Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“I already been clobbered with that thing once.”

“By who?” Nat said.

Ronnie looked at him, at Izzie, at the laptop. He licked his lips. “I’m ready to make a deal,” he said.

“Let’s hear it,” Nat said; he felt Izzie’s glance.

“First I want immunity. Not the bullshit kind, the other one.”

“You got it,” Nat said.

“Guaranteed?”

“Guaranteed.”

Ronnie nodded. “The thing you gotta understand, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with any stealing. All I did was tell Freedy about my Uncle Saul. Whatever happened after that was all them.”

“What happened after that?”

“The stuff Freedy… acquired, must have got bought by Uncle Saul.”

“So Uncle Saul is a fence and Freedy’s a thief.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“Describe Freedy.”

“Describe him?”

“What he looks like.”

“He’s a fuckin’ animal.” Ronnie Medeiros glanced around the room. “Big, like. Buff. Works out like you wouldn’t believe. Has this scary smile.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”

“You left out the ponytail,” Nat said.

Ronnie gazed at him. “For a minute there I thought maybe you looked a bit too young to be FBI. Just goes to show.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Freedy.”

“Haven’t got a clue.”

“Where does he live?”

“That I can tell you,” said Ronnie.

Freshmen couldn’t have cars. Following Ronnie Medeiros’s directions, Nat and Izzie walked the mile to the house where Freedy lived. A plow passed them, spraying sand out the sides, sand covered almost at once by blowing snow; the streetlights came on, triggered by the growing darkness although it was still long before night. Nat thought of a poem, not a poem he had read, but for the first time a poem he might write. Why now? Almost shameful, when all his resources should have been devoted to getting Grace back, to undoing what they’d done, but there it was, a poem about clocks, all the clocks in life, everything a clock, measuring time in different ways: the stars moving across the sky, the spinning earth, the tilting earth, light and dark, snakes shedding their skin, Izzie’s heart beating beside him, his own heart.

Izzie took his arm. “I’m changing my mind about you,” she said.

“In what way?”

“A good way. You were great back there, with that sleazeball. I never knew you were so strong inside.” He felt her gaze. “We’re a good match, don’t you think?” she said.

Nat, who’d thought she already liked him, didn’t understand in what way she’d changed her mind. He looked at her in confusion. She misinterpreted the expression on his face.

“Is everything going to be all right?” she said.

“We’ll find her.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Nat didn’t understand that either, but there was no time to go into it. They were at the house where Freedy lived. A woman answered their knock.

Nat recognized her at once: the woman he’d seen through the grate in the lobby of Goodrich Hall, taking a hundred-dollar bill from Professor Uzig. She wasn’t wearing her Birkenstocks now: her feet were bare and she had on a striped Moroccan robe. There were a few drops of what looked like blood, not quite dried, on the front, although she didn’t seem to be bleeding. Her eyes were open much too wide.

“We’re looking for Freedy,” Nat said.

“He’s not here.”

Over her shoulder, Nat could see the kitchen. Another wrecked room: even the fridge was tipped over, spilling food over the floor, and smashed pottery lay everywhere. A ceramic shard that might have been a cup handle was lodged in her frizzy graying hair. Nat thought: Grace is here. He even felt her presence, the kind of paranormal thing that wasn’t him at all. He pushed his way past the woman, inside.

“Grace?” he called. “Grace?”

He went through the kitchen, jerked open a closet door, then into a hall, another bedroom, wrecked, and another one, also wrecked. This last bedroom had strange wall paintings of mushrooms, elves, rainbows; a deformed lion held up a poem on a scroll, an inept, unpleasant poem called “Little Boy.”

“Grace? Grace?”

Not under the beds, not in the closets, not behind the upside-down chairs and couches; but still he felt her presence. He strode back into the kitchen.

“You’re Freedy’s mother,” he said to the woman.

“Yes.”

“Where is Grace?”

“Grace?”

Maybe there was no reaction because Freedy’s mother hadn’t heard the name. “Her twin,” he said, indicating Izzie, “but with lighter hair. Where is she?”

Freedy’s mother looked at Izzie. Nat saw no sign of recognition, and knew in that moment that Grace wasn’t there, that this woman had never seen her. He knew that, but the paranormal feeling lingered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freedy’s mother said.

“He may have given you some other name for her,” Izzie said.

“Who?” said Freedy’s mother. “I’m not getting any of this.”

Izzie grabbed her robe, right at the throat. “Where is she, you stupid cow?”

Nat reached out to pull Izzie’s hand away, but before he could, Freedy’s mother started crying, a horrible cawing cry with tears and snot, her face all cubist. Izzie let go, backed away. Freedy’s mother’s legs folded under her; she sat on the floor, hard. “Are you going to rape me too?” she said.

“Someone raped you?” Nat said.

She covered her face with her hands, red hands with cracked knuckles and bitten nails.

“Did this just happen?” Nat said.

Freedy’s mother nodded, face still hidden.

“Who did it?”

She made another cawing sound. “They came looking for Freedy.” And another. “Just like you.”

“Who did?”

“I’m so afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That Freedy’s done something terrible.”

Izzie stood over her. “To my sister?”

Freedy’s mother shook her head. “I don’t know anything about anyone’s sister.”

“Then what terrible thing did he do?” Nat said.

She lowered her hands. “What if he hurt one of them, very badly?”

“One of who?”

“S-S-”

“Who?”

“S-Saul M-M-Medeiros’s people.”

“That’s who came here?”

She nodded.

“And they raped you?”

She shook her head.

“What’s going on?” Izzie said. “Does this have anything do with us?”

“One of them raped you, is that it?” Nat said.

She nodded. “S-Saul Medeiros raped me. His-his nose was all squashed up. He bled all over my face.” She cried out again, and covered it, covered where Saul Medeiros had bled, with her hands. Her bare feet were turned inward and the toes curled under, like twins, Nat thought, in the fetal position. His mind paused right there, on the verge of something. Was it the answer to whatever was bothering him about the first line of the ransom note, or something else? Whatever it was didn’t come.

A photograph lay on the floor, a framed picture, the glass cracked, of a kid in a muddy football uniform, posing unsmilingly after a game, helmet in hand. He picked it up. “Freedy?” he said.

Freedy’s mother peered through her fingers, nodded.

“The ponytail came later?”

“Yes.” She reached out for the picture. Nat handed it to her. She gazed at it, composed herself a little. “I used to love this town.”