Words flew across the screen.
The truth is, your mother discarded you both and never looked back, but as you can see it was me who was able to convince her to come back. It wasn’t for you, though, Robbie. It was Joe she loved. It was Joe she came back for. It was Joe she wanted help from: legal help, financial help, and stable, strong assistance to reorient herself and find Joe’s twin brother and maybe even start over.
It was never you, though. She had no regard for you. She never mentioned you. If you hated her, you had good reason. I harnessed that hate. I used you as a tool to see her murdered, and to see your preening, drunk bastard of a brother blamed for it.
Yet you’ve soured that.
You’re a worm. A blind worm destined to spend your miserable life in the dark. You’ll get nothing now, Robbie; you are done. They’re coming for you, and only for you. All roads, the blood, the bodies, the man I sent.
They all lead to your door.
I am no one. You will never find me, and they will never find me. I will destroy this computer, the one I gave you, from the inside out. Blank, all of it.
Now there is only you, Robbie, you and your miserable, worthless word, when they come for you.
All darkness. All night. Forever and ever. It’s all you deserve.
You filth.
You failure.
You maggot.
Robbie threw up. All over the remains of the keyboard and up onto the screen, vomit sprayed, pixelated light streaming through milky stripes of it. He pushed himself back from the table and vomited again—bitter bile. Then the computer was making a noise.
There was a series of beeps, and then the black square disappeared. The screen flickered, and a blooming burn mark, like something emerging in a film reel, grew from the center outward. It consumed the mountain field wallpaper. The screen went black.
Robbie walked into the bathroom and turned the water on in the tub, then poured in some old bath salts. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat in a bath, but the rubber stopper was in there, leashed for all time to a rusty chain. When the water was high enough, he went back to the living area and found the small portable heater he used in the winter months. It was cube shaped, eight inches square, and black. There was a screened fan on the front and on the back a cord and UL specifications.
He had an extension cord in the coat closet. He ran the cord from the living room into the bathroom, then powered up the space heater, which slowly whirred to life. He set it on the toilet, gripping it with his left hand. Then he drew a deep breath and plunged his head into the cold water. He gritted his teeth and swept the purring unit into the tub. For a split second he felt an enormous jolt, as if his head was being kicked open from the inside out. Then Robbie DeSantos knew no more.
CHAPTER 72
Sixtieth Precinct
Coney Island, Brooklyn
7:11 p.m.
“It was that line from the poem,” Zochi said. She and Len Dougherty were sitting on the hood of Len’s car outside the Sixtieth Precinct building, a three-story brick-and-concrete monstrosity brightened only by the red garage doors of the firehouse, which took up the northern end of the edifice. “It’s where the inscription came from, the one they found on the bra and on the wall at Holly Rossi’s place. That’s what sealed it for me. Even before the DNA. All that, and I was wrong.”
“The DNA sealed it for everyone,” Len said, yawning and glancing south toward the subway station at the end of the block. Kids were pouring out of it—late summer stragglers stretching the holiday weekend a little further. “It looks like a brilliant setup, period.”
“I mean, if I had it do all over again, I’d still have asked for the collar. It scares me, though. Being wrong like that.”
“We were wrong,” Len said, looking sideways at her. “We weren’t sloppy, though.” The day had been hot and bright, but the evening was mellowing out nicely. Early September in New York City loosened summer’s grip in fits and starts. Cooler nights were coming. “There’s no way anyone saw this coming.”
“If Evan Bolds hadn’t taken that dive, we might not have seen it.”
“He did, though,” Len said with a shrug, as if the universe was properly ordered after all. “And they found his car down the block, right? Impound searched it?”
“It was a panel van, yeah. He used it for deliveries to dry cleaners. It was a great search. They found the blood vial and an eyedropper. Some personal papers, too, from Joe’s mother. Remember that planner thing we found on her? It looks like he rifled through it and took some stuff. I’ll look at it tomorrow. Right now, I’m seeing double and can’t think straight.”