The Second Girl(45)

I turn to look at Edgar. He’s too scared to look back.

By the time the song ends I got this worked out in my head.

I turn the radio off and head to I-95 to make my way back to DC.





Forty-one



I know Edgar’s gonna say something. Kids like him are stupid that way. I don’t wanna have to smack him down or do something else to hurt him while I’m driving, so I lay out the story for him.

First I ask, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I’m only seventeen.”

“Then you’re old enough to make big decisions.”

His lips purse and his jaw muscles tighten. He’s struggling hard to hold back those big-boy tears.

“You’re gonna have approximately forty-five minutes to consider what I’m about to tell you. I might already know the answers to some of the questions I’m gonna ask, so I want you to be real careful about what you say. You’re no use to me if you lie.”

He sniffles and says something unintelligible.

“I need to know you understand me, Edgar.”

“I understand. Please tell me what this is about.”

I smack him hard on the side of his face with the back of my hand. Not enough to make him bleed, but hard enough that it stings like shit and he’ll have a bruise to show for it.

“You don’t ask me questions. Only give answers.”

“Yes,” he says through clenched teeth.

“What’s your friend’s name, the dude you walked into the park with?”

“Sir, he’s just a friend of mine. He smokes sometimes and hangs with me there, but that’s all.”

“Fuck, are you a moron?” And I raise the back of my hand again.

“Greg,” he blurts, before I can smack him. “His name is Greg.”

“Greg what? Give me a last name.”

“Greg Thomas.”

“Okay, then.”

It doesn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get to the Wilson Bridge. I take the exit for I-295 to DC. After a couple of miles, I pass the police academy on the right. Haven’t seen that building in a bit. There are some good memories there for sure.

I follow the same route as I did the first time I went to the Anacostia River.

Aside from the occasional whimper, Edgar is surprisingly quiet. But when I make that turn to enter the deserted park area, I can hear his labored breathing.

I stop at the spot where I kicked Jordan Super Fly into the river.

I put the car in park and turn off the ignition.

“If this has to do with what I’m doing, I’ll stop. I swear I’ll stop,” he snivels.

I raise my hand to smack him again. He tucks his chin into his chest, expecting it, but I don’t follow through.

“Tell me why you think you’re here.”

He has an expression like he has to consider what I asked, like he just realized I might be fishing for information I don’t have.

“You tell me,” he says bravely.

This time I do smack him, but harder, and he didn’t have time to prepare. Blood trickles from his left nostril.

I grab him by the back of his neck and have to lean over the console to push him against the passenger door.

“You think you’re a f*cking tough boy?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “I ask. You answer. It’s that simple. And that’s the last time I’ll say that. Tell me why do you think you’re here?”

“The weed, sir, because of the weed.”

“No, little man, that’s not it. I don’t give a shit about you and your cute boyfriend dealing weed in the woods. If that were the case, he’d be here with you.”

I let go of him, grab the key out of the ignition, then my backpack, and step out of the car. I walk around, open his door, and drag his crying ass out.

He pleads with me.

“Get on your knees,” I order him.

“Please, please. Whatever you want, just please.”

“Get on your f*cking knees,” I say, helping him to his knees so he’s at the edge of the steep bank and facing the river.

I stay behind him so he can’t fully see me.

I unzip the pack, find a photograph of Miriam, and reach over his shoulder so it’s in front of his face.

“Remember, I’ll only ask once, so be very careful about lying.”

I put the photo back in the pack, pull my Glock outta the holster, and put the barrel to his head with enough pressure so he knows what it is.

“Oh God…”

“Tell me her name,” I say, pushing the barrel hard enough so his head tips with it.

“Miriam! Miriam!”

I take the gun away from his head.

“I’m her uncle,” I say, in a way that even convinces me, and since I’m on a roll, I go with the story in my head. “Now I’ll tell you something. I know all about the shit you do. I’ve followed you to the house in DC where your buddies live. Because of what I do, things like this come easy to me. You know what I mean?”

He cries again. I don’t expect an answer.

“Where is Miriam?”

“I don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know.”

“Then you’re no use to me.”