Chapter Seventy-Seven

Furyk let the girl’s words hang in the air. He’d seen smaller people do bigger damage than stab a man a dozen times. Carl Wick’s murder had been one of rage, yet the high-schooler in front of him looked capable of little more than being pissed off that she’d been grounded by her mom for a week. But the girl also looked like she’d been through hard times, been on the street, and seen the side of men that usually only surfaced behind closed, locked doors.

Felicia filled the silence with sniffles to keep her runny nose from dripping further. Resilience in her voice belied any hesitancy in confessing to murder. “He took a while to die. It hurt a lot, I think.” She looked Furyk in the eye and whipped her head to throw back the hair that had lost most of its dampness from the morning. “I hope so.”

He held her gaze, which was more determined than defiant. “Why?”

Her smooth forehead creased as she made a face like a bad taste had appeared in her mouth. “Because he…he was a…” Furyk interrupted.

“No, I mean why did you come back? Why are you here?” The reason for killing Wick was less compelling than why she would walk up to the house where she committed a capital crime and ring the doorbell after being free for days, with no one looking for her or knowing of her existence. Furyk still hadn’t answered her implied question as to whether he was a cop and was going to take her to jail.

She wrinkled her nose in confusion about why he cared that she was back instead of wanting to know why she’d been here that night. A sliver of trust showed in her face. “Mrs. Wick, she was gonna be in trouble. It’s not…not her fault Dr. Wick is a – was a – pig.” She spat “pig” like she was getting the bad taste out of her mouth.

A sensitive killer, with a cheerleader face and split-ends. She’d do well with a jury, he thought. Mainly, she’d take Merrill out of the eye of the storm. But if Merrill didn’t kill her husband, then what was the connection to someone making a try on Furyk’s life? Maybe it was just a coincidence. Merrill wasn’t the connection and he’d have to look somewhere else for the explanation.

“How was he a pig?” Instead of sitting on a stool next to the girl, he should have been calling the cops. A little while longer wouldn’t make a difference, and he wanted to see if her story held up. She could just be an attention hound who’d read the papers and thought a little notoriety would get her some cash and a place to stay. Maybe even piss off her parents who probably wouldn’t let her go out on a date with some guy who rode a motorcycle – teen rebellion par excellence. Furyk tried to look sympathetic and understanding.

“He was my doctor, my psychiatrist, I guess. They made me go see him, instead of going to juvenile hall.” Furyk’s stomach tightened every time he heard that phrase, despite the passage of decades. She didn’t notice. “First coupla times he was nice, friendly. Asked me about a lot of stuff. My parents and all. Like he cared.” The sour taste had returned to her mouth. “Then he started touching me. Not sexy or anything. Just holding my hand. Or touching my cheek.” Her resilience began to recede. She reached for the mug of cooling hot chocolate, but didn’t pick it up.

“Then he told me he had a friend who could help, could help me get better – do better.” Furyk remained stone faced, knowing what was coming. “He gave me an address. Real nice house. The guy was nice, too. At first.” She stopped, as if that were enough. But Furyk needed to hear the whole thing.

“Felicia.” She wasn’t surprised that he knew her name. “Felicia, tell me what happened.”

The defiant teenager returned. “He gave me booze, and a pill in it, I think. I said no a couple of times after that, that I didn’t want to touch him or do those other things. But he didn’t stop. It hurt.” Now she glared at Furyk, who was just another man who was going to tell her what to do. “I saw Dr. Wick the next day and he acted like it was totally okay. Except he wasn’t as nice as before. He was kinda mean. And he gave me another address. The house was bigger. And the man was meaner.”

Felicia pulled down the shirt on her right shoulder, pale skin ringed with red where the wet line of the collar had irritated the skin. Lower down, midway between clavicle and breast, was an angry circular welt. It was the size of a nickel. Or the lit end of a cigar.

“The next night I came here and killed Dr. Wick.”

Furyk sensed someone behind him. He turned and watched a tear stream down Merrill’s face as she stood in the doorway. She had been staring at the girl’s lips, as though trying to read them hoping they would say something different from the words coming out of her mouth. Her gaze slowly shifted to Furyk and she gave him a wan smile as her knees collapsed and she sank to the cold floor.

Furyk was half off the stool to try to catch her before he registered the image that appeared behind Merrill as she fell to the ground. An arm extended, a small, ugly pistol aiming into the room and then the sharp sound of a bullet exploding out of the barrel.