“What the fuck,” Barry said.
“Pink Poodle, I presume?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Helmet Hippo. I’ve been watching you. You are a very naughty boy.”
The gun came up. The older boy stepped back.
At the last second, Jesse closed his eyes. At the last second, Jesse covered his ears.
He still heard:
“Wait, wait. What the hell. I’m just a kid—”
“Everyone dies sometime.”
“I didn’t. I never. I didn’t mean—”
“Be brave.”
“Wait! I’ll stop, I’ll change, I swear! I’m just a kid! Wait—”
A sound, somewhere between a pop and boom. Once. Twice.
Then nothing.
Jesse counted to five. Then slowly, he opened his eyes. He saw the older boy’s feet poking out from behind the Dumpster. He saw the woman bending over those feet.
Then the woman straightened, slipped her gun into a leather bag on her hip, and turned toward Jesse.
He whimpered, stepped back.
But she merely smiled at him, extending a hand as if in greeting.
“Hello,” she said. “Have we met yet? Don’t worry. My name is Abigail.”
Chapter 24
I DON’T REMEMBER MAKING IT HOME from BPD headquarters. I suppose Tulip and I managed the subway. In the constant stream of humanity boarding the late afternoon train, it’s easy enough to slip through, for a woman and a dog to go unnoticed.
We would’ve taken the orange line from Roxbury to Downtown Crossing, then changed to the red line for Harvard square. The transfer station at Downtown Crossing would’ve been a hot, crowded mess, filled with people already glazed over from the day’s events, moving on autopilot, just wanting to go home.
We would’ve walked twelve minutes from Harvard Square, up Garden Street past the snow-covered Cambridge Commons, left onto Concord Avenue, right at the parking lot for the Harvard College Observatory, onto Madison. Or maybe we ran. Not the best sidewalks; footing would’ve been treacherous given first the soft snowflakes, then a sharper, icier drizzle that would’ve pelted the top of our down-turned heads and turned the brick pavers at Harvard Square into a particularly slippery mess.
I don’t remember, my memory having one of its fickle moments. The price of forgetting. The ongoing cost of coping with a childhood that should’ve broken me but didn’t. I must have gone home, though. Right? Where else would I have gone from police headquarters? What else would I have done?
*
I SLEPT. I know that much. At a certain point, I was in my own room in my own bed, Tulip nestled beside me, back to back. I woke up once, noted the clock reading 8 P.M., and was grateful, after the past forty-eight hours, that I didn’t have work. Then my eyes closed and I had the craziest dream.
My mother was in the backyard. She had a shovel. She was digging a hole. It was dark and stormy out. Rain lashing, wind whipping. A flashlight stood upright on the ground next to her, illuminating pelting raindrops, wind-tossed debris. From time to time, the blade of the shovel would catch the faint yellow beam, wink in the light. Up, down. Up, down.
I stood at a window. It was tall for me. I was on my tippy toes so I could peer out, and I’d been watching for a while, because my toes ached and my calves burned, but I couldn’t stop looking. The wink of the spade. Up, down. Up, down.
My mother wore her favorite nightgown. It was pale yellow with tiny blue flowers and green leaves. The rain had plastered it to her skinny frame, molding wiry legs and whip-thin arms as she bent and heaved spadefuls of dirt. Her long brown hair was loose, wet hanks stuck to her hollowed out cheeks.
Up, down. Up, down.
The hole grew bigger. Not too big. Big enough.
Then, the baby, crying down the hall.