After David left for Pop’s Garage, Rachel combed through the photographs yet again—this time with a new goal in mind. She was looking for a familiar face, one David wouldn’t really know. To her relief, she didn’t find it. There was still a chance that David was wrong—that the Berg Reproductive Institute being one of the sponsors at the amusement park that day was a coincidence—but the more Rachel thought about it, the more she realized that there had to be something to it.
But how did the fertility clinic fit into all this?
She stared now at her phone. She had put off making the call for long enough. She needed answers, and he might have them. She dialed the number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Rachel?”
There was a lilt in his voice. It made her smile.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, it’s been so long.”
“I know, I’m sorry about that.”
“No need. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“I called you, you know.”
“I know.”
“When the whole thing went down with that article and our alma mater—”
“I know,” she said again. “I should have replied to you. I owed you that.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I’m sorry. I was just…It was a lot.”
Silence. Then: “There a reason you called?”
“I need a favor,” Rachel said.
“I’m always here for you. You know that.”
She knew. She cleared her throat. “Did you read about my brother-in-law escaping prison? I don’t know if the news would reach—”
“I saw that, yes.”
“I’m hoping you can help with something.”
He hesitated. “Look, Rachel, where are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you home?”
“No, I’m…” Should she say? “I’m near Boston.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Can you get to Toro restaurant on Washington Street? In, say, an hour?”
“Wait, you’re back?”
“It’s better we talk in person, don’t you think?”
She did.
“And it will be so good to see you, Rachel.”
“It will be good to see you too,” she said.
“Toro,” he said again. “One hour.”
“I’ll see you there.”
*
I don’t like the setup at Pop’s Garage.
I don’t like it at all.
I am driving the purportedly untraceable car Rachel drove up to Revere. I grabbed one of Dougie’s baseball caps and a pair of his Ray-Bans, and while I’m not totally disguised, I don’t think the police will set up a roadblock between Revere and Malden. If they know I’m here, I am assuming they somehow tracked me coming in on the train. They are not going to suspect that I was able to secure a vehicle. Or maybe they would. Either way, I have to take risks, but this one seems pretty calculated.
Hunting Street is a bizarre blend of residential homes and car mechanics on the border of the town center. Pop’s Garage is jammed between Al’s Auto Center and Garcia Auto Repair and across the street from Malden’s Body Work and Repair. I am, of course, on the lookout for cops or vans or anything suspicious. But there is nothing and no one on this normally congested thoroughfare—and that is what is making me suspicious.
Al’s appears closed. So are Garcia’s and Malden’s. They aren’t just quiet. They are shut down, shades pulled, lights out, no movement.
I don’t like that.
Only one person is visible. A man in a blue work coverall with a name I can’t make out stenciled in script on the chest waves at me. He motions toward the one open garage bay like one of those guys at the airport who direct the pilot in and out of the gate. I make the turn off Hunting Street into Pop’s. The opening looks wide, dark, cavernous, as though it may swallow me whole.
I hesitate, staring into the garage’s mouth, when Skunk emerges from the darkness like some horror film ghost rising from the grave.
He is pale. The hair is slicked back and oily. The forelock seems more pronounced than ever. Skunk smiles at me, and I feel the chill run down my spine. He hasn’t aged much if at all. His suit is too shiny and glistens in the morning sun. He steps to the side and beckons me to enter.
Do I have a choice?
I pull in with Skunk leading the way. He is signaling me to keep coming forward. At some point he gestures for me to slow down and then brake. I do. I am inside the garage now, the door sliding closed behind me.
There are just the two of us.
I step out of the car.
Skunk comes up to me with a big smile.
“Davey!”
He embraces me, the third person to do that today and in the past five years. This embrace offers no comfort or warmth, just hard edges; it’s like being hugged by a coffee table. He reeks of cheap European cologne. I have smelled some awful things in the prison, but this nearly makes me gag.
“Davey,” he says again, pulling back. “You look well.”
“You too, Kyle.”
“I’m sorry about this,” he says.
And then he punches me hard in the stomach.
It is a total sucker punch, but I saw it coming. One of the great lessons of prison: You learn to always be on guard. That lesson gets honed every single day. In Briggs, you revert to primitive man, always wary, always prepared. When I was in high school, I played attack on the lacrosse team. My coach would consistently scream out, “Head on a swivel!” which means keep looking for someone blindsiding you. That becomes your life in prison.
I shift a little and tighten my abdomen. The blow still lands but not where it does me much damage. His knuckles graze my hip bone, and I bet that hurts him more than me. I react on instinct, even as some other part of me is saying to back off, that I can’t seriously hurt him, that I need him to get the information on Hilde Winslow.
But the hell with that.
Skunk isn’t going to tell me anything. I should have known that. My best chance at learning the truth?
Beating it out of him.
Before Skunk’s blow has fully landed, I start to swing my right arm around, using the big muscles near the shoulder, shifting my weight down and to the left, I am able to both neutralize his punch and gain momentum for my counter. I tuck my thumb in the palm and lead with the inner edge of my hand.
The strike lands hard against the side of Skunk’s skull.
I feel a vibration in my hand, something akin to a tuning fork for the hand bones, but there is no time to worry about that. I know that Skunk is ferocious and vicious in a thousand different ways. If I let up, he will kill me. That is true in every fight. Fights should never be something casual. That’s something most people don’t get. Every fight you see—drunks at a bar, idiots at a football game—there is the potential for ending up maimed or dead.
Skunk staggers from the shot to the side of his head. I stick out my foot and spin hard. My instep connects with his lower leg. It doesn’t knock Skunk down, but it keeps him off balance. He tries to stumble back, hoping to put some distance between him and me.
I don’t let him.