The Chain(9)

7

Thursday, 9:26 a.m.



The First National Bank on State Street in downtown Newburyport opens at 9:30 a.m. Rachel paces the sidewalk near the bank entrance and puffs on her Marlboro.

State Street is deserted except for a very pale, nervous, older man wearing a heavy coat and a Red Sox cap who is walking toward her.

Their eyes meet as he stops in front of her.

“Are you Rachel O’Neill?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies.

The man swallows hard and pulls his cap lower. “I’m supposed to tell you that I’ve been off The Chain for a year now. I’m supposed to tell you that because I did as I was told, my family is safe. I’m supposed to tell you that there are hundreds of people like me who can be recruited to bring you a message if The Chain thinks you or anyone in your family needs a message.”

“I get it.”

“You’re—you’re not pregnant, are you?” the man asks hesitantly, seemingly going off script for a moment.

“No,” Rachel replies.

“Then this is your message,” he says and, without warning, punches her in the stomach.

The air is knocked out of her and Rachel crumples to the ground. He is surprisingly strong, and the pain is terrible. It takes her ten seconds to get her breath back. She looks up at the man in incomprehension and fear.

“I’m supposed to tell you that if you need further proof of our reach, you should Google the Williams family of Dover, New Hampshire. You won’t see me again but there are many others out there like me. Do not attempt to follow me,” the man says and with tears of shame running down his cheeks, he turns and walks quickly back down the street.

Just then the bank door opens and the security guard sees her sprawled on the ground. He looks at the man hurrying away from her; his fists clench and it’s clear that he senses something has just happened.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.

Rachel coughs and pulls herself together. “I’m fine, I guess. I, uh, took a spill.”

The security guard offers her his hand and helps her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she says and winces in pain.

“Are you sure you’re OK, ma’am?” he asks.

“Yes, fine!”

The security guard looks at her oddly for a moment and again at the man hurrying away. She can tell that he’s wondering if she’s some kind of shill in a bank-robbery attempt. His hand drifts toward his gun.

“Thank you so much,” she says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’m not used to heels. So much for making a good impression at the bank!”

The guard relaxes. “No one saw you but me,” he says. “I don’t know how you walk in those things.”

“This is a joke I tell my daughter: ‘What do you call a dinosaur in high heels?’”

“What?”

“‘My-feet-are-saurus.’ She never laughs. She never laughs at my dumb jokes.”

The guard smiles. “Well, I think it’s funny.”

“Thank you again,” Rachel says. She fixes her hair, goes inside the bank, and asks to see Colin Temple, the manager.

Temple’s an older guy who used to live out on the island before moving into town. He and Rachel had attended each other’s barbecues, and Marty had gone fishing with him on his boat. Colin hadn’t screwed her over the couple of times she had missed mortgage payments since the divorce.

“Rachel O’Neill, as I live and breathe,” he says with a grin. “Oh, Rachel, why do birds suddenly appear every time that you’re near?”

Because they’re actually carrion crows and I’m one of the goddamn undead, she thinks but doesn’t say. “Good morning, Colin, how are you?”

“I’m fine. What can I do for you, Rachel?”

She swallows the pain of the gut punch and forces a half smile onto her lips. “I’m in a bit of trouble, and I wonder if we can have a talk.”

They repair to the manager’s office, which is decorated with yacht pictures and tiny intricate model boats that Colin has made himself. There are several photos of a snot-nosed King Charles spaniel that she can’t for the life of her remember the name of. Colin leaves the door a little bit ajar and sits behind his desk. Rachel sits opposite and tries to put a pleasant expression on her face.

“What can I do to help?” Colin asks, still pretty cheery but with suspicion creeping into his eyes.

“Well, it’s the house, Colin. That roof above the kitchen is leaking and I had a contractor in yesterday and he said the whole thing will have to be replaced before it snows or it all might come down.”

“Really? It looked OK last time I was out there.”

“I know. But it’s the original roof. From the 1930s. And it leaks every winter. And now it’s just a danger. To us, I mean. To me and Kylie. And also, you know, to the house. You guys have the mortgage and if the house was destroyed, your asset wouldn’t be worth anything,” she says and even manages a little fake laugh.

“How much does your contractor say he’ll need?”

Rachel had thought about asking for the full twenty-five thousand but that seems ridiculous for a roof job. She has nothing in her savings account, but she can charge ten grand on her Visa. She’ll worry about paying off the bill when Kylie is home safe.