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The way he taunts me ignites something in the pit of my stomach. All the rage and frustration that’s been bottled up suddenly comes pouring out, and it’s all directed at Mooney. “I think they’re going to cart your ass back to prison wh
ere you belong.”
“We should talk about that,” he says.
“What would it take?” Greg asks. “To get you to leave town and leave us alone?”
“How funny. You think I can be bought.” He snorts. “You’re exactly the kind of person who thinks money can just make all of your problems float away.”
“I’m sure that we can work something out,” Greg says.
“And I’m sure your absurd ideology makes you a target,” Mooney retorts. “Money isn’t everything. Sometimes other things can be equally satisfying…take revenge, for example.” He glances in my direction and then at Greg. “And anyway, if you’d done your homework, you’d know I’m not in need of your charity.”
“I think what my husband is looking for is a solution.” My voice comes out more threatening than I intend, angrier too, and for a second, I am proud.
“Ah. Speaking of solutions. Take prison. There’s a different sort of system in there, you know. Different kinds of exchanges are made. Mostly it’s all about power. Gives a man a lot of time to think, if you know what I mean?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Greg says.
On one hand, I see a different version of my husband than I’m used to seeing. Businessman Greg. On the other, I see the familiar, and it strikes me that he has no idea what he’s leading himself into. I sat on that jury. For the better part of a week, I listened to the details of Mooney’s crimes. I know exactly what he’s capable of.
Jack Mooney slowly cocks his head to the right and rubs at his chin. Then, he too widens his stance. “It’s often said that you can’t fix yourself by breaking someone else. Prison will teach you real quick that’s a big fat lie.”
“I can offer you ten grand.”
“Ten grand?”
Ten grand? I’m thinking what Jack Mooney is thinking. Only I’m thinking it because we don’t have that kind of money.
Mooney considers my husband’s offer for a quick minute. “Do you know what it’s like to be bent over a toilet with your head in the bowl as God knows how many men have their way with you?” He glances from me to Greg and back. “No, I didn’t think so.” The corners of his mouth turn upward. “Well, let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. Only positive thing to come of something like that is you spend a bit of time in the infirmary. Gives you a little reprieve from the daily beatings. Either way, it’s all bad, trust me. But nothing is quite as bad as that first time. You should watch your back, Stone,” he says.
“Are you threatening me?” Greg scoffs. A silly question, all things considered. He’s clearly rattled. His logic isn’t as readily available as he’d like it to be.
“That’s the worst part of it…” Mooney smiles. “The waiting. You never really know when that first time is coming. You just know that it is.”
Chapter Sixteen
We have to do something, I insist over and over to Greg on the drive home. The sun is setting, traffic is light, and the mood is heavy. As the city and then the track neighborhoods give way to rolling hills, my frustration morphs into tears. He tries to calm me, to reassure me, but if there’s anything my husband is allergic to, it’s sweeping displays of emotion. His reaction makes it abundantly clear. He doesn’t know what to do anymore than he knows how to handle my outpouring of emotion. He cannot carry my fear and his too.
“It’s okay,” he tells me. He turns on the radio, only to turn it off again. I give him a moment to collect his thoughts.
Instead of telling him that he is wrong, that nothing is okay, that nothing may ever be okay again, or that Jack Mooney is capable of anything, I let him have his silence. Even though I desperately want to hear him agree, while there is still time, while our destiny has not yet been fixed. And what else can Jack Mooney do? Other than what he has planned to do, convinced that whatever action he takes is justified? To me, it feels like the wheels have been set in motion. I don’t see him reversing course. Odds are, he’ll step on the gas. I shift in my seat, craning my neck to peer out the back window. “Do you think he’s following us?”
“No.”
“Have you checked the rearview mirror? Maybe we should make a couple of false turns just to be sure.”
“Amy—” He places his hand on mine. “It doesn’t matter.” He speaks slowly and calmly, as though he’s talking to an animal that might spook. “He knows where we live.”
My mouth gapes open. I know this. Of course, I know it. It’s my husband’s resignation I am not prepared for. “So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “Something else. Something different.”
“Something different,” I repeat solemnly.
I stare out the window, unable to stop myself from glancing at the occupants of the passing cars when I can. I wonder about the problems the occupants face: The timing of Thanksgiving dinner, the places they need to be. The overbearing in-laws, the alcoholic sister they hope behaves, the uncle who insists on bringing up politics at the dinner table, the nephew who’s allergic to everything. Whatever it is, I highly doubt it’s anything of this magnitude.
The closer we get to home, the more I wonder if I’m ever going to hit gold status, or if I’m going to spend countless hours chasing my tail, showing up for buyers that don’t exist while fellow agents push ahead.
