Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

By turning to Carter that night, had she severed whatever thin thread she and Michael shared as mother and son? She wondered how Michael would react if he knew that the man who had shot him was dead, floating inside the boot of a car submerged beneath the waters of Belham Quarry. The scars on Michael's chest and back would heal, but what about his mental scars? Would knowing how Ben had suffered help Michael heal?

Killing Ben Masters had certainly helped her.

Jamie looked around the empty park. The last time she had been here was on that hot July afternoon she had buried her father. Dan was with her. She had come to Waterman Park, a favourite spot of their childhood, and told Dan stories about the long summers they had spent at the park with her parents. Back then, you could climb monkey-bars or wait your turn to use the swings or go down one of the four slides. Then you'd cool off in the concrete wading pool in the centre of the field, and sometimes around noon the high school gym teacher, Mr Quincy, would pull up in his Winnebago and sell sodas, shaved ice, hot dogs, hamburgers and snotties – French fries drenched in Velveeta cheese. An ice cream truck always rolled in twice a day. During the long winter months, the city turned the pool into a skating rink.

That afternoon with Dan, not one car or person had entered the park. The city's joggers, bikers and dog walkers took advantage of trails on the north side of the woods – a good eight miles away from where her minivan was now parked. She was the sole person here.

Make that two. A compact car was slowly making its way across the bridge.

Jamie slid her right hand underneath a copy of the Globe that was spread across her lap and gripped the Glock resting against her stomach. She had plenty of ammo left.

She let her mouth hang open as if she'd fallen asleep while waiting. From behind her sunglasses she watched the dark-coloured car come to a full stop at the end of the bridge. The driver didn't turn. The car just sat there, idling.

If it's Reynolds, she thought, he's probably checking out the place to make sure he's alone.

She glanced down at her lap. The papers hid the handgun and silencer perfectly. No way would Reynolds see it.

The car was making its way across the curving road of broken asphalt.

That odd mixture of dread and adrenalin was shooting through her veins. She felt jumpy and anxious but not afraid. She was definitely not afraid. No matter what Reynolds threw at her, she'd find a way to handle it.

Provided he comes here alone, Jamie. It all hinges on that single fact.

The car, a navy-blue Ford Taurus with a sagging back bumper, pulled up against the kerb near the entrance of the car park. The windows were rolled down and she could make out the face of the driver.

Kevin Reynolds perched his arm across the front seat and looked in her direction. Nobody else inside the car; he had come alone.

Reynolds took a drag from his cigarette and kept staring.

Was he waiting for her to come to him?

She had planned for that possibility. Michael's backpack, stuffed with his dirty laundry to give the appearance of money, sat on the passenger seat. If she carried the backpack the right way, she could hide the Glock behind it. Granted, it might get a little dicey – she wanted Reynolds outside his car, not in it. It would be much easier to take him down outside. She'd have more manoeuvrability if he decided to go for the gun.

Let him, she thought, feeling the tyre iron hidden beneath the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. One hit to the artery behind the ear and the blood would rush away from his brain and shut down his central nervous system. He'd go down fast.

And there was always the jaw. A good, swift crack would disrupt the fluid in his ear. He'd lose his balance and his knees would buckle. Win-win either way. And let's not forget about the kneecaps.

Reynolds flicked his cigarette out of the window. He didn't get out of the car, just sat behind the wheel smoking and staring out of the front window.

He smells a set-up, Jamie.

No, he doesn't. If he did, he would be driving away.

Get out of here. Go home to the kids and -

Reynolds opened the door.

Mouth dry and heart beating faster, faster, she watched Reynolds step into the ashy light. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of a short-sleeved black silk shirt. He wore it Tony Soprano-style – untucked to accommodate his ample gut. She couldn't tell if he was packing.

He lit another cigarette and looked towards the woods behind the minivan.

Come on, quit stalling. Come on over and introduce yourself.

Here he was.

Reynolds's high-topped sneakers crunched across the gravel. He paused in front of the minivan, smoking as he studied the person asleep behind the wheel.

Jamie didn't move or turn her head. She watched him through her sunglasses, watched him staring. Her finger slid across the trigger as she waited for him to come and knock on the driver's door. That would be the best play. Have him open the door and when he reached inside to wake up the driver she'd press the Glock against his stomach.

Reynolds walked back to the Taurus.

Opened the door.

Climbed behind the wheel.

Started the car and pulled into the car park.

Jamie's breathing was steady and shallow as he pulled up in front of the minivan. She could hear the low rumble of his car engine over the air-conditioning, and she could see him staring at her.

Reynolds hit the gas, tyres spinning as he shot backwards out of the car park.

Jamie threw the door open. The papers spread across her lap blew away in the hot breeze and the tyre iron tucked underneath her sweatshirt sleeve slipped past her hand and hit the ground. She had the Glock up, ready to fire, but Reynolds was too far away, speeding towards the bridge, scattering crows from the trees.

Darby's eyes fluttered open. She saw a steel bed railing and, beyond it, a wooden chair with maroon cushions bleached by sweat. She was lying in a hospital.

A clock hung on the wall at the foot of her bed. Half past six. Judging by the dim light filtering in through the blinds, she assumed it had to be morning.

She wondered how long she had been out.

She could wiggle her toes and hands. Good. She touched her face and felt thick bandages wrapped around the right side of her head. She didn't feel any pain.

She remembered what had happened – another good sign. That wasn't always the case with severe concussion or head trauma. Sometimes your short-term memory blacked out. She remembered seeing Coop talking to Pine when the house exploded. Splintered wood and debris -

Coop. Coop was standing near the house when it exploded.

Slowly she lifted her head. A bolt of pain that felt like a hot poker slammed into the centre of her brain. Her head dropped back against the pillow and she sucked in air through her gritted teeth to stem the vomit creeping up her throat.

A machine started beeping. A nurse came in and injected something into her IV line.

Darby was starting to drift away when she saw Artie Pine standing beside the bed. His torn shirt and thick, pale forearms were covered with soot and dried blood.

'You're going to be okay, McCormick, you're just a little banged up. Thank God you inherited your old man's thick Irish noggin.'

She wanted to ask him about Coop but couldn't focus.

Coop's okay, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep. Pine was standing next to Coop, so Coop's okay. Banged up but okay.

The next time she opened her eyes, bright sunlight flooded the room. Squinting, she looked at the wall clock: 9.13 a.m.

She lifted her head again. No nausea but a new kind of pain, one that felt like nails were pressing against every square inch of her skull. Her stomach hitched and she lay back against the pillow.