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Harris’s eyes flicker a little at that, then she gives a groan. Holly thinks it’s not entirely fake. This woman is in pain, all right, but she’s also desperate.
Holly bends down, one hand deep in her bag. Not gripping Bill’s .38 but touching its short barrel. “How many have you taken, Professor Harris? I know about four for sure, and I think there might be another one, a writer. And who have you taken them for? That’s what I really want to—”
Emily brings her hand out from behind her back. In it is a Vipertek VTS-989, known in the Harris household as Thing One. It throws 300 volts, but Holly doesn’t give her a chance to trigger it. From the moment she saw Emily Harris so artfully posed on the patio steps, she hasn’t trusted the hand behind the woman’s back. She pulls Bill’s revolver from her bag by the barrel and in one smooth motion slams the butt against Emily’s wrist. Thing One goes clattering across the decorative bricks unfired.
“Ow!” Emily shrieks. This shriek is entirely authentic. “You broke my wrist, you bitch!”
“Tasers are illegal in this state,” Holly says, bending to pick it up, “but I think that will be the least of your worries when—”
She sees the woman’s eyes shift and starts to turn, but it’s too late. The electrodes of a Vipertek are sharp enough to penetrate three layers of clothes, even if the top one is a winter parka, and Holly is wearing nothing but a cotton shirt. The electrodes of Thing Two penetrate it and her bra’s backstrap with no problem. Holly goes on her toes, throws her arms into the air like a football ref signaling the kick is good, then collapses to the bricks.
“Thank God the cavalry has arrived,” Emily says. “Help me up. That nosy cunt broke my wrist.”
He does so, and as she looks down at Holly, Em actually laughs. Just a shaky chuckle, but real enough. “It made me forget all about my back for a moment, there’s that. I’ll want a poultice, and perhaps one of your special tisanes. Is she dead? Please tell me she’s not dead. We have to find out how much she knows, and if she’s told anyone yet.”
Roddy kneels and puts his fingers on Holly’s neck. “Pulse is thready, but it’s there. She’ll be back with us in an hour or two.”
“No she won’t,” Emily says, “because you’re going to give her an injection. Not Valium, either. Ketamine.” She puts her good hand in the small of her back and stretches. “I think my back is actually better. Maybe I should have tried cement-step therapy before this. We’ll find out what we need to know, then kill her.”
“This may be the end,” Roddy says. His lips are trembling, his eyes wet. “Thank God we’ve got the pills—”
Yes. They do. Emily has brought them downstairs. Just in case.
“Maybe, maybe not. Never say die, my love; never say die. In any case, her days of snooping are done.” She deals Holly a vicious kick in the ribs. “This is what you get for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, bitch.” And to Roddy: “Get a blanket. We’ll have to drag her. If she breaks a leg when we slide her down the stairs to the basement, too bad. She won’t suffer for long.”
22
At nine o’clock that night Penny Dahl is sitting on the front porch of her neat little Cape Cod in the suburb of Upriver, about twelve miles north of the city center. It’s been another hot day, but it’s cooling off now and it’s pleasant out here. A few fireflies—not as many as when Penny was a girl—stitch random patterns above the lawn. Her phone is in her lap. She expects it to ring at any moment with the promised call from her investigator.
By nine-fifteen, when the call still hasn’t come, Penny is irritated. When it hasn’t come at nine-thirty, she’s simmering. She’s paying this woman, and more than she can afford. Herbert, her ex, has agreed to chip in, which lightens the burden, but still—money is money, and an appointment is an appointment.
At nine-forty she calls Holly’s number and gets voicemail. It’s short and to the point: “You’ve reached Holly Gibney. I can’t come to the phone now. Please leave a brief message and a callback number.”
“This is Penny. You were supposed to update me at nine. Call me back immediately.”
She ends the call. She watches the fireflies. She has always had a short fuse—both Herbert Dahl and Bonnie would testify to that—and by ten o’clock she’s not just simmering, she’s boiling. She calls Holly again and waits for the beep. When it comes, she says, “I’m going to wait until ten-thirty, then I’m going to bed and you can consider yourself terminated.” But that bloodless word doesn’t adequately express her anger. “Fired.” She pushes the end button extra hard, as if that would help.
Ten-thirty arrives. Then quarter of eleven. Penny realizes that she’s getting dew-damp. She calls one more time and gets another helping of voicemail. “This is Penny, your employer. Former employer. You’re fired.” She starts to end the call, then thinks of something else. “And I want my money back! You’re useless!”
She stalks into the house, flings her phone onto the living room sofa, and goes into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She sees herself in the mirror—too thin, too pale, looking ten years older than her age. No, make it fifteen. Her daughter is missing, maybe dead, and her crack investigator is probably out somewhere, drinking in a bar.
She’s crying when she undresses and goes to bed. No, not drinking in a bar. Some people undoubtedly are, but not that mousy little broad, with her careful masking and oh-so-current elbow-bumps. She’s probably home watching television with her phone off.
“Forgot all about me,” Penny says into the dark. She has never felt so alone in her life. “Stupid bitch. Fuck her.”
She closes her eyes.
July 29, 2021
1
At some point that night, Holly has a strange dream. She’s in a cage behind crisscrossed bars that make many squares. Sitting on a kitchen chair and looking in at her is an old man. She can’t see him very well because her vision keeps doubling on her, but he appears to be covered in fire engines. “Did you know,” he says, “that there are 2,600 calories in the human liver? Some are fat-cals, but most, almost all, are pure protein. This wonderful organ…”
The Fire Engine Man continues his lecture—now something about the thighs—but she doesn’t want to listen. It’s a terrible dream, worse than the ones about her mother, and she has the worst headache of her life.
Holly closes her eyes and drifts back into darkness.
2
