving his signal. But this was taking too long. Far too long.

  I held the gun in my hands. I warmed it up, until it felt like part of me. I put it to my cheek and let my tears wet the barrel. I prayed. I hadn’t prayed in such a long time, and it wasn’t something I let anybody know about. Not Jack. Not Darren. Not Ginger. But I talked to God about Matthew and Luke, and I prayed for forgiveness for what I was about to do.

  I hoped Ginger would forgive me. I hoped Jack could. I wished I could be a different person. But I wasn’t.

  I was going to kill Jeanette Vasquez.

  I got out of the car.

  23

  The back door to the building was unlocked. I heard Dire Straits playing, but it was from the bar downstairs. “Sultans of Swing.” Good song. Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair” started next. I debated just going into the bar, ’cause those guys had their groove on. And it would be safer. But instead, I went up the back stairs.

  I walked on the outside treads of the stairs. They tend to squeak less; any rebellious teenager will tell you that. I held the .38 in my right hand, against the stairwell. I had Jack’s cell in my jacket pocket, still, I hoped, set on vibrate.

  There were three doors at the top of the stairs. I paused for a second, knowing that I might only have that long before somebody came looking for me. Outside, I had done the math. Jack said it was the middle apartment. I crept along the hallway, as quietly as my motorcycle boots would allow. The first apartment I passed was totally silent. I kept going, trying to keep my breath shallow.

  I paused before the second door. I could hear Elton John singing “Tiny Dancer.” I have nothing against Elton John, but it wasn’t my favorite. Hold me closer, Tony Danza. I looked at the door. It looked flimsy, but then again so did I.

  I listened at the door, and got nothing other than Elton. Leaning back, I leaned on my left leg, and shot my right leg out, hard, into the door. To my surprise, the door popped open. No one had locked the deadbolt.

  There was no reaction inside. I leaned against the outside doorjamb, the Colt held against my chest like both Dave and Jack had told me. I was trying to control my breath. It seemed, at the moment, like my most important priority. Good not to have one of my fits just now, if I could help it.

  Elton John morphed into Lynyrd Skynyrd. “Free Bird.” I hoped Jeanette wasn’t trying to send me a message.

  I stuck my head into the doorway for a minute. I registered a regular living space: neutral-colored carpet and furniture. Kitchen to the right. And a long hallway. The music was coming from there. No one, no matter how far down that hallway, could have missed the door busting in. But there was no sign of life.

  “Jeanette Vasquez,” I yelled. “Show yourself.” I hoped my voice sounded stronger than I felt. I threw my purse into the hallway and talked to it as though it were a cop. I was hoping to fool Jeanette into thinking there were a few of me.

  Down the hallway, I heard a crash, like breaking glass. I released the safety on the gun. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it would come through my chest.

  “Jeanette,” I yelled. “This is Danny Cleary.”

  I held the gun ahead of me. I was trying not to shake. For a long minute, there was no sound.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” a woman’s voice said. “Danielle Cleary.”

  A woman started down the hallway. She was holding a small body in front of her, a gun to his head. It was Luke.

  “Hi, kiddo,” I said to him. “You might not remember me. I’m your Aunt Danny.” I looked at the woman. “Hi, Jeanette.” Luke was looking at me with wide eyes. He’d been eight when I’d seen him last, but shock and fear can do a lot to a person. Especially a little person. I tried to smile at him reassuringly, but tears were streaming down his face. He looked so much like Ginger.

  I felt my heart break, right there and then in my chest.

  “Fred was right,” Jeanette said. She paused and looked at me. “You do look like shit. You’re much better looking in your pictures.”

  “How’s Lola?” I said. “Maybe the broken nose will help her looks a bit. Anyway, tell her hi for me, will you?” My mind was spinning. Where in the hell was Jack?

  I had no idea what Jeanette looked like before, but she had obviously gone to some effort to look like me. Like I did now. Short, choppy dark hair, roughly the same size. Pale skin. And I wasn’t sure from this distance, but her eyes looked blue. Like Ginger’s.

  “Tell her yourself, doll,” Jeanette said. I heard a shuffling in the hallway, and I adjusted my stance. I tried to smile at Luke. I probably didn’t do a very good job, because he looked like he was going to start to cry all over again.

  Eleven years old. His mother dead, his nanny holding him hostage, and his aunt waving a gun around. I don’t know much about child psychology, but once I got these kids away safely, I was pretty sure we were in for some heavy-duty family counselling.

  But first I had to save their lives. We could worry about their psyches later. And where in God’s name was Jack?

  Lola appeared in the doorway, holding Matthew in front of her as Jeanette had done with Luke. He looked lethargic and dopey. Maybe he had just woken up, or maybe he’d been drugged. I could feel my respiration increase and I tried to slow it down. Lola’s arm was in a cast and a sling. Good.

  But no. If Jack hadn’t known Lola was h
ere, and had come in here not expecting her… something bad had happened. Too much time had passed.

  “Hi, boys,” I said. I tried to listen for Jack down the hall. “Wow, we’ve been looking all over for you! I’ve come to take you home.” Well, close enough. Back to family, anyway. Where their home would be now wasn’t my immediate concern.

  Luke started towards me and Jeanette hauled him back by his shoulder. Not gently.

  Lola was looking daggers at me with the black eyes she must have gotten from the head-butt I’d given her on the bar. But she wasn’t armed, that I could see. Matthew was her shield. I made eye contact with him, tried to make sure he knew I was there to help him, and to stay calm. There’s only so much non-verbal communication you can engage in with a frightened eleven-year-old who may or may not remember you very well.

  “Danny, it’s a hoot to meet you in person. It really is. But we were kind of hoping that you’d be sitting by the bedside of your crack buddy. Eugene, is it?” She smiled, and if I didn’t know she was a psychopath, I would have thought she was a perfectly friendly-looking person. Someone to have a latte with after spin class. If I had ever done such a thing.

  “Was that really necessary?” I said.

  “No,” Jeanette said. “But you hurt Lola, so we had to hurt someone of yours. Haven’t you ever played a game before?” She squeezed Luke’s shoulders. “Boys, your Aunt Danny is silly. She doesn’t understand the rules.” They did it together, then, Jeanette and Lola. Beat and tortured Gene, in my bed, in my apartment.

  Matty reached over and tried to grab Luke’s hand. It was something Ginger and I would have done at their age, to comfort each other. But Lola jerked Matt away, and he looked like he wanted to punch her. His little fists clenched by his sides.

  I could see which twin took more after his auntie. I hoped it wouldn’t get him in trouble.

  “Rules,” I said. I was listening for any more movement in the apartment, but there was none. Had Jack gone into the wrong apartment? “I must have missed the memo.”

  “Well we don’t have time tonight for all that, Danny, but let’s just say that your part is at an end. The fact that you were such a loser druggie made Ginger so much easier to control,” she said. “I got a friend to recommend me to Ginger and Fred as the absolute ideal nanny. But there was poor Ginger. She wasn’t just any old Newport matron, going to Pilates and lunches. She really did want to know, to really know, what you were doing to yourself. She said it was a twin thing.” She smiled at Lola. “Lola and I were close growing up and we’re close now, but we’re not even related, and this twin shit is strong. Right, boys?”

  “Yes,” Matthew said, with venom. “And you had better not hurt my brother.”

  At this, Lola slapped the back of Matthew’s head.

  The blood was there again, pounding in my ears.

  “Keep your filthy hands off my nephew,” I said to Lola. My voice sounded calm, almost pleasant. “Or do you want me to break your other arm?”

  Lola raised her arm as though she were about to hit Matty harder this time, and I pointed the .38 in her direction. “I’m an excellent shot, bitch,” I said. “Try me.”

  “Lola, chill,” Jeanette said. “Let me finish here.” Lola stuck her arm back down abruptly. If I had had any doubt who the alpha was here, it was clear now. She sighed, as though this were as frustrating as getting stuck in traffic on your way to a pedicure appointment. “You were a means to an end, okay? It was never really about you. We got Fred. It didn’t work out quite like we had planned, but the payday was decent enough. But finally, there he was, the golden goose, my first love, and so rich now! So we have much bigger fish to fry now.”

  “Stay away from Jack,” I said, but it was hollow. They had the boys. They were holding the cards.

  “You mean Scott? Yeah, I don’t think so. But look, it’s been great meeting you. But we have your nephews, and he loves these boys. I don’t really need you anymore, Danny. Scott is here, and we’re going to be one big happy family. Aren’t we, kids?” Luke was trying desperately not to cry, and Matty looked like he was figuring out what to do.

  “It ends here for you,” Jeanette said. She almost sounded apologetic. She looked me in the eye as she released the safety on the gun she had at Luke’s head. “Put your gun on the ground.” I was trying to think quickly. If I put the gun down, Jeanette would shoot me dead on the spot, of that I had no doubt. But the boys would be safe for now, at least. Whatever happened after this, Jack would protect them, probably better than I ever could. But where was he?

  I kept my eyes on Jeanette as I slowly leaned over to place my gun on the floor. I thought it would be the last thing I ever did. I was expecting the shot at any moment, and hoped the boys would close their eyes. I wouldn’t see Darren again. Or Laurence, or Skipper, or Jack, or Gene, or Miller. I looked at Matty and tried to smile. Close your eyes, I mouthed. Luke’s eyes were already closed.

  I heard something in the hallway. Jack, oh God, please be Jack. They had probably tied him up.

  A shot. A shot from somewhere behind them, and I dove for the floor and grabbed my gun.

  Lola went down screaming.

  Then, pandemonium.

  “Matty, behind me, now!” I yelled, and he obeyed without hesitating. Good kid. Jeanette was still holding the gun carefully to Luke’s head. But she wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Jack.

  Jack stumbled into the room from the dark recesses of the hallway that he had shot from. He had his weapon in one hand, trained on Jeanette. There was something in his mouth, something wound around his face, something to keep him from yelling out and warning me. It looked like black stockings. He wasn’t trying to remove it.

  One hand was holding the gun.

  The other hand was covering the blood that was escaping from his chest.

  It was silent for a moment. I could hear Jack trying to breathe through the fabric on his face. He was covered in blood. He was barely standing.

  “Scott,” Jeanette said. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did she do?” She actually sounded sad, surprised. In the midst of my shock and terror, I clearly realized that she must not have known that Lola had stabbed him. She had really thought he was hers. For half a second, I nearly felt sorry for her. “Lola. She just… she’s got such a temper. So jealous of you.” She actually sounded scared, as she looked at him. “Let’s just get rid of Danny, I’ll get you to the hospital.”

  I tried to think. Maybe I should just grab Matty and run. Get one boy out, and get the cops here immediately. Ambulances, police, fire, God himself. Save Jack. Save Luke.

  Then I saw Lola, lying on her back on the floor, reaching for her gun. Jack was now bent over at the waist, trying to hold his gun arm in the air. He was shaking. He didn’t seem to see Lola.

  With a swift movement, I turned and shoved Matty back through the door, which was still partially open behind me. I could hear his feet pounding down the stairs, hesitating, then continuing to go. I could hear sirens. The neighbors had called the police. Good.

  Lola managed to grab the gun. In my peripheral vision I saw that Jeanette still had the gun to Luke’s head, but she was actually looking a little alarmed at how bad Jack looked, and at Lola with the gun. Without hesitation, I pointed and fired at Lola’s head before she could get a shot off at Jack, and then before checking to make sure I hit her, I turned the gun on Jeanette.

  Jeanette screamed. There was more rage and anger in that scream than I believe I had ever heard before. Other than what I heard in my own head.

  Jack was now slumped over onto the floor, and I had caught Lola right above one eye. She stopped twitching the second I noticed where I hit her.

  Jack was on the floor. Jack was bleeding. There was way too much blood. It was mixing with Lola’s on the floor. It enraged me, his blood mixing with hers.

  The sirens didn’t seem to be getting any closer, or time had stood still.

  Jeanette grabbed Luke and walked backwards down the hall
way Jack had just emerged from, still holding the gun at Luke. I didn’t trust myself to shoot while she had him. She was crying. I started to shake.

  She could hide back there. She wouldn’t hurt Luke. She knew Jack would never forgive her. The police would be here in a second. The ambulance would be here.

  “Jeanette,” I yelled. “I’m taking care of him for you. I’m going to keep him alive, and you can have him. He’s all yours. You had him first. We’re divorced. Just don’t hurt Luke.” I couldn’t hear anything from the rest of the apartment, above the pounding of blood in my ears.

  I ran to Jack.

  He was conscious. He was breathing. Barely. I ripped the fabric from his face, his mouth. There was too much blood, there was blood in his mouth. His eyes were panicked as he tried to breathe. Someone had stabbed him in the heart. I placed both hands over the wound, which was sucking. Behind me I heard tentative footsteps and I didn’t turn around. I was not going to take my eyes away from Jack’s.

  Jack wasn’t going to die.

  Jack was going to die.

  Matty was behind me. He sat down on the floor with me. He put his arm around my neck, as I held my hand over Jack’s heart, as his lifeblood spilled. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want Matty to see this but I couldn’t say anything. I just looked into Jack’s eyes, and he was looking into mine with more love than I had ever felt in my life. More, I knew, than I would ever feel again.

  “Baby,” I said. He was shaking. He was dying. “Baby.” I tried to keep his blood in his heart where it belonged. I leaned over and kissed his mouth gently. His blood was on my face.