Page 79 of Sirens
“Got good news, baby doll. They’re lettin’ me out early. You can pick me up at Queensboro anytime after noon.” An oily chuckle. “Wear that green dress I like, okay? The one with the lace over your tits. You won’t be needin’ no panties, if you know what I mean…” His voice trailed off into another repugnant chuckle.
The queasy feeling in her stomach intensified; her knuckles were white against the counter’s edge. She swallowed around a desiccated throat, hesitating for a moment before pressing the next voicemail.
“Hey, doll face, me again,” Charlie began, somehow managing to sound both ingratiating and menacing. “Didn’t pick up, huh? You must be busy getting yourself all pretty for me.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. Suddenly, he was serious again. “When you come pick me up, bring a twelve-pack of Bud and some of them pork rolls you used to make? My mouth is watering just thinkin’ about them.”
The memory was having quite the opposite effect on Maggie.
“Can’t wait to see you, baby.”
A single bead of sweat trickled down Maggie’s ribs as she pressed play on the first message from a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hey, Shortcake. You on your way or what? I been sitting out here with my thumb up my ass for an hour now. Had to borrow a phone offa”—mumbling in the background—“some chick namedCarol, and she’s gettin’ real uppity about getting it back. Call me back.”
The next voicemail was from yet another different number.
“You think you can just leave me hanging, huh?” He was practically growling now, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve been out here for over two hours, Maggie. Where the hell are you?” He spat her name out like a curse.
A shudder rippled through her flesh, and an icy gust of dread fluttered over her flushed skin. How easily something as simple as a slight shift in his tone of voice used to be able to ruin her entire day.
Next.
“Maggie…” Charlie’s voice was softer now, almost pleading again. “Pick up the damn phone, would ya? Look, it’s okay if you don’t have gas money because you got your nails for me. I ain’t even mad. You still got my old man’s ring? We can pawn it for…”
Next.
“Never mind. I got me a ride. I oughta be home by”—a lengthy silence, during which Charlie presumably did the heavy lifting of basic math—“six o’ clock. I sure hope you’re there waiting for me.”
This sounded more like a threat than a wistful wish.
“What the fuck, Maggie!” Charlie bellowed at the beginning of the next message. “I just walked in on some old broad in the shower. Where the fuck are you? And where the fuck is all our stuff?”
Every rational cell in her body screamed at her to hang up, to delete these vile messages and put a continent between herself and this dark specter from her past. But she couldn’t stop until she knew everything there was to know.
Her curse, always.
“You know I can find you, right, Shortcake? You always did love your games. But just remember, baby doll, I got the better team. Always have, always will.”
Byteam, she assumed he was referring to the pack of pathetic self-styled petty criminals and con men who sat around Italian restaurants trying to convince themselves they were in an episode ofThe Sopranos. They’d never been the most capable bunch, but frequently what they lacked in mental acumen, they made up for in bravado and surprisingly effective police connections.
Maggie took a sip of water, willing it to loosen her aching throat.
The last three messages were the most disturbing by far.
By the muffled quality of the sound, she could tell Charlie had the phone tucked in some pocket on his person. She heard the rustling of material, and a low hum of background noise. Then the sound that sent shivers coursing down her spine: a woman’s voice, roughened by decades of a pack-a-day habit.
Her mother’s.
Charlie had gone to her parents’ house in Long Island to try to figure out where she’d gone.
She made out a few words, “Boston” and “business” among them.
In the next message, Maggie could hear a shriller edge in her mother’s voice.
In the last, Charlie was back, this time his words dripping with the smug self-satisfaction that had always made Maggie’s fingers itch for a Louisville Slugger.
“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he cooed into her ear, pouring a sickeningly sweet, paternal poison down the line. “Never figured you for a Pacific Northwest girl, what with all those hippie-dippy granola types.” His low chuckle gurgled in her ear like a drain threatening to overflow. “But I think a little travel willdo me good. I owe yas a second honeymoon. I’ll see you soon, Shortcake.”
The line went dead, Charlie’s trailing laughter lingering ominously for a moment longer before being swallowed by the silence.
