Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

“As it drove away . . .” Her voice broke, dropped. “I heard a gunshot. I saw it . . . a flash through the side window. They shot Emmanuel. My baby. Oh my God, what have they done?”

I grab Guerline’s arm as she starts to collapse. “Did the man say anything?” I demand, doing my best to anchor both of us.

“No.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Skinny. His hair was all these tiny braids tied back. And he was wearing gold chains.”

“Deke Alarie.” I exhale.

“Ma’am.” Charlie’s turn. “The van, which way did it go?”

Guerline points down the block. I can hear the police sirens, finally drawing closer.

“Emmanuel’s cell phone, did he have it on him?”

“He dropped it. When the man hit him.”

“Damn.” Because the phone would’ve given us a way to track him. Which no doubt Deke also knew. “Mrs. Violette, can I enter your apartment? Emmanuel was working on decoding a cipher we believe Angelique may have left for us. I need his notes.”

Guerline appears too shocked to answer. I leave her with Charlie’s comforting bulk while I pound upstairs and burst into the apartment. There, the open laptop on the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper. I don’t bother to look. Laptop, loose papers, I grab it all, shoving it into a rough pile. I spot a dark blue backpack propped on the floor against the wall. Probably also Emmanuel’s. I dump everything inside, slinging the pack over my shoulder.

A squeal of tires outside, two patrol cars screeching to a halt. I hear Guerline wind up again, along with Charlie’s soothing undertones. Then Officer O’Shaughnessy’s unmistakable voice, demanding to know what’s happened.

I exit the apartment, pausing on the second-floor landing. If I go downstairs right now, Officer O’Shaughnessy is going to demand my version of events as well. He may also recognize Emmanuel’s backpack and force me to hand it over.

Time. I feel it. The drumbeat that’s been chasing me since early this morning. Right now right now right now. Everything is happening right now .

If I go downstairs, submit myself to police questioning like a good girl? There will be no right now. There will be talking and explaining, followed by outrage and heated exchanges. Then heaven help me if Lotham arrives and we have to start the conversation all over again.

In the end, it’s not much of a decision at all. Angelique. I am here to find Angelique. To save a girl.

To redeem a sin I can never change.

And maybe to chase a bullet I dodged ten years ago.

I turn left, down the end of the hall to the fire escape. Then, I vanish into the dark.

—

I hit the bottom of the fire escape. I drop onto a patch of dirt, exit the rickety chain-link fence behind the triple-decker, and pray I don’t get shot by a paranoid neighbor. I’ve landed in a narrow alley running behind the row of town houses. I need light and a secure space where I can quickly sort my way through Emmanuel’s notes to find the decoded numbers he’d rattled off by phone. First question, do I head left or right?

I strike out right. Then promptly hear a noise behind me.

I whirl instantly, hands up in a pugilistic stance. I only know what I learned during self-defense at the Y. I refuse to be an easy mark, though. Bad guys want me, they’re gonna have to work for it.

No forms materialize in the dark. Instead I hear the sounds again. A low moan, a hissing sigh. The clatter of someone trying to walk but doing a poor job of it.

I slip into the darkness rimming the edge of the alley and creep toward the sound. What I discover leaves me shocked beyond words.

Deke Alarie, leaning heavily against a lowered fire escape, arm gripping his side. I don’t have to look closer to see he’s been grievously wounded, his shirt covered in blood. So he was the one shot in the van. Not Emmanuel. But Deke.

He goes to take a staggering step forward, only to collapse.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on.” Smart or not, I sprint to his side. His breathing is shallow. In the reflected light of a distant streetlamp, I can see sweat dotting his brow.

The sight threatens to send me spiraling, to another time, another place, another man on the ground, bleeding out.

Deke grabs my shoulder, gripping painfully. I wince, grateful for the distraction, as he tries to use me as a human crutch. Unfortunately, he’s too big and I’m too little. Both of us go careening to the ground. He grunts painfully. I scramble to get my feet back beneath me, assume the offensive.

“Gun,” I demand. “Where’s the gun?”

“Don’t . . . have . . .”

“Who the hell shot Emmanuel? Where’s Angelique?” Fired up on adrenaline, I lean over him and scream my questions into his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His skin graying.

Another time, another place. Me, rocking back on forth on my heels. “No, no, no. Stay with me. Please, Paul, stay with me stay with me stay with me. I need you.”

“Your family’s dead, you know that, right? Your half brother, your half sister. Both of them. Murdered.”

He shakes his head, drawing another painful, rattling breath. “No one was supposed to . . . get hurt.”

“What a bunch of horseshit. Where’s Angelique?”

I try to step back, but he grabs my ankle. I glance around. There’s no one in this alley. Just him and me. Just me and a dying man.

Paul, on the ground, his head on my lap, while his hands grip his stomach, trying to keep his insides from leaking out. “Well, that didn’t go as planned.”

Me, screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming.

Paul. “Shhh. It’ll be okay. I love you.”

Me, screaming some more.

“I didn’t want them hurt,” Deke is rasping out now. “No need. This is . . . supposed to be . . . upmarket stuff . . . Just wanted to see my family again. Mom wouldn’t take my calls . . . Johnson hated . . . me. Found Livia. Little Livia. She said hey. We started talking.”

I close my eyes. “You poor stupid son of bitch.”

“Yeah.”

I think he’s smiling. It’s hard to tell as he coughs and blood sprays from his mouth. He’s not going to make it. I know the signs too well. Deke Alarie, my lead candidate for all things evil, is about to die.

I take a seat beside him. I smooth back the fuzz on his forehead. He is both sweaty and cold to the touch. It won’t be long now. We both know it.

Paul: “Promise me you won’t blame yourself for this. Promise me you won’t use it as a reason to drink. Come on, Frankie. Promise me!”

“I liked Livia,” Deke murmurs now. “So fucking smart. Was I ever that smart?” A bloody smile. “She got all bent out of shape over fake licenses . . . bad merchandise. I told her she should fix it. She could do better. I could get her the equipment. I could get her whatever she wanted.”

“You set her up to manufacture fake IDs.”

“Rough start . . . these new state licenses. Not as easy as they look.”

I nod, stroking his damp cheek. His eyes are closed. His breathing rougher.

Paul: “I’m glad you called tonight, Frankie.”

Me, crying hysterically.

“I’m happy you still trusted me that much.”

“Livia brought in a friend. After school. Worked on it together. Got to a point . . . Product wasn’t half bad. I brought the fakes to my suppliers . . . went into business. But soon . . . not enough. These guys, real counterfeiting pros . . . wanted Real IDs. Something bigger, better.”

Deke coughs wetly. More blood, dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

Paul: “I’m thirsty. So thirsty. Do you have any water, Frankie? Can you get me some water?”