Boston Noir by Dennis Lehane

he trailed away with the light and started heavily up the stairs. She heard the door close, heard him tinkling, heard the toilet flush, and now the tub was filling with water.
    She had to call somebody, needed to call somebody. But when she picked up the phone and put it to her ear, she saw that it was dead and that the line was cut.
    Motherfucker! she thundered up at him, the panic eating at her now. Where was her cell, where the fuck was her cell? She scrambled around in the dark, knocking over bottles, crashing into bins; a glass fell on the floor and shattered. Jesus Christ! The terror was at her throat. She couldn't find her purse. She couldn't find her keys. She couldn't find anything at all. She turned Jack Daniel's to her head, gulped down a mouthful, and when that didn't produce the desired result, she swiftly swallowed several more. Fred's favorite sermon was about evil. You had to defeat it, he said. You can never let the seeds of it flourish. It is like cancer, he liked to tell the crowd, the worst, most virulent form, it spreads like wild fire. And when she'd tried to follow his reasoning about what this evil was, it was always the unknown, it was the surprise, and it was the challenge, the unpredictability. He was a careful man, that Fred. She'd left because of her faith, or maybe her lack of it. She didn't have conviction. She didn't have belief. She didn't have strong boundaries against evil, and how could she when she was always so curious about the unknown?
    Suddenly there were footsteps thudding up the stairs at the front of the house. There were voices out there, men talking, there was banging on the front door again, banging on the glass, and she stood up with a start, her heart pounding again. This time the bell was ringing too, and she sat down and got up again, she heard sirens wailing outside, and whirling lights filled the room. It was the police. She ran to the door with the candle; she flung it open wide with a wild and certain joy.
    Officer?
    He was young and fat, his cheeks like apples.
    Ma'am? He sounded surprised to see her. Maybe it was because she was black, or because she was in her duster, with her hair unsuppressed about her face. Ma'am, he said again, sorry to bother you.
    Her face must've looked weary at this point. And she was weary.
    Ma'am. He thrust a picture in her face. Ma'am, this man is very dangerous. Just escaped from Walpole. Maximum security. We're going around the neighborhood looking for him. We have the stolen car outside, so we know he isn't far. Have you seen anyone?
    She felt faint suddenly. She remembered when they came for Russell, fifteen of them for one little nineteen-year-old boy. She must've rocked unsteadily, for the officer caught her under the arms.
    You're okay, ma'am?
    She opened her mouth to speak, to tell them that the piece of shit they were looking for was upstairs now in her tub, naked as the day he was born, that she'd patched him up, patched up the arm nice and good and extracted the bullet, and how did he thank her, he cut the telephone wire, that's what he did, he cut the wire. And despite herself, despite herself, she yawned loud and staggering. Then she yawned again and again, as if her brain needed an extraordinary amount of oxygen.
    Sorry to wake you, ma'am. It's just that the stolen car is right outside.
    She paused to peer into the night but all she saw were the circling lights from the police cars and Russell spread-eagle, fifteen guns pointed at his head. And then, in the distance, George's house, and faces pressed against the windows watching.
    Look, ma'am, if anyone comes by asking for help, do not let him in, do you hear me? We might have shot him, and he might be bleeding. In fact, call us at once, call 911. I'm Officer Derrick. Tom Derrick. He took her hand, which was limp and slightly damp. Sorry to bother you like this. He was about to walk away and then he reconsidered.
    Ma'am, we're just going to take a look around the back; make sure