A time for reckoning, p.16
A Time for Reckoning, page 16
She keeps backing up until her butt presses against the windowsill. She slides the phone onto it while Frankie rounds the bed with his hungry eyes locked on her heaving chest.
“I’ve been looking forward to this since last time,” he says as he closes in. “Wouldn’t it have been a shame if I’d killed you that night? Then we wouldn’t be here to have us some fun tonight.”
Trish inches closer to the nightstand.
“Time for a good fuck, honey,” Frankie says as he lunges at her without warning, grabs the front of her sleeveless pajama top and yanks her off balance. He laughs and tears the rest of her top away with one hand while slipping his other into the waistband of her pajama shorts to pull her closer. She falls forward into his arms with a horrified gasp. The stench of coffee and cigarette breath turns her stomach before he hoists her off the floor and tosses her onto the bed. He leers down at her. “You’re already dripping wet for Frank’s cock, ain’t you, bitch?”
Trish is momentarily paralyzed with fear as Frankie unzips his jeans and starts to ease them over his hips, then stares up at him with a look of pure hatred. “Stay away from me!”
He leers at her and slides his jeans lower. Trish crawls across the bed while he does so, pulls the gun out of the drawer, then rolls back to face Frankie. She points the gun at him unsteadily and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.
“A gun?” he says with a murderous glare as he leans in closer. “Gotta turn off the safety,” he cackles as he yanks the gun out of her hand. A sharp backhand across her face stuns her. Then he pulls his pants up, steps over to the dresser, and drops the gun on top of it. He locks eyes with Trish as he walks back to the bed.
Trish scooches up against the headboard to get as far away from him as she can.
“Ah, honey. You’re not gonna play hard to get, are ya?”
She glares up at him. “Stay away from me!”
“Feeling a little superior tonight, are we?” he asks in a mocking tone.
She doesn’t reply.
“Pants off! Nice tits, but I wanna see it all, honey.”
“I don’t care what you want,” Trish retorts as she pulls the duvet across herself.
“Remember this, darlin’?” Frankie says as he pulls himself free of his jeans. He laughs when an involuntary whimper escapes Trish. “Fuckin’ right you remember!”
“I remember what a disgusting pig you are,” Trish counters defiantly.
Someone begins hammering on the front door of the condo.
“Police!” a voice calls out.
Frankie’s head spins to the door, then back to her. “What are the cops doing here, bitch?” he asks in disbelief.
She doesn’t answer as a wave of relief washes over her.
His eyes are ablaze as he leans down and punches her viciously in the throat, then walks to the dresser to collect Trish’s gun and hurries to the bedroom door, unlocks it, and kicks off his shoes. “Be right back,” he says over his shoulder before loping toward the front door in his stocking feet.
The cops are now hammering away at the door and shouting for someone to open it. “Now!”
Trish has a clear line of sight to the front door, but her throat feels as if it’s been crushed when she tries to shout a warning to the police. Nothing but a raspy croak emerges. She can barely hear herself.
Frankie drops to the floor and rolls onto his back, slithering across the floor until he can reach up to flip the lock and yank the door open. The faces of two startled cops look at the spot where they expect to see a face. Frankie fires from the floor, dropping both cops where they stand with two quick shots apiece. He drags the bodies inside and pushes the door closed, then spins the lock closed.
Trish scrambles off the bed to grab her phone. “He shot the police,” she rasps as Frankie marches back into the bedroom with a murderous expression and thrusts the barrel of the gun within an inch of her face while he snatches the phone away.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” he asks as he grabs her arm and throws her back onto the bed. “It’s my fucking brother, isn’t it?”
She nods soundlessly.
He wraps a giant hand around her throat to press her head into the mattress. Then he straddles Trish, pushes the tip of the gun barrel into her forehead, and growls, “I oughtta waste you right here and now.”
Thank God I won’t have to endure another endless rape at the hands of this monster, Trish thinks as she stares into the black opening of the barrel. And Tony will be free to get on with his life. Her eyes drift back up beyond the gun to Frankie, who just said something into the phone that she didn’t listen to before he pitched it through the open door of her closet. He’s hungrily eyeing her half-naked body as she squirms to loosen his grip and suck in a breath. The animal is all but drooling as the tip of his tongue flicks out to lick his upper lip. He’s hard again, even with two warm bodies lying in the next room.
“Yeah, I should blow your fucking brains out, but it would be such a shame to let such a lovely pussy go to waste,” he says with a grin. Then he sets the gun on the nightstand and yanks her pajama shorts down before ripping her panties away.
“Stop!” Trish cries out.
“You can’t wait, can you?” he asks in a hoarse whisper. Then he laughs. “I’m afraid there’s no time for fucking at the moment,” he says while squeezing her throat until she’s sure he’s crushed it.
She bucks beneath him, desperately trying to breathe.
He lessens the pressure on her throat, and says, “I’ll be back, honey, and when I do, you’re gonna get screwed to within an inch of your life. Maybe beyond,” he adds with a malicious cackle. Then he flips her over and drags her off the bed to land on her face.
She rolls onto her side and looks up at him as he buttons his jeans and fastens his belt. When he sneers and takes a menacing step closer, Trish rolls away. Frankie launches a vicious kick to her butt.
“You’re getting all wet just thinking about next time, aren’t you?” he asks when he bends close to pull on his shoes. “You’re gonna have to please yourself until the day I come back, darling—and I will be back.”
Then he grabs the gun off the nightstand, leaving her in a huddled ball as he bolts from the bedroom and out of her condo.
Trish lies still for a long moment as the tears come in convulsions, then runs out of her bedroom, coming to an abrupt stop when she confronts the bodies of the two dead policemen sprawled across the tile in her entryway. She sags against the wall and slides down until she’s sitting on the cold tile.
Another pair of cops race into her entryway with guns drawn moments later and look down at their fallen comrades in horror. Trish looks up at them and says, “Frankie’s gone. Did you see him?”
“Is Frankie who did this?” a male cop asks with a nod at the dead bodies.
Trish nods.
“Stay right there,” his female partner tells Trish.
“He’s gone,” Trish whispers.
“We’re going to clear the place to be sure.”
Trish shrugs as the cops step by her and start going room to room, shouting, “Clear!” as they search each room. When they return, the woman cop gives Trish a sympathetic look and says, “Put some clothes on, honey.”
Embarrassed at the realization that she’s nude, Trish nods, apologizes, and all but sleepwalks into her bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. She freezes as she looks at the mussed bed.
The female cop follows her in and looks around. “Was he in the closet?”
Trish, misunderstanding the question, shakes her head no. “He came in the front door.”
The policewoman touches Trish’s shoulder. “No, I meant, ‘Was he in your closet at any point?’”
Trish shakes her head again.
“Okay, then. Grab something out of the closet and put it on. Don’t touch anything else until the evidence techs can process the scene. Understand?”
Trish nods and walks into her closet, where she grabs a bathrobe off a hook. She shrugs into it, sees her cell phone on the floor and picks it up, then wanders back out. The female cop is standing at the door, as if on guard. Trish shudders at the sight of her shredded pajamas on the floor and sinks onto the corner of the bed as tears seep out of her eyes and roll down her face.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t be in here,” the policewoman says kindly.
Trish looks at her blankly, then gets back up and walks into the hallway, ending up standing aimlessly in the kitchen. Almost unconsciously, she opens the cabinet, takes the second gun out and stares at it for a long moment, then slips it into the pocket of her robe. She needs to be alone, but where? The bathroom beckons. She leaves the kitchen, meets the eye of the policewoman and gestures at the bathroom door. Then she walks in and locks the door behind her, lets the toilet seat down, and settles onto it, placing her phone on the counter as she does.
Frankie’s on the loose again and nobody can catch him. He will be back, and he’ll keep coming back until he finally decides to kill her—she believes that promise with every fiber of her being. She proved tonight that she can’t defend herself from him. Worse, Tony will keep trying to find Frankie until he gets himself killed. She can’t let that happen.
She slides the gun out of her pocket and stares at it resting in her lap.
Trish’s phone vibrates on the marble counter. She ignores it, then relents and picks it up.
Tony, the caller ID announces. She taps a finger on the Talk button.
25
The flashing lights of a cop car erupt in my rearview mirror after I run a red light on East Monroe and veer toward DuSable Harbor. The cruiser is closing the gap when I hurtle onto the offramp toward Trish’s building and skid to a stop outside the entrance. Two Chicago PD patrol cars are already here, one with two wheels up on the curb and the doors hanging open.
I vault out of the car and sprint to the entry doors, crashing into the glass when they don’t swing open. I catch the eye of a startled security guard a second before I’m body slammed and taken down hard to the sidewalk. I buck and squirm to get loose.
“Police!” a voice snarls in my ear as my arms are yanked painfully behind my back. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”
“My girlfriend’s.”
“We don’t drive a hundred miles per hour to make romance, asshole” the cop says as he grinds my face into the pavement.
I hear a lock turn and twist my head to see Harry from Lake Point Tower’s security team poke his head outside. His eyes are wide. “Mr. Valenti? What’s going on?”
“You know this guy?” the cop asks.
“Yes,” Harry replies curtly. “Shouldn’t you guys be upstairs? Rape. Shooting. At least two officers down!”
The cop is off me in a flash, sprinting inside as Harry holds the door open. I try to get up, but my hands are still secured.
“Plastic cuffs,” Harry says as he digs out a pocketknife and snips them off.
“What do you know?” I ask, dialing Trish as I do.
“Not a helluva lot,” he grumbles as more cop cars skid to a stop out front, disgorging officers who race through the lobby to the elevators. I follow, glancing anxiously at my phone as it rings a third and fourth time. The elevator doors close before I reach them.
“Tony?” Trish finally says. “Oh my God, Tony. He killed two police officers.”
“Are you okay?” I blurt.
“He took off,” she adds without answering my question.
“Are you safe, Trish?”
“I guess,” she murmurs.
“Thank God! I’m downstairs. I’ll be right up.”
There’s a long pause during which I think she might have hung up. Then she says in a voice that’s almost a whisper, “No need to come up, Tony. It’s over. I’m so sorry.”
She doesn’t want to see me?
“I love you,” Trish says. Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the silent phone in disbelief. She finally said she loves me. What do I do now? Screw it. If she doesn’t want to see me, she’ll have to tell me to my face. I spend thirty seconds arguing with a cop who won’t let me on an elevator. The door to the stairs is locked when I try it. I pound my fists against it in frustration.
Two pairs of paramedics rush through the lobby with crash carts and pile into an elevator.
“We’ve got another shooting victim!” an excited voice exclaims over the police radio.
They got Frankie?
26
I meet Mrs. Pangborne’s puffy red eyes across the coffin four days later, as a Lutheran pastor commends Trish’s body to the earth. Her husband stands mutely at her side as he stares at the burnished oak casket.
“We therefore commit this body to the ground, earth to earth, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life.”
I look on numbly as the pastor makes the sign of the cross. Then I watch in disbelief as an electric motor begins to whir and the casket is lowered into the earth. I’m still staring at the gaping hole in the ground when Mr. Pangborne tosses a handful of dirt into the open grave. A lump lands with an audible thump. Mrs. Pangborne winces, then picks up a second handful of dirt and crumples it in her fist before she sprinkles it into the open grave. Her eyes rise to mine. She nods at the pile of dirt. My turn. I’m stunned that Trish’s parents have had the grace to mourn with me instead of railing at me over what my brother has wrought. I step forward, pluck up a handful of dirt in my hand, and then freeze as I stare into the hole. A gasp escapes me and my heart splits into a million pieces as I imagine Trish’s corpse entombed in this hole forever more. I draw a ragged breath and manage to open my hand to let the dirt fall, then bow my head and walk away, not stopping until I’m beyond the small circle of mourners. My breathing is uneven as I take several steps to a towering oak tree and lean against it for support, staring at the ground as my fingers explore the ridges of the tree’s almost black bark. Mrs. Pangborne finds me there several minutes later.
She rests a hand on my arm and asks, “Are you coming by the house?”
My eyes rise to hers. “I’m so sorry.”
She nods. “I know.”
I’m sorry for so many things. I’m also irrationally pissed at Trish for what she’s done. How could she do this to the people who loved her? How does this make any kind of sense?
“I can’t face any more today,” I murmur. “Do you mind?”
She shakes her head and moves closer, resting her head on my shoulder as she does. “She loved you, you know.”
So, Trish told someone else before she finally told me. I wonder why it was so hard for her. I nod. “She told me at the end.”
“I’m so happy she did, Tony.”
I don’t say anything in response. What is there to say: I’m happy she told me that a few seconds before she blew her brains out?
“We’ll see you soon?” Mrs. Pangborne asks.
“You want to?”
“Of course, Tony. You’re like family to us.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to keep myself from tearing up. It doesn’t work.
She reaches up to wipe the corners of my eyes. “I know it’s hard for you, dear. If you need to talk, if you need anything, please call. We’re going to need each other to get through this.”
I nod and kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”
As she walks back to her husband and steps into his embrace, Pat approaches me.
“Everything okay with you and Mrs. Pangborne?” she asks.
I nod. “They’re unbelievable people.”
“That goes without saying, my friend. They raised a lovely daughter.”
“Why did she do it?” I ask in bewilderment.
Pat frowns. “She must have been in enormous pain, Tony. She was traumatized again, saw people gunned down right in front of her. Maybe she didn’t want Frankie to have another chance to attack her.”
“So many possibilities,” I murmur. I guess Trish didn’t see a way forward and felt as if nobody could protect her—a big-time fail by me.
Pat gives me a minute, then takes my hand. “I don’t want to start uttering worthless platitudes, but I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’re here, Pat. That’s enough for the moment. Thanks for coming.”
“She was my friend, too,” Pat says with a catch in her voice.
I pull her into a hug and hold on for a good minute as my thoughts turn from mourning Trish to avenging her.
“Let’s get going,” I say coldly. “It’s time to find my brother.”
“Tony,” she says with a pleading note in her voice.
I shake my head. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“And you don’t want to hear it.”
I nod. “I appreciate your concern, but this needs to be done.”
“He killed cops this time, Tony. The police won’t let this go. When they find him, his employer isn’t going to be able to bail his ass out. Let them handle this.”
Like hell.
27
I hear the lock turn in our office door a few hours later, but don’t have the energy to investigate. Whoever it is has a key, so it’s either Penelope or Joan.
“I thought I might find you here,” Penelope says from the door to my office.
I look up to find her eyes on mine. She’s dressed in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a pale-yellow peasant top. Very Kansas country gal.
“You’re not answering your phone,” she says while hoisting herself onto my desk so that she’s facing me. She crosses her ankles and gently swings her legs in the air, much like a little girl. I can’t help smiling, even though I’m utterly devastated about Trish.
Penelope gives my smile a quizzical look, then lets it go. “I went by your house. I thought I’d find you there.”
I’m struggling not to let my grief drive me to the bottle in the cabinet above the stove at home. I’ll be damned if I’m going down that path again. Been there. Done that. Never helps.
