Scott Free, Page 3

  Hanlon turned to John and Susan.

  “Before we move forward, I want you to know something.” He paused, looked at the floor. “I lost my son in a car accident years ago. He was eight. I don’t want you to think I know the exact kind of pain you’re feeling right now. I can’t. How you lost your kid and how I lost mine, they’re very different things. But I know that feeling of emptiness, of…”

  He caught himself. The memory was choking him up already. The thought of Chris, and the way he laughed, and how he was showing an interest in music and talked about wanting to learn guitar—it suddenly became too much. He closed his eyes, focused on the task at hand.

  “There’s a kind of hurt that only a parent who lost a child knows,” Hanlon said.

  John seemed to soften. “What is this?” he asked.

  “The system failed,” Hanlon said. “I failed. A killer is back on the street. I propose we take him off it.”

  “You mean kill him,” John said, his face lighting up a little.

  Hanlon nodded.

  “How did you even know we would be here?” John asked.

  “After that display at the courthouse today, I figured there was no stopping you,” Hanlon said. “Despite what you may think, I’m actually pretty good at my job.”

  “This is a lot to take in,” Susan said, pressing a hand to her chest.

  “It is,” Hanlon said. “And we don’t have to do it. We can end this conversation right here, right now, and all go our separate ways. But if we do follow through on this, we need to make a promise to each other. What’s discussed and decided stays in this room. Just between us. No one else.”

  There was a sniffle behind them.

  Hanlon froze.

  Someone else was in the room.

  His hand went to the inside of his jacket. His age was catching up with him. He should have been paying more attention. Listening more closely. He’d pushed the front door closed, but he should have locked it.

  He turned to find Paul and Daisy Zhou, the parents of Mei, the second victim, standing in the hallway. The two of them so small in the hallway, standing apart from each other.

  He didn’t need to ask how much they had heard.

  Their wide-eyed expressions of shock made that pretty clear.

  Chapter 6

  Thomas Scott

  THOMAS STOOD BEFORE the glittering rainbow of liquor bottles. He didn’t usually like liquor. Being in the cramped aisles of the store made him feel like a kid. Small. He kept his arms at his side, for fear of knocking something over and getting yelled at. He wished he could have stopped into a deli for some beer, but he had a beer every now and again, and he knew he needed something stronger.

  He remembered when he was younger, doing a shot of tequila forced on him by some older kids at a party, and expelling the contents of his stomach across a table. Everyone laughed at him, and the girl who lived in the house forced him to clean it up in his stumbling, drunken state. Mopping up his vomit while a group of people stared and laughed—it was the only time in his life he wasn’t happy to be cleaning something.

  No tequila.

  He came across the rums, which seemed like a safe bet. Rum was made from sugar, so it would be a little sweet. He picked the cheapest bottle he could find off the shelf and hefted it, looked around to see if there was any soda, something to mix it with.

  Finding nothing, he approached the counter and placed the bottle down next to the register. A young Korean woman with glasses and long black hair picked up the bottle and scanned it, said, “Nineteen ninety-five.”

  Thomas pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on the counter. The woman picked it up and furrowed an eyebrow at him. “You look really familiar, you know that?”

  Thomas panicked, tried to say something, but found his mouth had gone dry, like he’d been sucking on a wad of cotton. He looked down and away, trying to hide his face. Wishing there was a hole in the floor he could crawl into.

  “You’re the guy from the news,” she said. “You’re that guy who killed those kids!” She looked past Scott and yelled, “Hey, Reggie, get out here!”

  “Ma’am, I just want to—”

  “No, you get out of here, right now,” she said. “Reggie! Get this guy out of here.”

  Thomas turned and saw that the other customers in the store were staring now, looking at him with a mix of fear and revulsion. Some of them pulled out smartphones and held them up in his direction, taking pictures or filming him.

  Then he saw a big black guy, built like a refrigerator with muscles, cutting through the aisles and headed in his direction.

  Thomas figured he wasn’t getting his change. He gripped the neck of the bottle and ran for the door, flinging it open into an older woman in a puffy black coat. The door hit her with a loud bang and the glass cracked. She cried out as she was thrown back onto the pavement. Thomas stooped to help her, trying to apologize. He felt terrible. He should have been paying attention.

  “Get the hell off her!” someone yelled.

  Thomas looked back and saw that Reggie was almost outside now. He didn’t look like he was in the mood for a polite conversation. The woman on the ground was screaming and scrambling to get away from him, more afraid than anything else.

  So Thomas ran.

  He tried to outrun the feeling, but couldn’t: he wasn’t safe anywhere.

  Couldn’t even go out to the store without being recognized. And while that thought should have made him upset, that the place he’d called home his whole life would suddenly turn on him, it just made him angry.

  He’d only ever been nice, tried to help, and this was his reward.

  As he pumped his legs, throwing himself forward into the night, raindrops pelting his face, all he wanted to do was hurt someone. Channel that anger into something. The thought of that impulse filled him with shame, but he couldn’t help how he felt.

  Some things, you just can’t help.

  Chapter 7

  Daisy Zhou

  DAISY COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was hearing.

  She could feel Paul’s apprehension, the way he reached over and gripped her hand. But she was glad they’d come here. Glad the door was ajar and they’d come in at this exact moment.

  Making that bastard pay. The idea alone was exhilarating. Ever since Mei had died, Daisy had felt like she was treading water. Just struggling to stay afloat, and constantly exhausted. Sometimes she’d doze off at her desk, head jerking forward and bumping her computer monitor.

  And as much as she hated to admit it, she felt herself drifting away from her husband. The death of their daughter cast their relationship in a new, unflattering light. She looked at a man like John Kennelly and saw someone who was broken, but at least trying to put the pieces back together.

  Paul just sat on his chair in the den, staring off into space. Barely checking in at the Forest Avenue coffee shop they owned, never lifting a hand to help around the house. It was like he’d given up. They still had another child, and she was exhausting herself keeping the household together.

  Thinking about Scott dead filled her with energy.

  It was the best she had felt in months.

  She imagined what it would be like. How they would do it. If she would get to contribute. Fire a bullet or plunge a knife. She was shocked at how little she cared about the consequences.

  Because it would be for Mei, and that would make it worth it.

  Paul sniffed, because he would never blow his nose when she asked. He didn’t like tissues. Just sucked it back up into his nose like a kid. That’s when everyone turned. Which was good, because at that point Daisy wasn’t sure how to broach the fact that they were standing there.

  No one spoke. No one even moved, like it was a television show and someone had hit the Pause button. After a few moments John stood up.

  “How much did you hear?” he asked.

  “All of it,” Daisy said.

  “Why are you here?” Hanlon asked, his fa
ce twisted in confusion.

  Before Daisy could respond, Kat said, “I texted them. I told them to meet us.”

  Hanlon turned to her, his mouth hanging open. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Because they deserve to be a part of it,” Kat said.

  Hanlon shook his head. “I should never have done this. I should have handled this myself. This is getting out of control.”

  Daisy stepped forward. “Wait.”

  She let go of Paul’s hand, looked back at him, and nodded. Then she turned to the rest of the group. “We want in.”

  “Now hold on…” Paul said, putting his hand on Daisy’s shoulder.

  “He took our daughter,” Daisy whispered. “Our little girl, Paul.”

  “This isn’t the way,” Paul said, shaking his head. “This isn’t right.”

  “And what is right?” asked John, his voice thick with emotion. “That he got off on a technicality? What about when the next kid dies? Will it be right then? Because I think the next kid who dies is on us. Getting caught is just going to make him more careful.”

  “John’s right,” said Susan, looking down at her hands, wringing them together.

  Hanlon exhaled. Daisy held her breath. The detective was weary, regretful. Worst of all, he looked to be reconsidering. But finally he shook his head.

  “If we’re going to do this, we need each other’s backs,” Hanlon said. “We need to be in agreement. So if anyone is having second thoughts, please say something now.”

  “I’m not so sure about this,” Paul said, raising his hand.

  Daisy cringed, and pushed her body against his, trying to get him to shut up. Once upon a time, she had appreciated that he was so thoughtful. That he was a man of high moral fiber who thought things through carefully and deliberately.

  This wasn’t the time for him to be such a damn bleeding heart.

  There was only one heart she wanted to bleed.

  Kat said, “We should tell him.”

  “Tell us what?” Paul asked, hesitant.

  “He didn’t just have pictures of the three of them,” said Kat. “There was a fourth picture.”

  Hanlon put his hands on his hips, looked at the floor, and sighed. “We thought it might be his next victim.”

  Daisy knew it was coming before Hanlon said it. The way Paul gripped her hand, squeezing it so hard it hurt, he seemed to get it, too.

  “He had a picture of your son, Jian,” Hanlon said. “Mei’s twin brother.”

  Daisy felt the breath leave her body. Her head spun. She turned to her husband. Paul’s mouth parted and twisted, like something terrible was about to escape. Then he clamped his lips together and nodded his head, his eyes suddenly cold.

  “We’re in,” he said, before grabbing Daisy’s hand and yanking her out of the room.

  Chapter 8

  Paul Zhou

  PAUL TOOK THE turn at high speed, nearly sending their beige minivan skidding off the slick roadway. His stomach rocked but he didn’t care. He had to get home. It was like the fog in his head had lifted and suddenly everything in front of him was clear.

  He had to make sure Jian was safe.

  “Let’s try to get there in one piece,” Daisy said from the passenger seat.

  “I thought you were a thrill seeker all of a sudden,” Paul said. “Plotting to kill a man and all that.”

  “You mean to tell me you haven’t thought about killing him?”

  Paul drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for a light to turn green. Of course he had. How could he not? But every time he approached the idea, it made him ill. It wasn’t their job to take the law into their own hands. This wasn’t the old West. There was a system in place for a reason.

  Even if the system didn’t always get it right…

  He didn’t blame Daisy for the way she felt, he would give her that. But he was worried. She’d been the rock of this relationship. He’d never felt closer to her, admiring the way she kept things together. With the house, with Jian, with him. He wanted to support her. But this felt like too much.

  The light turned green and Paul pressed down on the gas. He didn’t answer his wife. He didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to get home.

  “Just call Pammy again, okay?” he asked.

  Daisy pecked at the screen of her phone and held it up to her ear. It’s not even like they were far, less than three minutes now, probably.

  That’s why it happened. Scott must have been watching their house. Waiting until Paul was in the basement doing laundry, and Daisy was making breakfast, and the twins were playing. Finding a perfect instant when Jian wasn’t paying attention, and he lured Mei out of the house. That’s how he must have done it.

  He thought about Mei. How she was the one with boundless energy, while Jian was quiet, more reserved. He and Daisy had wanted to pay respect to their heritage, so they gave their children traditional Chinese names. Jian meant “strong,” and Mei meant “beautiful.” They were an inseparable unit, the two of them.

  And now, a broken one.

  Paul turned onto his block and gunned the engine. A car swerved out of the way, and the driver leaned on the horn as the call connected and Daisy said, “Pammy? Are you there? Is Jian okay?” Her voice was shaking.

  Paul pulled the car up to the front of the house, not even bothering to turn it off, and bounded into the house. The front door wasn’t locked. That alone made him furious. Pammy was supposed to lock the door behind them. He should have done it himself.

  He rushed inside and saw Pammy sitting on the couch with her phone held up to her head, a confused expression on her face, a horror movie playing on the television. He’d deal with her later.

  He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door of the twins’ room, and saw just a rumple of blankets on Jian’s bed.

  He pulled them away, throwing them over his shoulder, and saw the boy curled up around his sister’s favorite toy, a stuffed octopus she called Charlie.

  Paul fell to his knees and put his hands on Jian, relief flooding him.

  The boy woke up, confused, and Paul crawled onto the bed and pulled him close. Across the room, in the dim green glow of the nightlight, he could make out Mei’s empty bed, still unmade, her polka-dot footie pajamas bunched up by the pillow.

  He and Daisy didn’t yet have the strength to move them.

  Daisy appeared in the doorway. She sat on the edge of the bed and patted Jian, who had already fallen asleep again, oblivious to Paul’s panic.

  “Pammy is okay staying the night,” she said. “I told her we’re staying with friends and needed a night away. I thought I would need a better excuse, but she’s okay with it.”

  “You need to tell her to lock the door,” Paul said, brushing away a tear. “She has to lock all the doors and set the alarm. You need to tell her. I don’t think I can do it without losing it.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Daisy said, and she climbed into bed behind Paul, put her arm around him and Jian. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

  Paul couldn’t help but glance up at the window. They were on the second floor, but he felt like he would see Scott standing there, staring in at them, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

  He didn’t see anything, of course, just the tree in the front yard, but that didn’t make him feel any safer.

  “You know we need to do this, right?” Daisy asked. “It’s not even about revenge anymore. It’s about protecting our son.”

  Paul nodded.

  “I know,” he said.

  And he did. He didn’t care about the legality, or the philosophical implications. None of that mattered. He would do whatever it took to keep Jian safe.

  Chapter 9

  Staten Island Register

  Breaking news update

  Playground Killer suspect spotted at Rosebank liquor store

  Thomas Scott, the suspected Playground Killer who was released from custody earlier today, was spotted around 6:30 p.m. at Staten Isla
nd’s Best Wine & Liquor in Rosebank.

  Witnesses say he was buying a bottle of alcohol and menacing the clerk, and may have assaulted a woman on his way out of the store. The police have yet to respond to a request for comment from the Register. A phone call made to the store wasn’t answered.

  A judge ruled earlier today that the evidence being used against Scott in the murder of three Staten Island children was inadmissible, because it was collected by someone in an illegal search, at the direction of a police officer.

  Law enforcement sources say they still consider Scott to be a suspect. The 37-year-old janitor appeared to be smiling as his lawyer led him from the courthouse to a waiting car this afternoon.

  Keep an eye on the Register website for up-to-the-minute updates.

  Chapter 10

  John Kennelly

  JOHN SAT SHOTGUN as Detective Hanlon drove them south on the West Shore Expressway. Through the darkness, John could make out two tanks of liquefied natural gas looming on the horizon.

  Hanlon said, “Here we go.”

  John looked at the tanks—rusted behemoths that had been decommissioned decades ago. They were nothing but an eyesore, and for years politicians had promised to tear them down and replace them with a shopping plaza and housing, but plans never came to fruition.

  The tanks just sat there, getting rustier, like sentries on the side of the highway, guarding Rossville, which was mostly auto shops, industrial sites, and the recently closed Arthur Kill Correctional Facility.

  Hanlon pulled off the expressway, and after a couple of turns, maneuvered the car down the dirt pathway. The sun was dipping below the horizon, the sky cast purple. They were surrounded by high weeds on either side, and before long John couldn’t even see the road behind them.