CHAPTER 15
“Hello?” I said into my phone. My strangled voice came out shaky, more like a whimper than a word. I moved away from Clegg, turning my back so he couldn’t see me, couldn’t overhear me, either.
“Hello, John,” Uretsky said. His distinct rasp, the resonance of his baritone voice, that unsettling calm were as familiar to me as a Beatles song. “Yes, I know your real name, and no, you can’t know how. I want you to listen very carefully.”
“What have you done?” I said, speaking in a low voice. I took a few more steps away from Clegg. “What the hell have you done?” That came out harsh, a low, growling whisper. My heart was thrumming wildly.
“Listen means don’t talk, dumb ass,” Uretsky snapped. “Are you listening?”
“Yes,” I said, breathing out the word in one long hiss.
“Your wife is wearing an olive-green sweater and blue jeans,” Uretsky said, speaking quickly now. “She’s with a girl named Elisa, and I know that they’re at the Deco Bar on Beacon Street. I also know that Ruby has been drinking club soda and lime all night, because alcohol and Verbilifide don’t mix very well. I know that Elisa is a pretty, dark-haired girl who won’t stay pretty for long if you don’t do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
Clegg surprised me with a tap on my shoulder. I recoiled from his touch, as though his hands were an electric cattle prod. I must have looked like a wild man to him, my eyes flickering, mouth agape, and sweat beading up on my brow.
“Johnny, you all right?” Clegg asked. “You look white as my ass.”
The phone was still pressed to my ear as Uretsky spoke. “Tell that cop friend of yours that it’s Ruby. Tell him she’s not feeling well.”
He knew I was with Clegg?
My head darted about in all directions. I glanced into the glimmering windows of the apartments across the street, into storefronts, crowded restaurants, and bars, which existed aplenty in this section of town. He could see me! Good God in heaven, Uretsky was watching me! I kept looking around, noticing the multitudes of people milling about on this warm spring evening, many with cell phones mounted to their ear.
“Say it, John,” Uretsky urged. “Tell him that Ruby isn’t feeling very well and you need to go.”
“Yo, bro? Are you all right?” Clegg asked.
“Ruby,” I managed.
A flash of concern washed across Clegg’s face, genuine, as though Ruby were family. “What’s going on?” Clegg asked in a voice steeped with worry. “Is everything all right?”
“Tell him she’s fine, but you have to leave,” Uretsky instructed again.
I repeated those exact words, as though in a trance.
“I’ll drive you,” Clegg said.
“He’s got a prisoner to deal with,” Uretsky said into my ear.
How does he know that? Where is he?
“You’ve got your hands full,” I said to Clegg, nodding my head in the direction of his police car. I couldn’t see into the car’s dark interior, but I assumed the man Clegg had apprehended was still seated inside, waiting for the Brookline police to cart him off to jail. I tapped Clegg’s shoulder a few times. “I’m all right,” the gesture was intended to say. “Just let me go.” Hoping that allayed his concerns, I started to back away from Clegg slowly.
“Johnny!” Clegg shouted at me.
Turning my back to him now, I began a trot that soon broke into a run, yelling over my shoulder as I accelerated, “I’ll call you!”
Clegg shouted, “Johnny,” again, but I gave him no response. I kept the phone, with Uretsky still on the line, fixed to my ear but didn’t speak until I had turned the corner, a block away from where I had left Clegg standing, his expression unmistakably and understandably confused.
“You still there, John?” I heard Uretsky say.
I slowed my pace, soon coming to a full stop. I couldn’t yet catch my breath, so I had to double over, resting my hands on my knees to increase the airflow. “I’m here,” I said, panting. “I’m here.”
“Good boy,” Uretsky said. “So listen, you’ve obviously lost round one.”
“Why?” I said. My voice sounded constricted, as though Uretsky’s hands magically extended through the phone to choke my windpipe. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill that woman?”
“Because she was there. Isn’t that why you once climbed mountains? Because they were there.”
Uretsky chuckled hauntingly, while I staggered into an alley directly behind a Chinese restaurant and proceeded to vomit up my dinner of chicken wings and beer. The sour stench from my stomach mixed foully with the smells from the kitchen.
“You’re insane,” I yelled before several gagging dry heaves put me on my knees. A cook from the restaurant, draped in white clothes blotched with food stains, flung open the back door to check on the commotion. I shielded my face with the back of my hand and slunk deeper into the alley, away from his prying eyes.
“My mental state is not your concern,” Uretsky said. “Do you know what is?”
I couldn’t answer—the nerves connecting my brain to my mouth seemed severed.
Uretsky answered for me. “Your concern should be that poor woman you let down.”
“I didn’t kill her,” I stammered.
“Of course you did,” Uretsky snapped. “You didn’t even try to steal the scarves.”
“I didn’t think you were serious.”
Uretsky scoffed, a loud “Ha!” “I told you very specifically the penalty for failure. It’s your fault you didn’t believe me, not mine. You lost round one after I gave you every conceivable chance to win. I wish you could have seen what I did to her, John. It would have definitely inspired you to try a little harder. You were at home while I was doing it. In fact, I was right below you.”
“Please . . . don’t . . .”
Then I thought, Right below me. Could it have been our downstairs neighbor, Rhonda?
“She was begging me,” Uretsky continued. “Big, thick tears rolling down her cheeks. I gagged her, of course. I didn’t want her screams bringing anyone to her rescue. You’ve got to think these things through, John. It takes thought to be on the wrong side of the law, but you’ll learn that soon enough. Anyway, I used these pruning shears I bought at Home Depot to cut her fingers. They snapped off just like I was breaking a stubborn branch. Snap. Snap. Snap. I figured she’d pass out by finger four, but it happened right after I cut off the second one.”
“Oh God,” I whimpered.
“God? Really? God?” Uretsky laughed a little. “You know, most criminals don’t find God until they’re in the slammer,” he said. “And you’ve got a long way to go before that happens to you. Now, if you play my game, and this time you try to win, I can assure you, you’ll never find yourself confined to those ugly four walls.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Are you listening, John?”
How to describe my shock? It welled up inside me, all consuming, entirely paralyzing. It was an inescapable blackness, a fast-acting cancer swelling from within, hollowing out my guts, turning my blood to molasses, slowing my heartbeat to a tick and my breathing to a trickle.
“Please . . . stop. . . . I don’t want to hear this. . . .”
“Too late for that,” Uretsky said. “Now, pay attention. Pay very close attention. I’m using a phone that cannot be traced. Don’t even bother to try.” I said nothing, so Uretsky continued. “Also, if the name Uretsky comes up in connection with the investigation into the gruesome murder of a youngish woman at four-fifty-seven Harvard Avenue, I’m going to kill again—and it will be someone you know, maybe a friend, a mother, or just a passing acquaintance. Contact with you is all I need to mark them for death. The point is—and this is a promise—someone will die, and die horribly, and their blood will be on your hands. Just so we’re perfectly clear, that means you keep your pal David Clegg in the dark about everything. No mention of me. No mention of our game. Do you understand?”
I tried to answer but still could not find my voice.
“Do you understand?” Uretsky screamed the question with enough force to bloody my eardrums.
“Yes!” I shouted back, crying as I spoke. “Yes! I understand! Damn you, I understand!”
“Good,” Uretsky said, placid again. “Another rule,” he continued. “You can’t move out of the apartment you rented in my name under any circumstance. You’re to remain in the apartment above that poor murdered woman until you either win or lose my game. Is that understood?”
I nodded, dumbly—he couldn’t see me—and numbly.
“Is that understood?” Uretsky asked again.
“Yes,” I squeaked out.
I thought of Ruby, recalling the joy on her face as she was packing our bags to move. What would her look say when I told her that I’d stolen the identity of a raging psychopath, and that he was holding us hostage in an apartment I had rented under false pretenses? What would her reaction be when she learned we had no way out of this nightmare but to do as we were told?
“Good,” Uretsky said. “Because it’s time for you to play round two. The punishment for failure is that you’ll be arrested for insurance fraud and Ruby will lose access to the medication she needs to keep alive. In addition to that, I’ll still kill again, another woman, and it could be anybody who is even remotely connected to you. Sound like high enough stakes to you?”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Like I said before, a criminal, no matter what the crime, is always a thief of something. You stole the truth the moment you took my identity. Now you must play the part.”
“How? I don’t understand!” I was shouting. “How do I play the part?”
“Oh, you’ll see. It’s no fun if I spoil all the surprises.”
I kept yelling at Uretsky, pleading with him to talk to me. I was on my knees in a wretched alleyway that stunk of rotted garbage, with shards of glass digging painfully into the fabric of my jeans, shaking. “How do I play the part? How do I do it?” Occasionally, a sob would escape my lips, but not enough to stop my continued questions, even though Uretsky’s call had long gone dead.