Page 114 of The Furies

It was only as he was boiling the spaghetti that she realized why he was acting this way. It wasn’t atonement, but ongoing observation. He was trying to read her, to guess her intentions. He wanted to keep her near because that little alarm bell in his paranoid mind had been set off, and it wasn’t about to stop anytime soon. In his way, he was a marvel, possessing an undeniable emotional acuity, except tuned only to the negative, and entirely devoid of empathy. Its sole purpose was self-preservation.

And sex would follow; this, too, she knew. He would take her, and keep her there beside him afterward. She could try to refuse him, which rarely worked, depending on how intent he was. Claiming it was her time of the month wouldn’t stop him, because he kept track of her cycle. If she went to bed with him, she’d have no hope of keeping the cell phone to hand. Even if she found a way, she’d never be able to get away from him once the signal to move came through. Donnie slept lightly, and would wake to the beating of a moth’s wings.

The smell of cooking, the heat of the kitchen, the taste of the beer in her mouth, all instantly became oppressive to her. There was dampness on her brow, her back, and under her arms. She burped, and the regurgitated alcohol flooded her mouth, tainted by an astringency that caused her to retch.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Donnie glanced at her.

“For what?” he said.

But already she was throwing up on the kitchen floor.

CHAPTER XLIII

We were passing Kennebunk Service Plaza when the tracker app on my phone indicated that Sarah Abelli was receiving another call from an unknown number. It came through via Bluetooth on the car radio: the same voice as before, with that poisoned song of the South to it.

“Do you have our money?”

Pantuff, I thought: the torturer of women, the one whom Luca Z had described as the talker.

“Yes,” said Abelli, “I have it. Do you have what you stole from me?”

“I’m going to send you some images. They’ll be time- and date-stamped, to put your mind at rest.”

“It may take more than that, but it’s a start.”

Pantuff laughed.

“You have spirit,” he said, “I’ll give you that. It’s a shame we were stopped from getting more intimate with each other back in Boston. Who knows, you might even have enjoyed it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, I’d have enjoyed it, and fifty percent is better than nothing. You’re responsible for your own pleasure. I think I read that in one of those magazines they leave in dentists’ waiting rooms. If it’s true, it gets me off the hook—and if it isn’t, I wasn’t so worried to begin with. But hear this, missy: If you try to fuck us over, not only will you never see your trinkets again, but down the line, months or even years from now, I’ll come find you, and I’ll rape you before I start cutting you. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“In two hours I want you to be sitting in your car with the motor running. You put the money in a garbage bag, tie a knot in it, then find a duffel bag big enough to take it, one that zips up tight. You have something like that at home?”

“I do.”

“Good. Leave it on the passenger seat beside you, and keep the door unlocked. Before you know it, our business will be concluded.”

He hung up. Seconds later, three photographs were sent to her phone, mirrored on the app. Louis flicked through them. One was a picture of a vintage cookie tin, while the second displayed its contents. The third showed an erect penis, held in a hand that was also clutching a photograph of Sarah Abelli’s dead child.

* * *

I SPOKE TO HER as we reached the Portland city limits.

“I was wondering when you’d call,” she said. “I assume you heard that last conversation?”

“And I saw the pictures.”

“They’re animals.”

“Barely. Is Tony still with you?”

“Yes. I’ve been teaching him to play chess.”

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