Page 88 of The Furies

“One might say that we did the Office a favor by involving ourselves in her life,” I said.

“That’s one way of looking at it. I’m not sure the Office balances its books that way.”

“Looks like this is a chance to find out.”

Louis finished his coffee and swirled the grounds in the dregs.

“Boston is still in transition after what happened with Sawyer,” he said. “Last I heard, the Office had appointed a guy named Dante Vero as its interim boss in the Northeast, but he won’t last. He didn’t want the job to begin with, but he wasn’t given a lot of choice in the matter. Dante is one of life’s backroom boys. He’s a family man, solid but cautious. He doesn’t make the papers, doesn’t take unnecessary risks, and doesn’t have a reputation for violence. Dante’s the guy they send in before they send in the other guy.”

“Like Luca, the one who threatened Sarah Abelli with digging up her daughter’s corpse?”

“Exhumation isn’t Dante’s style. It’s interesting that she says someone stepped in just as soon as her kidnappers were about to progress to rape. To me, that sounds like something Dante would do. He’s no pushover, and the Office still took her house, but watching a woman being sexually tortured wouldn’t sit easily with him.”

“Will he talk to me?” I said.

“He’s a hard man to get to directly. He doesn’t use phones: not cell phones, not landlines, nothing. He’s a throwback to another age, and what happened with Sawyer has only made him more set in his ways, but that’s one of the reasons why he’s never done serious time. I know some people down there, as do you, but nobody from Dante’s circle, if you’ll forgive the pun. If there’s a clock ticking, and you need a straight answer, it would be better to find a more direct route to him.”

I thought about this.

“Moxie has been giving work to a man named Mattia Reggio,” I said. “Driving, document pickups, that kind of thing. Reggio used to run with Cadillac Frank, although that was a long time ago. Moxie likes the idea of having a former hood on the books, and Reggio’s reputation isn’t far off Dante Vero’s: the guy they sent before they sent in the other guy.”

“Yet I detect hesitation on your part,” said Angel slowly, and very, very carefully.

“Well, look who woke up,” said Louis.

“I’ve been listening,” said Angel. “I was just staying quiet until the swelling in my brain went down.” He returned his attention to me. “Am I right about Reggio?”

“I don’t deny that he’s been respectable for years,” I said, “and he’s never let Moxie down, but I don’t like him. No particular reason, just a feeling—well, except that he’s always chewing gum, which he’s been known to leave on dashboards and the underside of tables, including Moxie’s. It’s the weirdest thing, like a nervous tic, or a dog marking its territory.”

“And, gum offenses aside, you don’t want to be in his debt,” said Louis.

“I’d prefer to keep him at one remove, that’s all.”

“You could go through Moxie,” said Angel.

“No,” I said, “if Reggio has to be asked, I’ll do it.”

“What about the other thing,” said Louis, “the Thombs girl?”

“Once I know that Melissa has the cell phone, we can work on getting her out, even if it’s late tonight. It would be better not to delay.”

I took out my phone. I had Mattia Reggio’s number stored in it at Moxie’s request, although I’d never used it. Now, with time pressing, I called him.

CHAPTER XX

For a moment Esther Vogt was convinced she’d misheard, and the sound from the tunnel was not, in fact, laughter but the tinkle of crystal disturbed by old Mr. Rat. Then it came again, clearer now, and she recalled the footsteps that had disturbed her rest the night before, just as they had woken Mr. Hardiman. She could tell that Bobby Wadlin hadn’t believed them, even with their independent accounts, and she had to admit that it had seemed unlikely, even to her. After all, no responsible parent would bring a child into an establishment like the Braycott Arms, and even an irresponsible one might have thought twice about it. But it was possible that a kid could have sneaked in: a runaway seeking shelter, although the footsteps she’d heard were small and light, and runaways tended to be older kids. And what kind of runaway, having succeeded in gaining access to the Braycott, would then risk being apprehended by skipping along its corridors in the dead of night?

“Hello?” said Esther. “Is someone there?”

Which was a foolish question, because obviously someone was there, but it was the best Esther could come up with under the circumstances. She realized she was still holding the rug, and considered setting it aside in favor of something that might serve as a weapon, should one be required—although given that she was an arthritic woman in her late seventies, any such armament would be of limited usefulness.

She stood before the entrance to the tunnel and was surprised by how black it was. She couldn’t recall it ever appearing so dark. It was as though whoever was hiding in its recesses had somehow wreathed themselves in gloom.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” said Esther. “I think I heard you in the hallway last night, and Mr. Wadlin, the manager, may be looking for you. He’ll get to searching down here sooner or later, so you ought to be gone by then. He’s not a very understanding man.”

Even in the dimness, and with her poor eyesight, she thought she detected movement, shadow shifting over shadow like the swirling of dense smoke or the writhing of dusky snakes. It struck her, with a strange objectivity, that these were entirely negative comparisons, and ones not usually associated with a child, runaway or otherwise. She saw herself as she might have appeared to the presence in the tunnel: a vulnerable old woman, wearing slippers with her overcoat, leaning on a rolled-up rug for support.

“It’s not good for you to be down here alone,” she continued. “It’s cold and damp in this basement, and there are rats and bugs. You don’t want to get bitten.”

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