Little Deaths(14)

She bit her lip. Swallowed.

“Someone, some crazy, came in the night and took ’em, and she’ll”—a nod toward the open window—“she’ll be going nuts in there.”

All at once Pete felt the story swell to fill the fears of the women around him. Gina Eissen at least believed something bad had happened to those kids. He was suddenly aware of the pounding of his heart, of his dry mouth. This could be the start of something big.


In here, during the long black nights or the still, slow hours pacing the yard, Ruth has tried to pinpoint the moment that everything changed. If there was even a moment.

Perhaps it was when Devlin found the bottles in her garbage that first morning. Or perhaps it was that afternoon, when the call came in.

She was standing in her living room holding a glass of cold ginger ale, looking out of the window at the cops on the lawn and at the women on the sidewalk. She watched the women through the slats of the blinds: their darting eyes, shiny beneath teased hair, their glossy mouths opening and closing. Their elbows nudged out from beneath folded arms whenever one of the cops moved.

And then the phone rang. She turned, but the young pink-faced cop got there before her. He picked up the receiver, then moved away from her, muttering something that she couldn’t hear. She thought it was just another of those calls between cops. Nothing to do with her.

Then he cupped his hand over the receiver and shouted, “Sergeant Devlin! You need to take this call, sir!”

Her mouth was already open to ask the questions she somehow knew he wouldn’t answer, when Devlin came through the door, moving quickly despite that solid square bulk. He took the phone and ran a hand over his forehead, through his slick hair.

“Devlin.” A pause. “When? . . . Are you sure?”

His eyes slid around the room as he talked, his mind elsewhere. And then his gaze cleared and came to rest on Ruth. She has imagined what he must have seen in that moment: the shape of her body against the bright window, her hair a fiery halo around her white face, her eyes wide and afraid and fixed on his.

For a long moment they looked at each other through the clear golden light. She took a step forward.

“Have they . . . what’s . . .”

Then the person on the other end of the phone said something, and the question died on her lips. Devlin hung up, turned his whole body to face her.

“I need you to come with me, Mrs. Malone.”

“Did they find them? Did they find Frankie and Cindy? Have they . . . are they okay?”

She could almost feel their tiny hands in hers. She imagined their tears. Their stained shirts. The candy she would buy them.

He looked at her and his expression was unreadable.

“Just come with us, ma’am.”

“Where to? Are they okay?”

He didn’t answer, just opened the door for her. She put her glass down and walked ahead of him into the hallway. She was trembling.

As she stepped out of the building, Devlin half a pace behind her, Ruth saw again the group of women on the sidewalk. Women she knew, women whose kids played with hers. Some had tears in their eyes or sad, blurred faces. Some were whispering behind their hands. She saw frowns, pursed mouths. She saw pity. She saw faces white with fear, curiosity, and something else, something harder, that she shied away from naming.

Ruth caught Maria Burke’s eye, before the other woman looked away. As though it was contagious, Nina Lombardo looked down too.

Ruth moved on until she came to the cops. A dark cluster of uniforms and suits and there, at the edge, watching her: Johnny Salcito. She stopped short, startled, unable to take her eyes from his face. That lovely, strong face, which had begun to change in the last year or so; the jowls grown heavier, looser, the broken veins on his nose more prominent. Those sad brown eyes that had gazed at her over countless tables in countless bars and restaurants, that had stared, hot and unfocused, as he thrust above her. Now those eyes were empty.

Johnny stepped back into the crowd and folded his arms and said something to one of the other cops to make him laugh. He stared expressionlessly at her and she stared back until her eyes watered and his figure blurred into the group of hostile figures. All watching her.


The women drifted back inside to fix lunch; some of them reappeared. More cops arrived and milled around on the grass, murmuring. Pete approached a couple of them, asked if they had any comment to make; they all said the same thing: there was no news and the search for the Malone kids was ongoing.

Pete looked around for Anders, but his car was gone. He took a few more shots, tried to capture the sense of waiting. The low voices, the tense stances, the drawn faces.

The small dark woman brought out sandwiches, blushed when Pete thanked her, introduced herself as Carla Bonelli. She stood with him while he ate, chattered about Mr. Bonelli’s job, brought him a glass of milk.

Pete asked if she had any photos of the kids who were missing and she went inside, reappeared with an album neatly covered in leftover floral wallpaper. She leafed through pages of round-faced Italians at weddings and parties—and then she stopped, lifted the cellophane, and took out two photographs.

One was of a group of children playing in the street—this street? There wasn’t enough detail to tell—a fire hydrant open, the silver spray of the water filling the background. Pete noticed the patterns of light first; the arc of rainbow drops as a little girl spun around and her wet hair spread behind her. He noticed the detail of her frilled bathing suit against her plump arms and legs, and next to her, the skinny frame of a boy in shorts. He was maybe a year or two older than her, but a head and a half taller, all long brown limbs and white teeth.