Page 12 of The Chain

The First National Bank on State Street in downtown Newburyport opens at 9:30 a.m. Rachel paces the sidewalk near the bank entrance and puffs on her Marlboro.

State Street is deserted except for a very pale, nervous, older man wearing a heavy coat and a Red Sox cap who is walking toward her.

Their eyes meet as he stops in front of her.

“Are you Rachel O’Neill?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies.

The man swallows hard and pulls his cap lower. “I’m supposed to tell you that I’ve been off The Chain for a year now. I’m supposed to tell you that because I did as I was told, my family is safe. I’m supposed to tell you that there are hundreds of people like me who can be recruited to bring you a message if The Chain thinks you or anyone in your family needs a message.”

“I get it.”

“You’re—you’re not pregnant, are you?” the man asks hesitantly, seemingly going off script for a moment.

“No,” Rachel replies.

“Then this is your message,” he says and, without warning, punches her in the stomach.

The air is knocked out of her and Rachel crumples to the ground. He is surprisingly strong, and the pain is terrible. It takes her ten seconds to get her breath back. She looks up at the man in incomprehension and fear.

“I’m supposed to tell you that if you need further proof of our reach, you should Google the Williams family of Dover, New Hampshire. You won’t see me again but there are many others out there like me. Do not attempt to follow me,” the man says and with tears of shame running down his cheeks, he turns and walks quickly back down the street.

Just then the bank door opens and the security guard sees her sprawled on the ground. He looks at the man hurrying away from her; his fists clench and it’s clear that he senses something has just happened.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.

Rachel coughs and pulls herself together. “I’m fine, I guess. I, uh, took a spill.”

The security guard offers her his hand and helps her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she says and winces in pain.

“Are you sure you’re OK, ma’am?” he asks.

“Yes, fine!”

The security guard looks at her oddly for a moment and again at the man hurrying away. She can tell that he’s wondering if she’s some kind of shill in a bank-robbery attempt. His hand drifts toward his gun.

“Thank you so much,” she says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’m not used to heels. So much for making a good impression at the bank!”

The guard relaxes. “No one saw you but me,” he says. “I don’t know how you walk in those things.”

“This is a joke I tell my daughter: ‘What do you call a dinosaur in high heels?’”

“What?”

“‘My-feet-are-saurus.’ She never laughs. She never laughs at my dumb jokes.”

The guard smiles. “Well, I think it’s funny.”

“Thank you again,” Rachel says. She fixes her hair, goes inside the bank, and asks to see Colin Temple, the manager.

Temple’s an older guy who used to live out on the island before moving into town. He and Rachel had attended each other’s barbecues, and Marty had gone fishing with him on his boat. Colin hadn’t screwed her over the couple of times she had missed mortgage payments since the divorce.

“Rachel O’Neill, as I live and breathe,” he says with a grin. “Oh, Rachel, why do birds suddenly appear every time that you’re near?”

Because they’re actually carrion crows and I’m one of the goddamn undead,she thinks but doesn’t say. “Good morning, Colin, how are you?”