Page 100 of The Furies

“You sure it’s just a headache?”

“What else would it be?” said Veale.

“I don’t know.”

“Well then.”

Veale closed the car door and walked away. Pantuff returned to scrutinizing the Braycott. The ambulance was pulling out of the parking lot, followed by one of the prowl cars and the unmarked Crown Vic. Pantuff decided to stay where he was until the last of the cops were gone. He now barely noticed the discomfort in his bladder. He was contemplating Veale. He wondered if the time hadn’t come for them to go their separate ways. If it had, Pantuff’s obligations to his partner would cease. Pantuff was no mathematician, but he saw that $50,000 would last him nearly twice as long as $25,000, allowing for the natural exuberance and temptation to spend that came with finding oneself with more funds than anticipated.

And it wasn’t as though he’d miss the sparkling conversation.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Melissa Thombs had retrieved the cell phone from behind the garbage cans while disposing of some take-out food containers that had begun to smell particularly rotten. It was now hidden, for the time being, in a box of tampons. Donnie wouldn’t look for it there—not because he was averse to searching through even her most intimate belongings, but because he had already gone through her things the night before during one of his rages, and he wouldn’t have the energy for another rampage, not for a day or so. If the private detective did not arrive to help her that night, as her mother had suggested he would, Melissa knew she would have to get rid of the phone. Donnie would find it otherwise. He had a dog’s nose for contraband.

And if he discovered the device, he would hurt her.

She’d tried stashing a spare phone once before. She thought she was being clever by concealing it inside the body of one of the speakers for the little bedroom stereo system that only she used. She first made sure the phone was switched off, of course. It was there, she assured herself, only in the event of an emergency. The screwdriver she used to tighten the frames on her glasses just about fit the heads of the screws on the speaker, but she’d left them slightly loose once the phone was in place, to make it easier to get to if, or when, it was required. Perhaps that was how Donnie figured it out, by spotting the loose screws. He never bothered to share that detail with her. He was too busy putting his booted foot on the back of her head and slowly pressing her face into the carpet until she thought she’d suffocate or her skull would crack, whichever came first. Only when it seemed as though one outcome or the other was imminent did Donnie take his foot away, because he always knew how hard to push, to twist, to press, to hit. Or he used to: lately, his judgment had grown impaired. The last time he’d choked her, she’d lost consciousness. This had never happened before, and it was then she realized that, ultimately, he was going to kill her. When she came around, and her head had stopped hurting, he made her lie flat on the floor for four hours, with her arms outstretched and her face still in the carpet, during which time he watched two movies on the portable TV in the bedroom. Each time she moved, he would stand on her head again. That was about as bad as it had ever got, but even the incidents that weren’t as bad were bad enough.

A brief lull in the abuse had occurred following the intervention of the police. Donnie promised her he’d change, that what had happened was a wake-up call. And he did try, for about a week, if one was prepared to accept that psychological and emotional bullying unallied to physical force represented progress in a relationship. It sort of did, Melissa supposed, even if it didn’t last.

Why didn’t she leave? It was a question she used to ask herself a lot. She had tried to give Donnie up, but that was in the beginning, and she’d always returned to him because she loved him, and sometimes problems got worse before they got better, right? Except there seemed to be no limits to how miserable life with Donnie could get, and the upswings were only the blips of a fading heartbeat. Later, he would dare her to leave. “Go,” he would say. “There’s the door. Collect all your shit and go back to your momma. I won’t stop you.”

She took the bait—once. She managed to get as far as opening the front door before he dragged her back. It was February, and in retaliation he locked her in the bathroom with the radiator off, taking the valve with him so she couldn’t turn it on again, and leaving her with only a thin blanket for warmth. She spent the night in the bathtub, and on cold nights the memory of it returned to haunt her bones. After that, when he invited her to leave, she elected to remain seated, and silent.

But that still didn’t explain why she’d remained. She tried not to dwell on it, because any answers she came up with didn’t serve to make her feel better about herself or her situation. Yes, she was frightened of Donnie, and even if she left him, she knew he’d come find her. Getting out of the house would be only the beginning, and her terror of him would likely increase thereafter; at least when she was living with him, she knew where he was. The idea of a life spent looking over her shoulder did not appeal.

But Donnie could also be kind, when he chose. That was what was so confusing: somewhere inside him was a better man. They’d gone to a movie together the previous week, and for drinks and a hamburger after, and he’d been the way he was when they’d first started dating: funny, tender, caring. She also remembered that she used to feel safe around him, because nothing scared Donnie. He wasn’t big, but he carried himself as though he was, and he communicated a physical threat, a potential ferocity. For someone like Melissa, who was small and shy—natural prey for a certain type of predator—having Donnie to watch over her was akin to being under the protection of a bodyguard. By the time she discovered that Donnie, too, was a predator, and his violence could, and would, be turned against her, it was too late.

And who else would take her now? She was damaged goods. She even had his name tattooed on her wrist, dumbass that she was. He had branded her as his own. Except that wasn’t true, because she had consented to it. She might even have suggested it, so in love with him had she been. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done the same. He didn’t object to tattoos on women, he told her, or not the right tattoos, but he wasn’t about to get any of his own. His skin was too white, he said, and he thought pale white guys with tattoos looked like trash. Upon consideration, Melissa had decided he was right. Her skin, by contrast, was sallow, and her ink looked classy against it—well, apart from consisting of Donnie’s name, which spoiled the effect. If she got away from him, she could have it removed, but it would leave a scar. That wouldn’t be a disaster, though. It would serve as a reminder, not that she’d need one. Call it a penitential mark.

Donnie was currently lazing in his armchair, his left leg hanging over one side, the fingers of his right hand tapping and jerking. He was always fidgeting now, always moving; even in his sleep, he was a mass of twitches. He smelled sour, too. It was another fault to add to the growing list. It helped her to hate him.

The private detective, the one hired by her mother, would come for her. He would spirit her away. She would start a new life, somewhere Donnie would never be able to find her. She would never see Donnie again.

Or…

The private detective, the one hired by her mother, would come for her. He would spirit her away. She would start a new life, but Donnie would come after her. He would commence with her mother, forcing her to tell him where she had gone. He would hurt her mother, and then he would hurt her.

Seated behind Donnie, Melissa worked on her hate.

CHAPTER XXXIV

I spoke to my daughter Sam on the phone while I waited outside Angel and Louis’s apartment. She was bright and chatty, and I was reminded of how much I missed her. I thought again about finding somewhere to stay near Burlington, just in case things got as bad as some people were suggesting they might, but while Sam was in Vermont, my life was here: my home, my job, what friends I had, and what might be a new relationship with Sharon Macy. I also knew that if I moved to Vermont, even temporarily, I would be doing it more for myself than for Sam. She had her own life, her own routines, and a mother and grandparents to watch over her. My presence, however novel and welcome it might seem initially, would soon become an imposition, and potentially a problem for those around her. I decided to stay where I was. If difficulties arose, I would be able to get to Vermont in four hours, and I knew how to work my way around roadblocks.

From where I sat, I could see some of the islands of Casco Bay, and the ferry pulling away from the dock at Peaks. I wondered if the inhabitants of the islands felt safer away from the mainland, and the farther, the better. Most distant of all was Sanctuary, but I wouldn’t have moved out there even if we’d been facing bubonic plague instead of COVID-19. I knew enough about what had happened on that island to make me want to keep well away from it. It was said that Sanctuary’s ghosts were quiet now. Some claimed they were at rest, while others tried to pretend they had never existed. Whatever the truth, Sanctuary was its own place, and anyway, there were enough ghosts on this side of the water for those with a mind to look for them—and sometimes, for those without.

Angel and Louis emerged from their building. Behind them the sea roiled, and the sky was gray, yet I couldn’t help but smile. I found solace in the company of these men.

“All set to make the day worse for some bad guys?” said Louis, as he got in the front seat and Angel climbed in the back.

“Always,” I said.

“Then let’s go.”

CHAPTER XXXV

The traffic was heavy in both directions as we drove to Portsmouth. Angel’s hangover had been downgraded from life-threatening to miserable, and now he just wanted the day to end so he could return to bed, sleep off what was left of the pain, and wake up the next morning intent upon never sinning again. We kept the music low, in deference to his suffering.

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