
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living, dead, or somewhere in-between, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2011 by John Rector.
All rights reserved.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First eBook Edition: September 2011
Published by John Rector
Cover Design by John Hornor Jacobs
Praise for
"A whirlpool of greed, betrayal, depravity, viciousness, and violence. Characters gradually reveal alarming proclivities, and portents of disaster accumulate like wind-driven snow. Rector's spare, unadorned style makes these portents and proclivities even more jarring. A sly and very accomplished first novel."
---Booklist
"Terrific narrative and real compelling style... a cross between James Crumley and A Simple Plan."
---Ken Bruen Shamus Award-winning author of The Guards
"The Cold Kiss is a slice of tragicomic noir Americana, a spiraling tale of bad luck and viciousness leavened only by author John Rector's savage glee at the ever-worsening state of his protagonists' circumstances. One of the best debuts I've read in a very long time."
---Scott Phillips, award-winning author of The Ice Harvest
"Tense, taut, and throat-grabbing... Reads like a cross between No Country for Old Men and Deliverance."
---Eric Van Lustbader, New York Times bestselling author
"Clever plotting and spare prose... Dean Koontz fans will find much to like in Rector's debut."
---Publisher's Weekly
"There's no better place to spend a few imaginative hours these days than Rector's snowbound motel."
---National Review
Praise for
"Tough, dark, and beautifully told. Great storytelling."
---David Peoples, screenwriter of Unforgiven, Twelve Monkeys, and Blade Runner
"Spare and evocative as a cornfield in autumn, The Grove marks the arrival of a haunting, powerful new voice in contemporary fiction. John Rector writes with deceptive grace, spinning out irresistible prose with a dark pulse between every line. This is psychological suspense at its most seductive. I loved it."
---Sean Doolittle, award-winning author of Dirt, Burn, Rain Dogs, The Cleanup, and Safer
Praise for
"The suspense and plot twists are gripping... This one is hard to put down."
---Library Journal
"ALREADY GONE is a terse, moody thriller by one of the best new writers to enter the scene in a very long time... John Rector is a game changer."
---Spinetingler Magazine
THE
WALLS
AROUND
US
Contents
I've been debating for a while about whether or not to release any of my early short stories. Part of me thought it would be fun to dig them up and push them back out into the world, but until recently, a larger part of me believed they were better off left buried. It wasn't until I began receiving emails from curious readers wanting to know where they could find these early stories, that I seriously considered putting a few of them together in a collection.
With the exception of one lone horror story, this is primarily a collection of mystery, noir, and suspense tales. Each one was written before I ever attempted a novel, and they appear here exactly as I originally wrote them and as they were first published. Some of these stories I hadn't looked at for years, and reading them over again turned out to be a lot more fun than I was expecting.
For anyone interested in where a particular story was originally published, when it was written, or what went into the writing, I'll go over each story in more detail in the afterword. For everyone else, I hope you find something here you enjoy.
Thank you for reading,
JR
I'm usually better at hiding things, but Ava knew something was wrong even before I hung up the phone.
"That was the Department of Corrections," I said. "My father died last night."
Ava didn't say anything, instead she rested her head against my shoulder. It was exactly what I needed. She knew how things were with me and my father, and there was no need for a big display of emotion.
I pushed the sheet back and reached for my pants on the floor.
"Stay home today," she said. "You're already late."
"I can't. Marcus will kill me. I'm already going to hear about this."
"Yeah, but---" She paused. "Today, Jack? Stay home with me and Jacob. Marcus will understand."
She pulled me back into bed, and I let myself be pulled. The morning sun slid between the curtains and dripped, soft and golden, across the sheets. It was nice, and I leaned my head against her stomach and stared up at the ceiling and the sharp white light reflecting in from the world.
For a long time, neither of us spoke. When Ava did, her voice was soft. "Did they say how he died?"
"You know how he died."
"I know," she said. "But was he peaceful? Did he say anything?"
That was just like Ava, always looking for some deeper meaning in everything. My father had lung cancer and had been hacking up clots of blood for months. He never went to a doctor and never said a word to anyone. When he did finally see a doctor during a required six month check-up, they told him it had spread to his brain. And still, he never talked about it. The idea of him saying something that would shine a clarifying light on his life, and somehow make everything okay just didn't click.
He died and that was it.
"I didn't ask," I said.
I knew she wanted to say more. I could feel it just below the surface, and I wasn't ready for that. I looked at the clock and pushed myself up.
"You sure?"
I nodded then looked at her in bed. The shape of her body cutting through the sheet almost made me change my mind, then I thought about Marcus and the diner. Saturday was our busiest day, and he'd be there alone. At seventy-six, Marcus wasn't as quick behind the grill as he'd once been.
I grabbed yesterday's shirt off the floor, smelled it, and slid it on. "I'll be back around three," I said, then leaned in close and kissed her on the forehead. "Don't worry about me."
"I don't worry about you, baby."
She smiled, but I knew she was lying.
On my way out I went into Jacob's room. He was still asleep in his crib. I stood for a moment watching, then I reached in and put my hand on his chest. I knew from experience I could lose hours like that, but right then, feeling the slow back and forth of my son's breathing, I couldn't have cared less.
~
The bus let me off two blocks from the diner, and I walked the rest of the way. As I got closer I saw the flashing lights out front. There was a rooming house across the street, so it wasn't unusual to see cop cars and fire trucks. But this time there were too many of them.
Something was different.
Rita, the morning waitress, saw me before I saw her. She met me halfway down the block.
"They finally did it," she said. "They tried to burn down the God damn building."
Rita was a conspiracy theorist.
"Lewis saw a couple of them sneaking around the alley last night after we closed up, and then this happens." She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. "We're lucky no one was inside when it happened, otherwise someone might've been killed."
Rita read crime novels.
"You know they've been trying to drive us out, and now, they might've succeeded. Marcus is too old to rebuild this place. He's already said he's going to Daytona to live with his sister and---"
I held up my hand and she stopped. "There was a fire?"
"Damn right." She pointed to the rooming house across the street. "And they started it."
"You don't really know that, do you?"
"Lewis said he recognized one of them, and that's good enough for me."
Lewis worked the desk at the rooming house. He was a regular at the diner, and Rita always had a smile for him when he came in. For some reason she didn't associate him with the people who lived in the house.
It was almost cute.
When we got to the diner I saw Marcus standing by the alley. He had his chef's apron around his waist, and he looked thinner than normal. Rita yelled for him, and when he looked back and saw me he frowned.
"Where the hell have you been?"
I didn't answer, didn't even look at him. The entire back end of the diner was gone, all that was left was a mess of black and gray ash. "Did anyone see anything?"
Marcus motioned to Rita who'd wandered over to one of the firemen. "Her friend across the street said he recognized one of the guys, but it don't matter. What's done is done."
"Insurance will cover it."
He shook his head. "I don't have time to wait for insurance." He waved a hand toward what was left of the diner and looked away. "What do I care anyway? I'm sick of the place. I tried to give it to Phil, you know--- after I'm gone, but he don't want it." He paused. "Maybe to sell it, I suppose."
Phil was Marcus's son. The last time I'd seen him, he'd come in the diner asking for money. There had been an argument that looked like it might come to blows. I'd almost jumped between them, but then Marcus stormed out to the cash register and emptied it and handed the cash to Phil who walked out without another word. That was a year ago at least, and from what I've heard not much has changed with him.
"I'd buy the place. You know that."
"I also know you're broke, that's what I know." He turned and pointed at me. "And I wouldn't stick you with this place anyway. You need to get out and find something better for that boy of yours. Stop wasting your time around here."
"This place fits me."
Marcus waved me off and turned away. I watched him move in short steps back to the front of the diner. It was the first time he looked his age, but more than that, it was the first time I'd seen him look broken.
~
Rita had one of the firemen cornered and was telling him her theory about the rooming house. I could tell nothing was getting through, so I joined in.
"Any idea how it started?" I asked.
The fireman looked up at me. "You are?"
"I'm the chef."
He looked over my shoulder at what was left of the diner and smiled. "The chef?"
Even on its best days the diner wasn't much to look at, so I was used to that look. "You ever eat here?"
"Afraid not."
"You missed out."
The fireman frowned.
I smiled. "Who's your boss?"
"What?"
I repeated myself. "I want to talk to someone who can tell me what happened."
"I can tell you that." He took off his helmet and adjusted the strap as he spoke. "Someone planted an incendiary device in the alley. There was a timer, but it must not have worked right. Instead of exploding, it caught fire. You're lucky to have this much left. If it would've gone off like it was supposed to, it would've taken the whole building."
~
I headed down the street to use the payphone outside Miller's Drug store. I wanted to call Ava and let her know I was going to be late. If Lewis had seen someone, I wanted to talk to him before he picked up that day's bottle. I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven.
It would be close.
I'd just reached the phone when I saw Lewis come out of the drug store with a brown bag under his arm.
The phone call would have to wait.
"The guy's name was Charley Taylor," Lewis said as I walked with him back to the rooming house. "I remember him because he was always late with his rent. Also, his mother used to come by almost every day. Man, you should've heard those fights. She would start in on him about how he dressed or the mess he made in his room. She was right about his room, too. Guy was filthy. Still, to have a mother like that... Almost felt bad for the guy."
"But you didn't?"
Lewis took the bag from under his arm and twisted off the cap. "Like I said, he was always late with his rent." He took a drink and held it out for me. I shook my head. "He moved out a couple weeks later."
"Did he leave a forwarding address?"
Lewis smiled. "Are you kidding? No one leaves a forwarding address." He paused then said, "But I probably have his mother's address. After he left, she sent me a check for his back rent. I keep all the canceled checks around for taxes."
When we got back to the rooming house, Lewis disappeared into the office. I called Ava from the front desk and told her I was going to be late. She started to complain, but when I told her why she understood.
"Did you call the cops?" she asked.
"Lewis is looking for an address," I said. "I don't think they'll do anything without something to go on."
"Be careful."
Lewis came out of the office. He smiled and waved a check in the air by his head.
"I'm always careful," I said before I hung up.
The address on the check was in Five Points. I picked up the phone. "You know the number for the cops?"
Lewis smiled. He knew it by heart.
~
I called the police station and asked for Sergeant Greg Nash. He wasn't there, so I talked to another cop who told me to come in and fill out a report. I asked when Sergeant Nash would be back.
"He'll tell you the same thing," the cop said.
"No, he'll actually be helpful."
The cop was silent for a moment then said, "Suit yourself, asshole." And hung up.
~
Marcus let me borrow his car, and I used it to drive into Five Points. At one time or another, most neighborhoods were good neighborhoods. They could boast safe parks, nice lawns, and clean streets. Five Points was never one of those neighborhoods.
I found the address that was printed on the check. Vanessa Taylor lived on the third floor of an apartment complex that looked more like a prison than a prison. Thanks to my father, I'd seen enough of them over the years to know.
I parked the car and got out. Marcus kept a .44 under the driver's seat. I hesitated, but decided to leave it where it was. I didn't think I'd need it, but I was happy to have the option just the same.
When I got to the front door, I looked on the mailbox for a Taylor. The check said she lived in 302, but all the tabs were missing so I couldn't verify. I buzzed 302 and waited.
After a long pause, the speaker clicked and a man's voice came on.
"I'm looking for Vanessa Taylor," I said. "Is this---" The door buzzed before I finished. I barely caught it before it stopped.
The smell inside the building was strong, a mixture of natural gas, cooked meat, and urine. It reminded me of places I'd lived before I met Ava, before things changed for me. I wasn't nostalgic.
There was an elevator at the end of the hall, but I held off for the stairs. I'd made it up the first two flights before I realized they were carpeted. The middle had been worn away to fiber, but you could still see the tiny gold flower design along the edges.
When I got to the top of the stairs I heard a voice to my left.
"Down here."
I looked and saw a shrunken old man leaning out of a doorway. He was thin beyond life and wore a bright orange shirt. The combination made him look like an unlucky hunter. When I got close, he squinted at me.
"You from the Pizza Hut?"
I told him I wasn't.
"God damn speaker doesn't work. Can't hear a God damn thing." He went to close the door and I got my foot in before he could. "If you ain't got my pizza, then I don't have any use for you, boy."
"I'm looking for Vanessa Taylor. Does she still live here?"
He eyed me for a moment, nodded, then turned from the door and shuffled back into the apartment, waving over his shoulder for me to follow. "Hey, Nessie?"
I heard a woman's voice from one of the back rooms.
"Some kid out here to see you."
The woman that came out wasn't what I'd expected. From Lewis's description I thought she's be older, fatter, and come complete with a beehive hairdo. Instead, what I saw was a woman in her mid-40's dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Vanessa Taylor might not have been beautiful, but when she smiled at me it was hard to be sure.
"Do I know you?" She had a white dish towel and was using it to polish a round glass snow globe. "Are you here about the car?"
"Actually, I'm looking for Charley."
The smile disappeared. The transformation was almost frightening. Vanessa Taylor was definitely not a beautiful woman. "Who the hell are you?"
I told her.
"That doesn't mean fuck all to me."
"No reason why it should. Do you know where I find him?"
"You a cop?"
"No."
"Then I'm not telling you shit."
I shrugged. "It's up to you, but Charley knows someone who tried to burn down a Diner on Capitol Hill this morning. I'm trying to find the guy he was with, but if you'd rather talk to the cops I can make them my next stop. They can ask you where he's at."
"Charley didn't burn down no Diner," Vanessa said. "He's been sick."
"Someone saw them together," I said.
"Who?"
The old man came back in. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Vanessa pointed at me with the snow globe. The movement was so quick that at first I thought she was going to throw it at me. It took all I had not to flinch. "This one says Charlie tried to burn down a restaurant."
The old man looked at me, then at the floor. "He was always a bad kid. I'm not surprised."
"Shut the hell up. Charley is a good kid. How the hell do you know anyway? When was the last time you talked to him? When was the last time---"
"Hey." I held up my hand. "Just tell me where I can find him. I just want to know who he was with."
"I'm not telling you shit," Vanessa said, then pointed over my shoulder toward the door. "Get the hell out of here."
The old man, still shaking his head, walked past me and opened the door. "Better go, boy. Talk of Charley brings out the worst in her."
Vanessa turned and disappeared down the hallway.
I headed for the door. As I passed the old man he said, "He really is a fucked up kid. I hope he's not in trouble."
"I'm not trouble for him."
The old man nodded. "In that case, you can find him on 14th and Vine." He gave me an address then pushed the door closed. Before it shut, I heard him say, "Tell him he needs to call his mother."
~
I found the address easy enough, and this time I took the .44 and slid it in my jacket pocket. When I knocked on the door, I heard someone shuffle inside. A moment later a shadow passed behind the peep-hole. It stayed for a while, then a low voice said, "Who is it?"
"Are you Charley?"
"Who are you?"
"Vanessa wanted me to drop off this check for you."
I heard the chain slide almost immediately, and when the door opened I pushed it back --hard, and took the .44 from my pocket.
"What the hell is this?"
I pointed the gun at his head.
He held his hands out. "Jesus Christ, man."
I'd never held a gun on a person before, and I didn't necessarily like the way it felt, but Charley Taylor was big, bigger than me, and I was happy to have the gun.
"Why did you try to blow up the Diner?"
"I didn't try to blow up anything."
"You're right," I said. "You burnt it down."
He shook his head. "That wasn't me, man."
He backed into the apartment and stood pressing himself against the living room wall. There was a faded green couch in the room and he balanced himself against it with one hand.
"Who were you with?"
"I'm telling you, I don't know what you're talking---"
I slid the chamber back on the gun, loading a round, then pressed the barrel against his head. I was thinking about Marcus, and when I did, pointing that gun didn't feel as bad.
"Chris almighty, please, man."
"Who was he?"
"Are you a cop?"
I shook my head. "I'm a chef."
He looked up at me. If he wasn't so scared I swear he might've laughed. "Guy's name is Max. I help him out with jobs once in a while, but I didn't start no fire."
"Max what?"
"No idea."
"What do you know?"
He shook his head. "I know he works for a guy named Rusch who owns a couple strip clubs in Glendale. Max works security, the kind that stays in back."
"I heard the Rusch family got out of that back room shit."
This time Charley did manage to smile. "You heard wrong."
~
I drove across town to a place in Lakewood. The entire way I wondered why a guy who worked for Vince Rusch would want to blow up a diner. It didn't make sense. If the Rush family was still involved in organized crime that was one thing, but even then, what would they want with a shit-hole diner like Marcus's place?
The sign outside Mulligan's recycled goods said you could get anything inside. I also knew you could dispose of anything, too. But that wasn't on the sign.
I parked at the end of the fence and went up a long sidewalk to the front door. When I went inside I heard a delicate chime, and then the smell of grease and dust and age hit me and took me back half a lifetime.
Some places change, but Mulligan's wasn't one of them.
Dave Mulligan had known my father. They'd worked together a few times, did time together, and my dad trusted him. When they were both out of jail at the same time, they'd have weekly card games. I was just a kid, and once in a while I'd get to come along. The game always bored me, so they let me explore the junk lot behind the building. It was a good memory.
I stood in the doorway smiling like an idiot.
"You in or out?" A woman's voice asked.
I glanced over at the counter and smiled, then I let the door close behind me. I walked across the room to where she stood. "I'm looking for Dave," I said.
She thumbed over her shoulder and said, "He's out in the lot, but he'll be back in a few minutes. Anything I can help you with?"
I told her no, and she didn't seem to care. She sat on a wood stool and took a paperback from the shelf next to her. It had one of those windblown covers with a lot of hair and skin and the color red.
"Good book?" I asked.
"Nope," she said, and didn't look up.
I decided to look around.
When Dave came in, he didn't recognize me. I stood at the counter, smiling. He looked up once, frowned, then said, "Help you?"
"Yeah," I said. "I hear you got a card game around here that's easy to beat. I hear you can't bluff worth a shit. Your eye twitches whenever you lie. Is that true?"
Mulligan stared at me, then, after a moment, he smiled and shook his head and said, "Would you look at this mother fucker. All grown up."
~
"I didn't even know he was sick," Mulligan said. "Christ, he was too young."
"That's what you're supposed to say, I guess." We were sitting in his office. He had a refrigerator in back, and he opened it and handed me a beer. It tasted good. "Me and him weren't close."
"Yeah?" He shrugged. "Don't let it get you down. Your old man wasn't close with anyone."
"What about you?"
"What about me? I liked him fine, and I guess he tolerated me. Truth is, he was happy when he was alone. That's the way he wanted his life to be, and that's what he got."
"Seems like a shitty way to live."
"Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't." He motioned to my beer. "You want another? Maybe tell me why you came by? Was it just to give me the news?"
"I want to know what you can tell me about Vince Rusch."
Mulligan looked up at me. "The club owner? What the hell you want to know about him for?"
"Looking for someone that works for him."
"Who?"
"Guy named Max."
Mulligan's eye twitched. "Never heard of him."
I knew he was lying, even without the eye to give him away. Dave Mulligan knew everyone in this town who worked under the law. It had been one of the reasons he and my father had been friends. I couldn't figure out why he wouldn't tell me, but I decided to let it slide.
"From what I hear, Vince Rusch isn't completely legit. From what I hear, this Max guy handles some of Vince's back room shit."
"Not for Vince," Mulligan said. "He's clean."
"Then what's with Max? Why does he need someone like that around?"
Mulligan got up and walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. He opened them on the edge of his desk and handed one to me. "I don't know that he does."
"Is someone over Vince?"
Mulligan took a long drink. When he set the bottle down he leaned back on the couch. "What's all this about, Jack? You're bringing up a lot of bad guys."
"I'm doing this for a friend," I said. "Someone tried to blow up his restaurant. I worked there. He was my boss."
"Sounds like he's into some bad shit."
"Not this guy. He's in his seventies. He's a good man."
"You sure about that?"
I thought about it for a moment, then said, "One hundred percent."
Mulligan shook his head. "Don't go doing anything stupid."
"Give me a name."
Mulligan nodded slowly, then said, "Colletto."
I eased back in my chair. "Christ."
"Keeps an office in the settler's club down on Larimer Street. You know the place?"
I nodded.
"I probably shouldn't have told you," Mulligan said, then pointed at me. "Don't do anything stupid."
I laughed, lifted my beer and finished it.
"What are you going to do?"
"Haven't decided."
"I don't believe you."
I looked up at him and smiled and wondered if my eye was twitching.
~
That night, sitting at the kitchen table, I told Ava about Charley and his mother. I told her about Vince Rusch and Max. I even told her about Dave Mulligan and how my father once told me he was the only man he ever trusted. But I couldn't tell her about Colletto.
If she knew why I was going down to the Settler's club tomorrow she'd lose her mind.
But I wasn't going to lie to her, either.
Luckily she didn't ask too many questions about what had happened. She was concerned with what would happen next.
"Have you thought about money?" she asked.
I hadn't. I'd been too wrapped up, and I hadn't even thought about rent or food or diapers. "I'll find something this week."
"Nelson is always asking me if I want more shifts. If you want to stay home with Jacob a couple more nights, you know, just for a little while."
Ava worked part time as waitress down at the Village Inn. Friday and Saturday nights, mostly, but that didn't bring in more than a hundred buck a week. It was decent money, but I wasn't about to stay home and let her work. When I told her this, she gave me a look and got up from the table.
"You're so fucking old fashioned sometimes, Jack."
"Don't be angry about it," I said. "I just don't want you supporting us."
"Then you need to get a damn job. Hell, we barely had enough money when you had a place to work thanks to what Marcus paid you."
"Marcus paid me what he could afford to pay me."
"Which wasn't shit, but you stayed."
"He needed me."
Ava laughed. "He needed you? Jesus, Jack, what about us? What about your son? You think Marcus needed you more than Jacob does?"
This was an old argument, and I was tired of it. I knew she wasn't asking me to get a job in an office with a tie and a secretary, but when she'd get going, that was exactly what it felt like. "I'll start looking tomorrow."
"Where? I bet you find another shit hole that won't pay you anything above minimum wage." She shook her head. "You're better than burgers and scrambled eggs."
"I was thinking about the Settler's Club."
Ava turned and leaned back against the counter. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at me. When she spoke next, her voice had lost its edge. "You know someone down there?"
"I've got a name."
She smiled. In the next room, Jacob cried and she started toward the sound. "That would be amazing if you worked there," she said. "You could finally be a real chef again."
Normally this comment would get us into a fight, but I was already thinking about how I was going to fit a job search in with my meeting with Colletto. It could be done, but it would be a pain.
I got up from the table and went to the sink. I stared at my reflection in the window, then filled a glass half full with water and drank it in two swallows. I heard Ava singing to Jacob in the living room. The sound was delicate and warm, and I set my glass on the counter and went out to join my family.
~
It'd been a long time since I'd worn a suit. The tie was a few years out of fashion, but I needed one if I was going to get into the Settler's club, especially if I planned on asking for a job.
I'd called Marcus and told him I needed his car for a couple more days. He didn't seem to care, and that worried me. Marcus had always been generous to a point, but keeping his car for a few days was well past that point.
"Good luck today," Ava said as I headed for the door. She stood in the living room with Jacob on her hip. "I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."
I kissed her and Jacob in turn then walked out. When I got in the car I looked back and saw them in the doorway. I felt like I'd gone back in time to a different era of housewives and post-war happiness. The feeling wasn't totally bad, but something sour settled in my stomach and I had to look away. I felt them waving as I drove off, but I didn't look back.
~
"I knew your father," Colletto said. "He was a good man. I'm sorry to hear about what happened."
I didn't say anything.
"Were you two close?"
"No."
Colletto nodded. "I didn't think so." He held a long white pipe in one hand, and as he spoke, he put it to his lips and lit it with a small silver lighter. The aroma of the smoke was like childhood and fall and loneliness. "You don't come across as the grieving son."
"That obvious?"
He smiled. "And, I knew your father." He leaned forward and tapped his pipe in a glass ashtray on the coffee table. When he did, the worn leather chair made a slow whining sound. It sounded a lot like money. "Still, he was a good man, trustworthy. That was why I agreed to see you."
When he sat back, I felt like a spotlight had shifted. Right then I remembered where I was. I was sitting in a private room in an exclusive club across from someone who ran more illegal business in town than anyone else. This was not someone you came in on unprepared, and if I had any doubt about it, all I had to do was look at the two men standing in the corner behind him.
"I'm happy you did," I said. "I need some advice, and I was hoping you'd help. I remember my father saying you were the right person to---"
"Cut the bullshit, please."
I did.
"I'd like to hire security."
"For what?"
"A friend of mine. She's having some problems with an ex-husband."
"So, go to the cops."
"What good would that do?"
He looked up fast. I figured he was trying to see if I was being a smart ass. When he saw I wasn't, he smiled. "You're right," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking. Unfortunately, I'm not in the business of protecting wives from their husbands."
"No," I said. "I don't suppose you are." I tried to think of something else to say, a way to persuade him, but then I looked at the two guys by the door and decided I'd already said enough. "Thank you for your time."
I went to stand, and he held out a hand to stop me.
"Don't be in such a rush." He re-lit his pipe and stared at me for a moment. "You don't look too much like your father. There is a resemblance, but not much of one." He motioned to my suit with his pipe. "You definitely dress better than he did. I hope this wasn't just for me."
I looked down at the suit, as if I was noticing it for the first time. "Actually, I'm applying for a job."
"What kind of job?"
"I'm a chef."
He smiled. "You're applying here? At the Settler's?"
"That was the plan, yes."
He laughed. The sound was low and warm. The two men at the doors looked at each other briefly. Neither one smiled, but I did. I couldn't help myself.
"I almost felt special," he said. "I figured you were here for me, but it turns out that wasn't the case."
"It's a long story," I said. "I got backed into applying here today."
Colletto waved me off. "No need, no need." He reached for a small white notepad on the desk beside his chair then took a gold pen from his coat pocket. "I'll give you the name of someone I think will be interested in a little extra work." He scribbled on the pad, then ripped the top sheet off and handed it to me. "He's a good man."
The paper had a wagon wheel logo on the top, and the words Settler's Club written in a rustic script below. The name he'd written was Maxwell Stover. There was no phone number, only an address.
"Thank you."
Colletto ignored me and pointed at the paper. "That's the address for a girly bar called the 'Body Shop'." He shook his head and smiled. "Classless name, but typical."
"I'll stop by and talk to him."
"He works nights. I'll let him know to expect you."
I almost told him not to bother, but stopped myself at the last minute. That would raise suspicion. Instead I stood and said, "Is he a bouncer?"
Colletto did a so-so move with his head. "He doesn't work the door, but he's there to make sure nothing gets out of hand."
I held up the paper. "I appreciate this."
He nodded and re-lit his pipe. "I hope everything works out for your friend."
"It will," I said. "One way or another."
I turned to go, and he stopped me. "By the way, good luck with your job interview."
~
The kitchen manager set my resume on the bar and leaned over it with his hands on either side of the thin beige paper. "You've been working at this Diner for the past several years."
"That's correct."
He looked up at me. "And you're a graduate of the Culinary Institute?"
I nodded.
"That doesn't make sense," he said, pushing my resume away. "Institute graduates don't work in roadside diners."
"That's obviously not true." I pointed to my resume and said, "If you look under my job history---"
The manager made a dismissive sound then turned and disappeared back into the kitchen before I could finish.
At least I couldn't say I didn't try.
~
I went home and changed into some comfortable clothes. Ava wasn't there, and I remembered she was spending the afternoon at her mother's house. That was good. I wasn't ready to tell her about the interview.
The address Colletto gave me was in the warehouse district. I'd seen the place, but I'd never been inside. I'm not a strip club guy, especially not strip clubs that look like gas stations.
On my way out, I wrote Ava a note. I didn't tell her anything other than I'd be back late. I wouldn't know where to start with anything else.
~
The air in the Body Shop had a thick, sour smell that only comes to a place after years without sunlight. I stood inside the door, waiting for the bouncer to finish his conversation with the man in front of me. When he did, he looked me over and reached for his hand stamp on the table by his stool. "Six bucks."
I took out my wallet and handed him a ten. "I'm looking for someone who works here. A guy named Max. You know if he's here tonight?"
The bouncer looked up, and all at once I got the feeling I'd said something wrong.
I waited.
The bouncer handed me my change and said, "He's inside."
I went in.
The main room was big and scattered with tables. In between the tables were two single girl platforms. Along the far wall, a line of booths stood open to the room, each one facing the main stage. The music was loud and the dancers swayed in the swell of smoke like naked corpses hanging from the rafters.
None of these girls looked younger than thirty, not even close. This was a parade of caesarian scars and stretch marks, bruises so deep even the red and purple stage lights couldn't hide them. I watched for a while, more out of a morbid curiosity than anything, then went to the bar and ordered a beer.
The bartender was blonde, younger than most of the dancers, but still long past getting carded for cigarettes. She took a glass from the back shelf, and I stopped her.
"In a bottle."
"Our glasses are clean."
"I don't think I'll take the chance."
If she was offended, it didn't show. She took a bottle from the cooler, opened it, and set it on the bar in front of me. "Four-fifty."
I paid her. "Have you seen Max tonight?"
She pointed over my shoulder. I turned and saw a guy sitting alone in a booth in the corner with his back to the wall. I took a drink and headed over.
When I got close he looked up and squinted. "I know you?"
"No," I said. "I wanted to talk to you. Got a minute?"
He nodded.
I sat down across from him. "Colletto said you might be interested in earning some extra cash. Was he right?"
"Depends on the job."
"Protection. I need someone to watch over a friend. She's going through a divorce, and the husband isn't taking it too good. I need you to convince him to behave himself."
"Who's the woman?"
"I was hoping you could meet her. Tomorrow night?"
He laughed. "I need to know more about what I'll be asked to do."
"Why does that matter?"
Max leaned across the table resting his elbows on the tabletop. "Because if you want me to break his arm, that's gonna cost you less than if you want something more serious."
I sat back and took a cigarette from my jacket. I offered him one and he took it. "I don't want you to do anything but make sure nothing happens to her."
He reached for a pack of matches on the table, lit one and held to the end of the cigarette. "Tomorrow night?"
I wrote an address on a napkin and handed it to him. "Nine o'clock if you're interested."
He took the napkin. "I'll decide tomorrow."
~
When I got home Ava opened the door and ran outside. I got out of the car and she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me, pushing me back.
When she let me go I asked, "What's that for?"
"You got it," she said, then kissed me again.
There was a mistake, I was sure of it. I shook my head. "The Settler's job? No, I didn't."
She smiled. "There's a message on the machine. They want you to start Monday. They even gave you the dinner shift."
Ava was moving up and down on her toes. I tried to get my head around what she was telling me. When I went inside I hit the play button on the machine and listened for myself.
"'Hello, Mr. Davies,'" the voice said. "'This is Walter Holland at the Settler's club. I wanted to call and inform you that we would like to hire you as evening sous chef. Can you be here Monday afternoon, say, three o'clock? Please call me if this doesn't work.'"
He'd left his phone number, and after I'd listened to the message three times, I picked up the phone and called him. I looked at my watch. It was late, but I took a chance he'd still be there.
I was right.
"It turns out we have a sudden vacancy in our kitchen," he said. "So we would like you to step in. You do feel confident with the position of sous chef, don't you Mr. Davies?"
I told him I did. Of course I did.
"Any man who went to the Institute would, I assume." The tone in his voice hadn't changed since the interview.
"You don't believe me about my history?"
"Time will tell."
"That seems like a big risk to take. You don't seem like the type of man who would hire someone off the street just because they claim to be a graduate of the Culinary Institute."
"That's right," he said. "I'm not. Fortunately for you, one of our more regular clients at the Club put in a good word for you and suggested we hire you."
I closed my eyes.
"We respect the opinions of our members here, Mr. Davies. Therefore, you have a job."
I couldn't speak.
After a moment of silence, Walter said, "Monday does work for you, correct?"
I found my voice. "Colletto?"
"He's been a member longer than I've been employed here, and I've been through three presidents. You're obviously on his good side, and that's good enough for me."
Good side?
"We'll see you Monday?"
"Sure," I said. "Monday."
Walter hung up. I kept the phone to my ear and thought about Colletto. Maybe he did it because of my father. Maybe I made a good impression. Maybe he just liked to throw his power around and thought I was a good charity case. Whatever the reason, I was happy for it, but at the same time I couldn't see straight. He might be my friend now, but chances are he wouldn't be by this time tomorrow night.
The phone switched to a dial tone, and I hung it back in the cradle. I turned around and saw Ava. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen. She was smiling. It was the first time I'd seen her smile like that in almost three years.
It broke my heart to have to tell her.
~
"You're going to forget about it, and you're going to take this job."
"I can't do that. Marcus needs me to---"
"Don't start with what Marcus needs, Jack. Fuck him. I need you to do this. Your son needs you to do this. Marcus doesn't need you to do anything. He has his own son. Let him take care of Marcus."
"His son is a degenerate who doesn't care if he lives or dies."
"So it's your responsibility?" There were tears in her eyes waiting to fall. "You're putting him ahead of your own family."
"He's family, too."
She laughed. "That old man is not family."
"He is to me."
Ava stared at me for a moment, then shook her head and said, "How'd you get so fucked up?"
I didn't answer, and she turned and walked out to the living room. I stayed in the kitchen and listened to her cry.
The back door of our apartment opens onto a fire escape overlooking the alley. I took a beer from the refrigerator and climbed out and sat on the cold metal stairs. The air outside was cold and it felt good against my skin. Down below I heard the homeless shuffling between the dumpsters. I thought about the distance between them and me, and as far as I could tell, there wasn't much of one.
The way I saw it, I had two choices. Take this job and let Marcus go or help Marcus and lose the job. If I took the job it would move my family out of this shit-hole apartment and get us on our way. It was what Ava wanted, and it would be best for Jacob.
Then there was Marcus.
Why did I feel such a loyalty to him? Was it because he was there when I needed a friend? Did I feel some twisted father-son bond with him that kept me from thinking straight? Whatever it was, it was making it hard to do the smart thing, and I knew it.
I was still thinking about Marcus when the back door opened and Ava came out onto the fire escape.
"Jacob is asleep," she said. "He's growing so fast."
I agreed.
"We need to start thinking about his future, and sometimes I don't think you do."
"That's not fair," I said.
"I think it's more than fair. What's not fair is you putting Marcus and that diner before your son."
I'd heard all this before, but when I went to speak she held up a hand, stopping me.
"Jack, we need this job." Her voice was cold. "I don't care how you got it, but it's a blessing and we need it."
"I know, but I can't abandon Marcus."
Ava looked down at her hands, and shook her head. "If you don't take this job, I'm leaving, and I'm taking Jacob with me."
"What?"
"I don't have a choice. If you put Marcus ahead of your family, then there is no point in staying with you because you aren't the man I want raising my son."
"Jacob is my son, too."
Ava nodded. "If you really understand what that means then there's no problem."
~
I'd known Sergeant Greg Nash since I was a kid. When I was six he arrested my father for breaking my mother's jaw. When I was twelve, he arrested him again for throwing her through a sliding glass door. She wound up needing forty-seven stitches that night to close a gash in her leg, and the next day I was taken from the house and put into foster care. I stayed there until I was thirteen and stole a car. After that my foster parents didn't want me, and I was put in a juvenile home.
Sergeant Nash came by every couple weeks to see how I was doing. Eventually I didn't mind. He was a friend.
When I got out, all I wanted to do was cook. I'd spent most of my time in the home working in the kitchen, and there was something I loved about the organization and the creation and the pace of it.
For the first time, I knew what I wanted to out of my life.
By the time I got out and was on my own, my mother was in the ground and my father was in jail for putting her there. It wasn't hard to see it coming, but apparently no one did but me.
There'd been an insurance policy, nothing big, and I decided to put it toward school. I applied to the Culinary Institute, and I was accepted. Apparently they reserve a couple spaces each year for people with unusual backgrounds, and I fit right in.
After graduation, I kept in touch with Sergeant Nash. I still considered him a friend, and now, as I walked up the steps to his office, I hoped he felt the same. As it turned out, I didn't have anything to worry about.
"It's damn nice to see you, Jack," he said. "When I heard about your father, I wondered how you were taking it."
"I'm not taking it anyway, I guess."
He nodded as if I'd actually made sense. "Well, I know he never made things easy on you."
"You move on," I said. "Truth is, I don't think about any of that stuff anymore."
"That's good. That's good."
Eventually we got around to the diner and the fire. He'd heard about the case, but it wasn't his.
"Does that mean you can't work it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I might have an idea who set the fire."
"Who?"
"A guy named Max Stover. He works at a strip club called the Body Shop."
Nash leaned back in his chair. "I know Stover," he said. "What makes you think he's responsible?"
"All roads point to him. I was going to try and get something out of him tonight to where I can be sure, but things have changed."
"Damn good thing, too," Nash said. "The last person you need to fool with is Stover. That guy would tear you up, Jack. What the hell are you thinking?"
Right then, I felt like I was fifteen again. It wasn't a terrible feeling, but it wasn't something I wanted to get used to, either. "I'm thinking about helping my friend who owned the place, that's all."
"You won't help him much by playing games with Stover."
"It doesn't matter anyway. I have to let it drop. Ava found out and she's not happy. Besides, I landed a job cooking at the Settler's Club."
"That's great."
Neither of us spoke for a minute, then I said, "I came here to see if you could pick up the case."
He shook his head. "Afraid not. I can keep an eye on it, and I'll pass along what you told me to the detective assigned, but I can tell you not much will get done on it."
"Why not?"
"It's not a priority case. That's just the way it works."
"Not a priority?" I didn't know what to say. "I'm giving you a name. All you have to do is follow up."
"And I'll pass it on, but all we had was a case of vandalism and arson."
"There was a bomb." My voice was loud, and Nash leaned forward.
"I know you're mad, Jack, but you can't come in here and yell. Do you understand?"
"Jesus Christ," I said. "How am I supposed to react? You tell me there's nothing you can do about this, and it's not a high priority and my friend lost everything."
I got up and walked out of his office. Nash said something as I was leaving but I didn't hear him. I didn't care, and I didn't stop walking until I was home.
~
Jacob sat on a blanket in the middle of the living room beating a stuffed rabbit up and down on the floor. I watched him from the couch. I'd planned on taking a short nap, but all I could think about was Marcus. I hadn't spoken to him since the day after the fire. I still had his car, and I told Ava I was bringing it back to him tonight.
She'd asked about my talk with Sergeant Nash, and I told her it went fine. I'd be starting my new job on Monday. When I finished speaking, she'd leaned in close to me and whispered, "Thank you."
It was a sweet sound that I felt deep inside. I knew if things didn't work out and I wound up losing her, that whisper would stay with me for the rest of my life.
Some things are like that, whether you want them to be or not.
~
The parking lot across from the Belmont Hotel sat in the shade of several willow trees. The streetlights shone through the trees, creating pools of light and dark.
I waited in the dark with Marcus's .44.
When I gave Max Stover the address for the hotel, I told him to meet me in the lobby at eleven.
It was five till.
I started to worry. What if he'd parked somewhere else? What if he didn't come alone. I knew a guy like Max Stover didn't need a body guard, but it was something I hadn't considered.
At exactly eleven o'clock, a gray Mercedes pulled into the parking lot and parked in the far corner. Max got out, alone. He looked smaller than when I saw him at the Body Shop. He'd been sitting down that time, but I'd still expected him to be bigger.
As he got closer to where I stood, I felt a rush of confidence. I waited until he walked past me toward the hotel's backdoor, then I stepped out and pressed the gun into his back. "Don't make any sudden---"
Max spun around --fast, grabbing my hand that held the gun. I felt his other hand press up under my chin and one leg come in behind both of mine and sweep them out from under me. There was a sick feeling of detachment as I fell backward, then my head struck the pavement and flowers bloomed electric behind my eyes.
My ears were ringing and I couldn't focus. I pushed myself up onto my knees and saw Max standing over me. He had the gun. He pulled the clip with the grace of a man used to handling guns and shook his head. "What the fuck were you planning?"
I lost my wind when I hit the pavement, and I struggled to breathe. When I did, I said, "You tried to blow up the diner."
"Is that what this is about?" He kicked me and I felt the toe of his boot connect with my ribs. Something popped inside, and the pain screamed across my chest. "That shit-hole restaurant?"
He grabbed my hair and forced the barrel of the gun into my mouth, snapping off a piece of a tooth. I felt it slide between my tongue and my cheek and into the back of my throat. I swallowed.
"You pull a gun on me?" He was shouting. "Over some fucking diner?"
My eyes crossed, and I couldn't see. My ears were ringing and I felt my bladder let go. When Max noticed he took the gun out of my mouth and stepped back.
"You're a pathetic piece of shit." He spit and I felt in land in my hair. "If I see you again, I'll fucking kill you."
He turned back toward the grey Mercedes, and that was when I found my voice. "Why?"
Max turned and swung the gun, hitting me in the face. I felt my nose go, and the world exploded in light. I fell forward and blood pooled under me.
Max grabbed my hair and leaned in close, shouting. The noise in my head was too loud, and his words were lost in the roar. Blood ran down the back of my throat and I coughed. Max pulled away --fast, letting me fall.
And this time, in darkness, there was no ground to catch me.
~
"Jack?"
The voice seemed too far off to be aimed at me. I was lost somewhere else, adrift in the haze.
"Jack, can you hear me?"
The voices moved closer. I tried to open my eyes, and the light dug into my brain. The pain seemed to come from everywhere at once. I pushed myself up. "Wh---"
Someone put a hand on my chest. "Easy, you're in the hospital."
I waited, letting my eyes get used to the light. When I opened them again, the pain was still there but it was further away, muted by whatever painkillers I was on.
Ava was standing over the bed. Sergeant Nash was behind her, smiling. He reached forward and touched my leg. "Good to have you back."

Ava handed me a plastic cup of water. I drank, and the pain in my throat cooled. "What happened?"

"Someone beat you up pretty bad," she said. "You were brought here in an ambulance."
"How long?"
"Two days ago. You've been in and out ever since."
"Jesus." I tried to sit up, and I felt my ribs shift inside my chest. The pain was incredible, and I eased back against the mattress. There were bandages wrapped around my chest and head. I had a feeling they were the only thing keeping me in one piece.
"Do you know who did this to you?" Ava asked. "Did you get a look at them?"
I looked over her shoulder at Nash. He frowned and looked away. I turned back to Ava. "Yeah," I said. "I have a pretty good idea."
I told her what had happened. When I was done she nodded slowly and pulled the blanket up. "I'm going to find the nurse."
I watched her walk out. For a while I just sat there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Nash to start in on how stupid I was and how I was lucky to be alive. Of course, I saw that for myself.
"She's going to leave me," I said. "Do you know that?"
"Wouldn't be a bad move."
Right then, lying in that bed, I almost agreed with him.
Neither of us spoke for a while, then Nash came up next to the bed. "I have some bad news. I wanted to tell you personally."
"So tell me."
"Marcus was shot last night. He's dead."
I tried to sit up, and the pain made my eyes water. "It was Stover," I said. "I told him I knew he tried to blow up the diner. Now you can go after him. You can---"
"No." Nash put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back. "It wasn't Stover."
I eased back in the bed. "Who?"
"It was his son, Phil. We arrested him this morning. Apparently, Marcus went by his apartment and there was a fight." He paused. "Phil owed some money to some people, and instead of going after him, they thought they'd prove a point and go after his family. Marcus knew it, and I guess it got to be too much to keep inside. He confronted the kid about it, and Phil shot him."
When he finished, I didn't speak for a long time. When I did, I said, "Will you get me a mirror?"
"You might want to wait a while, Jack. I don't think you want to see it yet."
I asked him again. This time he gave in. He found a handheld mirror by the nurse's station and only hesitated for a moment before handing it to me.
When I pulled the bandages off, I didn't recognize my reflection. My nose was gigantic. It spread across my face like an eggplant, and a slow dark fluid leaked from my nostrils, drying into a thick black clump over my upper lip.
"Oh, Christ," I said.
Nash had turned away when I peeled back the first bandage. Now, he was staring out the window, and when he spoke, it was to the glass. "The doctor said it would be better once it healed, but you'll need plastic surgery to get it to look the way it used to."
"No," I said. "No surgery."
He turned toward me. "Don't make that decision yet. See how it heals, see if you change your mind."
I knew he was trying to help, but I didn't care. I wasn't getting plastic surgery.
I wanted to remember, every time I looked in a mirror, what carelessness and stupidity looked like.
~
After the second day in the hospital I declared myself cured. The doctor didn't agree. He said since I lost consciousness I needed to stay under observation for a couple days. Also, the blow to my face shattered my sinus, and if I didn't have surgery I could lose my sense of smell completely. He said there would probably be some loss either way, but with luck...
I told him no.
He crossed his hands over his lap. "You're a chef, right? No sense of smell means no sense of taste."
I told him I was leaving.
This time he didn't argue.
Ava was set to pick me up that afternoon, and I waited for her in the hospital lobby. When she didn't show I tried calling her from the payphone outside.
No answer.
The next call I made was to yellow cab, and twenty minutes later they dropped me off in front of my apartment building. I paid the driver and got out.
It took time to pull myself up the stairs to my apartment. I stood outside the door, staring at the scarred wood. When I was ready, I took out my key and slid it in the lock. It went in and so did I.
I knew what I'd find.
Ava was gone.
I sat on the couch for a while, staring at the empty spot where Jacob's crib had been, then got up and went to the kitchen.
I pulled some turkey and cheese from the refrigerator. There were spots of mold on the cheese, and I broke them off with my fingers and dropped them in the sink. I found a couple pieces of stale bread in a bag on the counter and used them to put together a sandwich.
Outside on the fire escape, the wind was strong. I wondered where the homeless were staying tonight, if they had a place to go when the weather turned bad.
The sandwich was dry, but I ate it anyway.
I didn't taste a thing.
"Where are we going?" Megan is behind me, kicking my seat.
"To the river," I say. "A spot I know."
"But it's dark out."
"That's the best time."
Megan mumbles something I can't hear, but Tanya hears it and turns around.
"I told you we'd take you to Julie's. You didn't have to come along." She takes a penny from the center console and throws it at her. "You could've gone and played dollies with your friends."
"We don't play with dolls."
Tanya turns back to the front. "Whatever."
"Besides, Mom said you had to take me with you."
I look at her in the rear view mirror. "Do you do everything your Mom tells you to do?"
Megan is quiet for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." I look over at Tanya. She smiles at me.
"You guys just want to be alone so you can do it."
Tanya laughs and turns around. "What?"
"I said you guys want to do it. That's why you don't want me here."
There's an awkward silence. I keep my eyes on the road. One of my headlights is out, and I wonder if I'll get pulled over tonight.
I can't look at Tanya.
"You don't even know what that means," Tanya says.
"I do so." Megan says. "I heard Mom talking about it. She said if she finds out, she'll put bars on your windows and tie your knees together until you're twenty."
"Yeah, whatever." Tanya takes a cigarette from her purse.
"You can't smoke in here," I say. "It's my Dad's car. He doesn't smoke."
She puts it back, and takes a beer from the brown bag by her feet. She opens the bottle and turns back toward Megan. "You better not say a word."
Megan doesn't answer. She's leaning against the door, staring out into the darkness.
Tanya hands me the beer. "I know she's going to say something. She lives to get me in trouble."
"Naw," I say, raising my voice. "She won't say anything. She's too cool for that, right, Megan?"
They both look at me like I'm an idiot. I decide to keep quiet until we get to the river.
~
When we pull into the parking lot Tanya gets out and lights a cigarette. She walks over to Megan, whispers something in her ear, and they both head toward the path that leads past the grove of cottonwoods to the river. "I'll be right back," Tanya says.
There's no moon tonight, and all I see is the red tip of Tanya's cigarette moving up and down between two dark shapes. I look up at the swirl of stars, bright and deep against the black sky, and I think about my brother. He must've hated me when I was younger, before he left for college.
Probably natural, I suppose.
I hear Megan yell, and Tanya yell back, but the wind covers the sound and I can't tell what they're saying. The red glow of Tanya's cigarette moves toward me. When she gets closer, I ask what happened.
"I told her to go and sit by the water." She turns and looks over her shoulder. "My Mom isn't going to let me out of the house after this." She puts the cigarette to her lips and her face glows red. "Oh well, might as well enjoy tonight, right?"
We stand there for a while, quiet, not looking at each other. My stomach hurts, my arms are weak, and my tongue feels too big behind my teeth. I take another drink and drop the empty bottle on the ground. "You want to sit in the car?" I say, not looking up.
Tanya drops her cigarette and crushes it with her foot. "Sure," she says. "Why not."
~
Tanya tastes like beer and strawberry lip-gloss. Her tongue stabs in and out of my mouth in quick circles, and I move my hand in slower circles over her stomach. I let my pinky finger slide under her pants and I feel the elastic top of her underwear. I move lower with each pass, hoping if I move slow enough she won't notice, but she does, and eventually she grabs my hand and pulls it back.
I wait a few minutes before I try again.
This time my finger touches hair, and my heart practically explodes in my chest. She doesn't stop me, and for a moment I'm unsure what to do next. I slide my hand down further, working slow, trying not to draw attention to my actions. My chest aches, and I realize I'm holding my breath.
Megan knocks at the window, and Tanya jumps up.
I pull back and breathe.
"It's too dark out here," Megan says. Her voice sounds flat through the glass. "I can't see anything."
Tanya rolls down the window and speaks slowly. "Go away."
Megan folds her arms across her chest. "You can't do this, Tanya. It's dark out here, and I want to leave."
"Then go."
"Tanya!"
"I'm not stopping you." She points in the direction of the road. "You want to go home? Go."
They stare at each other, and for a moment neither of them says anything. I open another beer and take a long drink. I can still feel my heart pound against my ribs. Tanya starts to roll up her window.
"Tanya?" Megan says. Her voice sounds weaker now.
"What?
"You're suppose to---"
"This is what we're doing." Tanya yells, and Megan takes a step back. "If you don't like it, then walk home."
Megan looks from the car to the road, then back. "Fine," she says, turning away. "I will." After a few steps she's gone, lost in the darkness.
I take another drink.
"What a bitch," Tanya says. "She's going to tell my Mom all of this, watch."
"Maybe we shouldn't let her go."
"Why? If she wants to walk home, let her."
I hold the bottle out for her. "What if someone picks her up?"
"Who?" Tanya takes the beer and finishes it. "There's no one out here. Let her walk for a while. She'll come back when she gets tired."
Something inside tells me this might be a bad idea, but then Tanya is on top of me, and I stop listening. I reach my hands behind her back and find the latch of her bra. It turns out to be more difficult than I expect, and after a while I swallow my pride and ask for help. Tanya giggles, ignores me, and leeches her teeth into my neck. Between the pain of her mouth and the security of the bra, I get frustrated. Finally, after pulling as hard as I can, the bra comes off. Tanya sits up fast, holding her arms across her chest. She looks surprised, and for a moment, in the light of the dashboard clock, I think I see a nipple.
"What's wrong?"
"We should go find her," Tanya says, pulling her shirt down. "What if someone picks her up?"
"No one will pick her up," I say. "No one's out here. We can get her later." I pull her closer. "She's probably sitting down the road a little ways, waiting for us. It'll be fine."
Tanya pushes away and sits up. "No, I'm serious. I think we should go get her."
"Come on. It's fine."
"No," she says, adjusting something under her shirt. "We need to find her."
I try to think of something to say, a way to stall, but she looks upset, so I give in and start the car.
~
The windows are fogged, and as I pull out onto the road I wipe a spot clean with my sleeve.
Tanya leans forward and squints into the darkness. "I can't see shit."
I switch the one working headlight to bright, but it doesn't help much.
Tanya shakes her head and opens her purse. "I'm going to kill that bitch when we find her," she says, taking a cigarette and putting it to her lips. "Why is she so stupid?"
"You can't smoke in here, remember?"
Tanya lights the cigarette. "I thought you said she'd be waiting for us down the road. Do you think we missed her?"
"She's around someplace."
Tanya sits back and puts her feet on the dashboard. "I'm gonna kill her."
I don't say anything else, and we drive in silence. After a moment, Tanya leans forward. "Is that her?" She points and hits her hand against the windshield. The tip of the cigarette explodes against the glass and drops in her lap. "Shit," she says, pushing herself up off the seat. "Shit, shit. Where did it go?"
"I told you not to smoke in here." I look over and run my hand along the cushion. "Sit up more."
"I can't." She moves to the side.
I see the red tip and pick it up. It burns my fingers, and I drop it again. "God damn it," I say, and smack the seat.
Tanya is smiling.
"This isn't funny," I say. "This is my dad's car. He's going to kick my ass."
"I'm sorry." She's laughing now. "It was an accident. I didn't mean---"
The car jumps, and something hard passes under the tires.
Tanya drops back down, bracing herself against the door.
For a moment, everything seems to stop.
"What the fuck was that?" I say, pulling off the road.
Tanya stares at me, her eyes wide. "Oh, Christ." She covers her mouth with her hands. "Oh, my God."
I keep quiet and search my mirrors for movement. The road is dark and the taillights turn everything red and stretch long shadows out behind us.
"Do you think I should---" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "Should I go check?"
Tanya doesn't answer. She has her head in her hands, rocking back and forth, mumbling something I can't quite hear.
I pull the door handle and the overhead light shines bright and yellow. "Should I go see?"
"It was a dog, right?" She looks up. Black make-up snakes down her cheeks. "Tell me it was just a dog."
I don't say anything.
The wind coming off the river is cold, and as I step out of the car I hear the rustling of the cottonwoods in the distance, the leaves shuffling nervously in the breeze.
I take a few steps, moving slowly.
Behind me, I hear the car door open, and I look back. Tanya leans out and shouts. "Megan?"
I keep walking.
Tanya's door slams, and I hear her footsteps on the gravel. She moves fast, and as she passes me she's crying.
I watch her disappear down the road, and I don't follow her.
Above me, the sky is a pinwheel of stars. The sight makes me dizzy, and I slip to the ground and close my eyes. I can hear the echo of rushing water in the distance.
The sound covers me, and when the screaming starts, I barely notice.
Morris knew the police wouldn't come; all he had to do was look out the window. The storm started that afternoon, and within an hour the woods outside dissolved into a haze of white and were no longer visible from the house. The radio was reporting road closures all along the western slope and advising people to stay indoors. He knew, even before he dialed the number, what the police would say, and he was right. When he set the phone back on the cradle, he told Evelyn the news.
"Frankly, I'm amazed the lights are still on," he said. "Or the phone."
Evelyn stood in front of the tall, arched windows of the living room with her arms across her chest. She was tapping her fingers on her elbow and staring into the storm. "Did they say when?" she asked.
"Tomorrow," Morris said. "Maybe the day after. It all depends."
Evelyn turned and looked at him. "I can't stay here for two days."
"I don't believe we have a choice."
She bit the insides of her cheeks and turned back to the window. It was getting dark out, but the snow had its own grayish glow that leaked into the room. "I can't believe this," she said. "Any of it."
Morris came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She was shaking. "You holding up?"
Evelyn looked back and frowned. "Of course I am," she said. "It's not like that. Just a bit of a shock. Can't blame me, can you?"
"I suppose not," he said.
She'd been sober fifty-nine days. The shakes had been gone a while, but holding her now brought back memories of those nights in bed, the damp sheets, and the slick smell of her skin as they struggled to sleep.
"So, what are they going to do?" Evelyn said. She stepped forward and wormed away from him. "What did they say?
"They said if they'd been here this long, they'd be here tomorrow." He slid his hands into his pockets. "They also said they'd probably need to consult a forensic anthropologist before removing them."
"Great," she shook her head. "What the hell are we supposed to do until then? Ignore it?"
"What else can we do?"
Evelyn walked to the couch and sat down. She leaned back and put her feet on a box marked 'Kitchen.' Morris heard the silverware shift inside. "I just can't believe this," she said, massaging the bridge of her nose. "I just can't."
Morris sat on the floor across from her and turned on a small table lamp. He looked around the room. The house was bigger than anyplace he'd lived before, and he loved its high ceilings and arched doorways. In the city he'd take long walks through the historic district just to look at these types of homes. He was fascinated by the architecture and the eclectic influences of the original owners, who'd settled there after making fortunes in the mines. A few chose not to leave, and they built their homes in the mountains. These were rare, and he felt lucky to have found one.
They'd moved in that weekend, and most of the boxes were still stacked against the far wall. They were all labeled and would eventually be divided and moved, but that was later. The first priority had been the wine cellar.
Evelyn said it was symbolic and wanted it torn out before they moved in. Morris disagreed, but in the end they compromised and decided to do it before they unpacked. He suggested hiring someone, but Evelyn wouldn't have it. "It only means something if you do it yourself," she said. "You need to get on your hands and knees and sweat. That's how you know you're in control."
Morris went along with this, but the cliché affirmations and motivational bullshit she'd brought back from her meetings was beginning to wear thin. He understood the logic in wanting the wine cellar gone, but he could've done without the 'Rah-Rah' talk. Still, on some level he hoped she'd change her mind and let him call a professional but when she arrived at the house with the demolition tools, that hope died.
Morris stood in the driveway and watched her unload the truck. The snow was beginning to fall, and he hugged his arms against his chest. "You're serious about this," he said, as she handed him a sledgehammer. He'd never held one before, and it was heavier than he'd imagined. "How do you know we won't bring the house down on top of us?" He waggled the hammer in front of him. "A place this old, you can't be sure."
Evelyn closed the back of the truck. She didn't look at him. "The wine racks were put up after the house was built," she said. "The brick is different than the foundation." She picked up a canvas tarp and took the sledgehammer from him. She walked to the front door, stopped, and looked back. "Don't worry," she said. "We won't even touch the support walls."
Morris stood outside and watched her disappear into the house. He wondered where she'd learned about bricks and foundations and walls. She'd never shown an interest in construction, or an understanding of its concepts, and it made him think of all the things he'd never know about his wife, all the secrets. He tried to push the thought out of his head but couldn't, he knew it would always be there. Above him, the sky was gray and filled with flakes. They were falling faster, and the pine trees were already dusted white. Morris turned and moved toward the front door. He wanted a drink, badly.
~
Evelyn was leaning back on the couch with her eyes closed. She was squeezing one of the pillows against her chest and absently scraping her thumbnail along the fabric. Behind her, the cellar door was still partly open, and Morris stared into the shadow behind it.
"Nemo me impune lacessit," he said.
Evelyn opened her eyes. "What?"
"It's a line from something I read in college," Morris said. He motioned to the cellar door. "This reminded me of it, that's all."
Evelyn closed her eyes.
"It was Edgar Allen Poe," he continued. "About a guy who buries a man alive in his family's vault under the city."
She ignored him.
"It means 'No one injures me with impunity." He smiled. "Can you imagine? I bet I still have the book in one of these boxes." He stood up and walked across the room.
"I wish you wouldn't," Evelyn said. She didn't open her eyes. "I'm really not interested."
Morris stopped. "It's a great story," he said. "And, we can relate to it, that's the best part."
Evelyn opened her eyes and sat up. "Are you enjoying this?"
"Enjoying what?"
"This." She raised her hands. "This whole night, our first night. Doesn't it bother you?"
"It is what it is," Morris said. "I'm making the best of it."
Evelyn tossed the pillow aside and stood up. "It bothers me." She walked to the coat rack by the front door, and searched the pockets of her jacket.
"You can't tell me you're not a little fascinated by it."
"Fascinated?" She didn't look up. "By a body?"
"It's not really a body," he said. "I mean, it was, sure, but not anymore."
"It's a body, Morris," she said. "Bones. Same thing."
Morris noticed the cigarettes on the floor by the couch. He reached for the pack and held it up. Evelyn walked back and took them.
"It's like a museum," he said. "History."
Evelyn lit a cigarette and inhaled deep. "Not when it's in my home." She took an ashtray from the 'Kitchen' box and sat back on the couch.
They were quiet for a while, and Morris watched the smoke from her cigarette in the lamplight. "I wonder who it was," he said.
Evelyn shook her head. "Christ, Morris, enough."
"It's our house. I'm curious."
Evelyn looked down and brushed ashes off her lap. "Whoever he was, and whatever he did, I'm sure it was something shitty, and he got killed for it." She sat forward and tapped her cigarette on the edge of the tray. "I don't see the mystery."
"Why was he killed?"
"Don't care."
"Maybe he was a thief, and the owner caught him." Morris walked back and sat on the floor. "Could've owed him money, or cheated at cards. Serious gamblers back then."
"Or maybe it was alcohol and testosterone," Evelyn said. "Can we stop this now?"
They were quiet. After a while, Morris spoke.
"What if it was a woman?"
Evelyn snorted. "I doubt it."
"You don't think so?"
"No," she said. "I don't"
"Could have been his wife," he said. "Maybe she pissed him off somehow. Cheated on him."
Evelyn stared at him.
Morris looked away. "I bet you can understand that," he said. His voice was soft.
Evelyn crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. "Fuck you, Morris." She reached in the box and grabbed a glass and walked to the kitchen.
Morris heard the faucet come on and the glass fill with water. He felt a small twinge of guilt but ignored it. Sometimes she needed to remember, he told himself, no matter what her counselor said.
When she walked back in the room, she didn't take her eyes off him.
"I'll make you a deal," she said, taking a cigarette from the pack. "If it winds up being a woman, I'll finish the cellar and unpack the house alone, but if it's a man---" she put the cigarette in her mouth and smiled around it, "---you never bring that up again."
Morris frowned. "Is that all it is to you? Just a game?"
Evelyn lit the cigarette.
"Do you have any idea what you put me through that night?" he said.
"So what are we doing here?" She threw the lighter on the floor in front of her. "I thought this was our 'new start.' Away from the city, like you wanted." She pointed at him. "If you didn't want to forgive me, you should've divorced me. I can't apologize forever, Morris. You have to let it go."
Morris stared at her. She held the cigarette by the side of her head and rolled it between her fingers. She didn't look away. He thought about that night and the number of times he'd looked at the clock, or picked up the phone to check the dial tone. It'd been the longest night of his life, and he knew she would never fully understand. Morris took a deep breath and looked away. "So how do we tell?"
"The police report," Evelyn said.
He shook his head. "No, we might never see it."
Evelyn sat down and brushed the hair from her face.
"Clothes," Morris said. "We can tell by the clothes."
"You want to look at his clothes?"
"See if she's wearing a dress," he said. "Then we'll know."
"No," Evelyn said. "I'm not going down there."
Morris leaned close to her. "Then you lose the bet."
Evelyn narrowed her eyes and stared at him. She was quiet, and after a moment she looked down, set the cigarette in the ashtray, and smiled.
~
The air in the wine cellar was damp and had the meaty smell of wet dirt. There was a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Morris turned it on and blinked against the brightness. The wine racks lined the wall in three large, brick arches. They had finished the first and started the second when they broke through the wall. The hole was there, and behind it were the bones.
Morris walked across the room, loose dirt and debris popped under his feet. Evelyn stood behind him at the bottom of the stairs. She was holding onto the railing and staring at the hole.
"You holding up?" Morris winked at her.
"Don't do that," she said. Her eyes never left the wall. "I'm fine."
Morris smiled and turned back. All he could see was the gray top of the skull. It was facing down, and resting against the wall. He leaned in closer and squinted against the darkness. "I can't see," he said. "It's too dark." He sat back on his heels. "You look."
Evelyn inched closer. "I won't be able to see anymore than you."
"Try," he said.
She leaned forward, and looked into the hole.
Morris stood up. He looked around the room at the piles of brick and wood. "Is the flashlight upstairs?"
Evelyn nodded. "In the kitchen."
Morris ran up the steps. He found the flashlight on the counter and turned it on. It worked, and he walked back to the cellar door. He stopped, and from the top of the stairs, he watched Evelyn's shadow move across the floor below. Morris stood there for a moment then took a step back. He closed the door, and turned the lock.
He heard her footsteps rush up the stairs. "Morris?" She shook the handle from the other side. "What the hell are you doing?"
Morris backed away and clicked the flashlight on, then off.
"Open the fucking door, Morris!"
He smiled and sang the words to himself. "Open the fucking door, Morris." Then laughed and walked to the stack of boxes against the wall. He shuffled through them until he found one marked 'Office Books.' He pulled it aside and tore the tape away.
Evelyn was hitting the door and yelling. He didn't listen. He flipped through the books and took out the one he was looking for. As he closed the box, he noticed the bottle at the bottom. He picked it up and read the label, 'Docetañidos.' He let the word roll on his tongue, "Docetañidos. Doceta---... tañidos." His grandfather had brought the bottle back from a vineyard in Spain and gave it to him as a gift the night before his wedding. It was the one bottle he couldn't bring himself to throw out.
He walked back to the couch and opened the 'Kitchen' box. He took out a plastic cup and a corkscrew, opened the bottle, and filled the cup to the rim.
Evelyn was pounding on the door, and he wondered if she'd use the sledgehammer. The idea amused him. He imagined her swinging the hammer over her head, destroying the door to get out. That would be something to see, he thought. Morris smiled and opened the book. He began to read.
Evelyn was kicking the bottom of the door in a steady beat.
After a while Morris stood and walked over. "Listen to this," he said. He read to himself as he walked. "This is really wonderful."
Evelyn stopped kicking. "I'm going to fucking kill you when you open this door, Morris, I swear to fucking Christ, I will!"
Morris put a finger to his lips and hushed her. "Listen." He cleared his throat. "He's leading him through the catacombs and offers him a drink. This is his toast."
"Morris!"
"Ev, listen," he said. "You'll appreciate this." Morris read. "He says, 'I drink to the buried that repose around us.'" He shook his head. "Fantastic line."
"Fuck you, Morris!" she said. "Open the door!"
He ignored her. "There are others," he said. "I'll find one."
"Morris!" Evelyn was screaming.
"Just a minute." He flipped through the pages.
"Morris, God damn it, let me out!"
Morris slammed his fist against the door and screamed. "MORRIS, GOD DAMN IT, LET ME OUT!"
His breath was hard, and the sound of it mixed with the wind outside.
Evelyn was quiet.
Morris' throat burned, and he walked back to the couch and took a drink. He could hear her shuffling behind the door, and wondered if she was beginning to understand. He tried to imagine what she would say to him in the morning, but stopped. It doesn't matter, he thought, what's done is done.
Morris sat down and opened the book. The wind blew hard against the house, and the light beside him flickered and went dark. He heard Evelyn gasp, and the handle on the door rattle. Outside the window, the snow was solid and gray.
Evelyn was crying. "Please, Morris," she said. Her voice broke through tears. "I am so sorry, Morris. Please."
Morris raised his glass and finished it.
This time he said nothing.
I didn't care if it wasn't my baby. A child is a child, and when God brings one into your life it's a blessing.
"It's gonna be a while, Jack," Rochelle said. She put her hand on her stomach and looked down. "These things takes time, you know."
Of course I knew. Who didn't know about that? It bothered me, but I didn't get mad at her for treating me like I'm stupid. She does that sometimes. She doesn't mean anything by it. It's just the way she is, I suppose.
"It takes ten months for a cow," I said.
"You comparing me to a cow?"
"Course not," I said. "All I meant was it's different for other animals."
"I ain't no animal."
"We're all animals. Some of us are just more advanced, that's all."
"I ain't no animal," she said again. But this time it was more of a whisper.
We both stayed quiet for a while. I wanted to ask her who the father was, but I figured that would've been rude. I'd only known her for a week or so, and it really wasn't any of my business. Someday she'd tell me, once she felt more comfortable.
"You sure you got enough room for me and the baby?"
"'Course I'm sure," I said. "Twenty acres plus woods, fifty head of cattle, barn, and the house has got two bathrooms. We're pretty far outside of town, so there won't be a lot of people coming around. Maybe the Nielsons' out on route eleven from time to time, but that's about it."
"And you don't mind sharing it with me?"
"Why would I mind? I love you, I told you tha---"
Rochelle held up her hand, stopping me. "I told you not to say that to me, Jack."
"But I do love you."
She hit the passenger seat. "God damn it!"
"What's the big deal?"
"Jack Edwin Meese, if you don't stop right now, I swear I'll scream."
For a moment I didn't speak. I turned back and watched the road stretch out in front of us, the still air shimmering in the heat. Rochelle was quiet. "It ain't something to be scared of, you know."
That was when Rochelle started to scream.
At first I thought I was about to hit something. It was mating season, and the whitetail came across the road all the time, so I hit the brakes without looking and Rochelle hit the dashboard, hard.
That was when she stopped screaming.
I pulled off the road. "Baby, you okay?"
"What'd you do that for?"
"You were hollering. I thought there was a deer or something."
"God Damn it, Jack. I think you broke my neck."
Rochelle likes to exaggerate. The first time I met her I was filling my tank at the Sap Brothers on I-70 outside of Wichita. She comes up to me and tells me she hasn't eaten in four days, and she needed money because she was pregnant and wanted to keep her baby from being born deformed or retarded. Well, it turned out she lived in one of the rooms across the parking lot and had food of her own. She'd eaten a bologna sandwich that morning and the truth was she needed the money to move back to Little Rock so she could be by her folks when the baby came. I didn't blame her for that. Family is important.
I'm not sure what it was, but seeing her outside, and thinking about the baby she was carrying, made me think of Mary and Joseph and the story of the manger. How they'd been forced to lay down with animals because it was cold outside and they couldn't find anyone who was kind enough to help. I think it's important to take lessons from the Bible, especially when you're faced with a new situation.
"Jesus Christ. I think my nose is broken."
I tried to look, but she pulled away. Her nose wasn't even bleeding.
"Take me back home."
"I thought you wanted to see the house."
She didn't answer me, and for a while I kept driving toward the house anyway. Then after a mile or two, I decided to turn around and take her back to her room. I figured there was no point in upsetting her.
~
When we got back to the motel, she opened the door and got out.
I leaned toward her. "You want me to wait?"
She didn't answer, just slammed the door and started across the parking lot toward her room. I watched her move. She looked so good from the back. Everything slid just right when she walked. I felt bad for looking, but I couldn't help myself.
As she got closer to her door, a man came out of the next room and grabbed her arm. I saw her try to pull away, but he slapped her across the face and dragged her inside.
I was up and out of my truck fast, running across the parking lot. He'd left the door to the room open and I saw her sitting on the bed. He was standing over her, screaming at her. He didn't see me coming, and I hit him hard. He flew across the bed, and landed in a pile against the wall.
I grabbed Rochelle's hand and pulled her up. "Are you okay?"
She looked back over her shoulder. "Jesus, Jack, look what you did."
"Did he hurt you?" I put my hand on her stomach, and she pulled away.
The man in the corner pushed himself to his knees. He looked up, but his eyes seemed distant, not really seeing us.
"Come on, let's get out of here," I said.
She moved toward the man on the floor, but I stopped her. "Rochelle, let's go."
"Hold on a minute. I want to make sure he's okay."
The man was still on his knees, but I figured he'd be okay. He'd hit the wall pretty hard, but his eyes looked clearer now. Then, when he took the gun from behind his back and pointed it at me, I knew he'd be fine.
"Close that door."
"Carl." Rochelle's voice had a tired whine to it. "Just leave him be."
"You know him?" I asked.
Carl stood, bracing himself against the wall. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Jack Meese, I'm her---"
"Sit the fuck down, Jack Meese."
I stopped talking, but I didn't move.
He came at me and pressed the end of the gun against my forehead. "Sit the fuck down." He talked real slow, dragging out each word, like I was stupid.
I felt the anger swell in my chest, but I pushed it back. There was a faded green couch along the far wall. I sat down, but I never took my eyes off him.
Carl turned to Rochelle. "Why don't you sit next to him."
Rochelle's shoulders seemed to slump. She stood up and shuffled over to the couch, dropping onto the cushions like a scolded child.
"So," Carl said, smiling. "How do you two know each other?"
"It's not like that," Rochelle said. "We're friends."
"Friends?" He looked at me. "You her friend, cowboy?"
I didn't say anything.
"Yes, he's my friend."
Carl nodded, paused. "She suck your cock, friend?"
I stood, fast. "You keep your mouth shut. I don't know what---"
He pointed the gun at me. "You get off that couch again and it'll be the last time."
My chest was on fire, and every muscle in my body felt like it was going to snap. I made myself think about Rochelle and the baby. That was all that mattered, so I sat back down and tried to relax, for their sake.
Carl watched me for a while, then shrugged. "I don't really care if she does or not, just trying to make conversation, s'all."
"What do you want, Carl?" Rochelle asked.
"I want to know where the hell you ran off to. Why haven't I seen you with the others? It's been almost a week."
Rochelle stared at her feet and shrugged. "I'm moving on, that's all. I don't want to stay here."
Carl laughed, fast and short. "You ain't going anywhere."
I got a feeling I knew what was going on, but I wasn't sure. I leaned over to Rochelle. "Is he the father?"
Rochelle shushed me, but Carl heard and smiled.
"What'd he say?"
"He didn't say nothing."
Carl came over and grabbed Rochelle's arm and pulled her off the couch. I went to stand, but he pointed the gun at me and said, "Think it through, cowboy."
I sat back down, keeping a close watch.
Carl turned back to Rochelle. "You told him you were pregnant?"
Rochelle pulled her arm away. "This ain't your business."
Carl laughed, and for a minute it looked like he wasn't able to speak, then he pointed at me. "Are you fucking stupid, boy?"
The anger flashed again. I was having a hard time keeping it back.
He kept laughing. "You must be the dumbest motherfucker I've ever met." He motioned toward Rochelle. "Roach is a dangler."
"Jesus, Carl," Rochelle said. "Why do you have to do this?"
Carl ignored her. He came close to me and said, "You got no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Roach, come over here and show this boy what I'm talking about."
"No, Carl."
He turned on her, fast. "God damn it, now!"
Rochelle hesitated a moment, then crossed the room and stood in front of me. She mumbled something I didn't quite hear, then lifted her shirt and unbuttoned her jeans.
I closed my eyes.
Carl hit the back of my head. "Open your eyes, dipshit. You'll like this."
Rochelle did a small snake move and slid her jeans to her knees. There was a wispy thin tuft of blonde hair between her legs, and buried beneath was a tiny gray penis.
Carl laughed. "It ain't much, but it's enough." He reached down and flicked her penis with his finger. Rochelle jumped back. "You'd be surprised how much money this one brings in on a good night. Some of these boys come from miles just to---"
I got up fast and swung hard, catching him right above his eye. He stumbled backward into the dresser and dropped the gun. He tried to get his balance, and I hit him again. This time he went down. I kicked the gun under the bed and reached for Rochelle.
"Jesus, Jack," she said, pulling her pants back up. She stared at Carl. "What'd you do that for?"
"Let's go. Now." I pulled her toward the door, but she squirmed away and ran to where Carl was sitting on the floor. He had his head back, his palm pressed over his eye.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
She knelt in front of him and held his head between her hands.
"Rochelle, let's go."
She turned to me and screamed through clenched teeth. "Fuck you, Jack. Get out of here."
"Rochelle?"
She ignored me.
I stayed for as long as I could stand it, then I walked back to my truck, her voice still sounding in my head.
~
I always try to do what's right. It's the way I was raised. The Bible says not to hate people who do you wrong, and to love your neighbor. I understand that. The Bible also says an act of revenge is justified and not considered murder. I understand that, too, but sometimes one thing the Bible says seems to go against another, and then I get confused. When that happens, I try to find a middle ground and do what I think is right.
I went back to the motel that night and waited in the lot next door. I watched the girls move between the trucks, but I didn't see Rochelle out there. The light in Carl's room was on, so I figured she was inside. After a while I got out and took the tire iron from the back of my pick-up and headed over.
The door to his room was locked, so I stepped back and kicked it, hard. It exploded in, slamming against the wall. Carl was on the green couch, his head leaned back, a bag of ice over his eye. His pants were off and Rochelle was kneeling between his legs. When he saw me he tried to stand, but I moved fast, catching him across the face with the tire iron.
Carl fell over the side of the couch, slumping against the wall.
He didn't move.
I pulled the couch back and took the heavy rubber band from my pocket.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Rochelle reached for my arm. "Leave him alone---"
I pulled away and slammed my elbow into her chest. She made a low grunting sound and dropped, struggling for breath.
Carl was on his side. I kicked him onto his back, and he made a slow moaning sound. I reached between his legs, wrapped the band around his balls, tight, then pulled the hunting knife from my boot.
Rochelle tried to scream, but the sound was weak and painful.
I ignored her.
Carl's balls were turning a deep purple, like a small eggplant.
I opened the knife.
He jumped when I cut.
Rochelle screamed and staggered into the bathroom. I heard the water run, and when she came back she had an armful of towels.
I got out of her way.
"You think you're a real man?" She looked up at me, showed her teeth. "You're not a real man. You don't know what it means to be a real man."
I waited in the doorway, watching her press the towels between his legs. The faded green motel carpet grew dark under him.
"You'll be just fine, sugar," Rochelle was saying. "You just rest now." She started humming a song to him that seemed familiar. I thought it might've been Mockingbird, but it didn't sound quite right.
I listened for a moment, then said, "What's that you're singing?"
She ignored me. The towels between Carl's legs were soaking through, dark and red, and her humming became closer to a low moan. "Oh, sweet Christ," she said, over and over. "Oh, sweet fucking Christ."
There was a lot of blood, and I figured the band had come off. With cattle, that usually meant trouble, but there wasn't much you could do. I watched them for a while, but it didn't take too long until I'd had enough. I walked out, leaving them alone.
Once I was out the door, Rochelle yelled to me. "You run away, Jack. You just run. You ain't a real man. You ain't ever gonna be a real man, not ever! You hear me?"
I heard her, but then, halfway to my truck, the wind picked up and I didn't hear her anymore.
Harry opened the door.
Jules stood on the porch holding a brown paper bag. "Thought we could throw back a few." He looked past Harry into the dark apartment. "You alone?"
Harry nodded and stepped away from the door.
Jules came inside and went straight for the kitchen. "Mind if I put these in the fridge?"
"Go ahead." Harry closed the door and walked back to the couch in the corner of the room. The ashtray on the coffee table was full and overflowing. "You bring any smokes?"
"I don't smoke, man, you know that."
Harry did know that, it was one of the reasons he didn't like Jules. For a drunk, Jules was far too concerned about his health to be that good of a friend.
Harry thumbed through the ash tray, picked out a half-smoked cigarette, blew off the filter and put it to his lips. "You got a light?"
Jules came out of the kitchen with two beers and handed one to Harry. "I think I might."
"Doesn't smoke, but carries a lighter."
"No lighter," he said. "But these will work."
He held out a black and gold pack of matches. Harry knew them well. They were from the Moonlight Tavern off 76th street. Rita used to work there.
"When were you at the Moonlight?"
"I stop in now and then."
"You see Rita?"
"Not for a couple days," he said. "She's off somewhere, you know how she gets."
Harry nodded and took a drink of his beer. It was warm, but it tasted good.
Neither of them spoke.
Harry leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Outside, the noise from the street drifted into the room like the sound of an angry sea.
Jules coughed.
Harry opened his eyes. "You sick?"
"Nothing serious."
"What's nothing serious?"
"I don't know," Jules said. "Nothing serious."
"Don't come over here when you're sick."
"Christ, Harry, it's just allergies. They always kick in come August."
"If you say so."
Jules shook his head. "You're a fucking hypochondriac, you know that?"
Harry ignored him.
They finished their beers and opened two more.
"You got plans tonight?" Jules asked.
"Just this."
"What about later? You feel like going out?"
"No."
Jules paused, looked down at the bottle in his hand. "Yeah, me neither."
Outside, someone screamed, followed by laughter.
Harry finished his beer then got up and walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two left. He opened one, said, "Last two, you ready?"
"Keep it," Jules said. "I'm going to take off."
Harry took the last beer back to the couch. "Thanks for stopping by, Jules."
"You sure I can't get you to come along?"
"Come along where?"
"Anywhere," he said. "Just thought you might want to get out of here for a while."
"No, I'm good."
Jules stared at him for a moment then set his empty bottle on the floor beside the chair and stood up. "If you change your mind---"
"Sure."
Jules walked to the door and stopped. "You know, Rita feels real bad about the other night. She didn't mean to embarrass you like that."
Harry nodded.
"She thinks you're a great guy, Harry, a sweetheart." Jules hesitated. "Just not her type. You understand?"
"Yeah, I do."
"She asks about you."
Harry took a drink. "Tell her I said hello."
Jules nodded slowly. "Sure, Harry. I'll tell her."
Harry waited until he was alone, then got up and walked to the bathroom. One of the fluorescent lights was out, and the remaining bulb buzzed behind the glass like a chorus of flies.
He sat on the edge of the toilet, pulled back the shower curtain, and looked down at Rita, naked and folded blue in a pool of red.
He stared at her, his pants growing painfully tight, then he stood and leaned over the tub, bracing himself against the shower wall, and unzipped.
After he finished, he cleaned himself up and walked back to the living room.
For the first time that night, everything was quiet.
Harry listened to the silence. Then he twisted the cap off the last beer and drank.
July. Phoenix. Hot.
Jacob pulls into the parking lot of the Circle K and gets out. There's a girl at the payphone next to the ice machine. She's crying. As he walks by she slams the phone on the cradle and shouts, "Fuck."
Jacob looks away, pretending not to notice. He opens the front door; the cold air from inside feels good against his skin. He pauses and looks back at the girl. There's something familiar about her---he's seen her before. "You okay?" Jacob asks.
The girl takes a deep breath. "No, I'm not fucking okay," she says. "I'm in really deep shit."
Inside the store the clerk shouts at him to close the door. Jacob ignores him. "You want something to drink? Some water?"
The girl looks up. Mascara snakes down her cheeks and tiny black tears drip on her t-shirt. "Can you give me a ride to Indian School and Fifteenth?"
Jacob frowns. Buying her a bottle of water when it's a hundred and eighteen degrees is one thing, but giving her a ride, especially when he's stoned, is something completely different. Indian School and Fifteenth might only be a mile or two away, but it'll seem like a million in his mind. He had a hard enough time driving the eight blocks from his apartment. "Sorry," he says. "But if you want some water? A Coke?"
The girl shoulders her purse and turns away. Jacob stares at her legs as she moves. After a moment he goes inside.
"The A/C's not free around here, you know," the clerk says.
Jacob waves over his shoulder and heads to the frozen section. Other people must've had the same idea because the shelves are almost empty. All that's left is Blue Bunny Vanilla or Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. He settles on a quart of Cherry Garcia and walks back to the counter, grabbing a bag of Funyons along the way.
"That girl still out there?" the clerk asks, thumbing toward the door. "Little brunette? Red shorts?"
"Yeah," Jacob says. He takes a bag of peanut M&M's from the rack by the register and sets them on the counter. "What's up with her?"
"No idea," the clerk says. "Somebody dropped her off, just about threw her out of the car. She came in looking for a ride, but I can't leave." He scans the M&M's and sets them in a bag. "She ask you?"
Jacob nods. "You see the car?"
"Blue Firebird," the clerk says. "No license plate, but the car was nice. One of those suped up jobs. Real cherry."
Jacob feels a small tickle at the back of his neck. He watches the clerk bag the ice cream, and for a minute he's quiet. Then he asks, "Tinted windows?"
The clerk nods. "Yeah."
"Bulls-eye painted on the back?"
"You know the car?"
The tickle grows, feeling more like an ice pick. Jacob reaches for his wallet. "What do I owe you?"
The clerk hits the total key. "Nine ninety eight."
He drops a ten-dollar bill on the counter, grabs the bag, and heads for the door. Behind him, he hears the clerk say: "You better get that ice cream inside. It'll melt damn quick out there today."
~
The heat off the black top is heavy and the air burns his lungs. The girl is gone. He scans the parking lot, cursing himself under his breath. Of all the people to let slip away. He sets the bag in the front seat of his car and walks to the payphones. He picks up the receiver, drops in a couple coins, and dials.
The phone rings. Once... Twice...
Jacob shifts his weight between his feet. "Come on," he says, chewing his lower lip. He looks back toward the street, hoping to see her, but there is only the desperate line of wilted palm trees along the road, weary under the constant sun.
Three... Four...
Finally, Marcus picks up. His voice is tired. "Yeah?"
Jacob talks fast. "You're not going to believe who I just saw."
"Jacob," Marcus says. "You know what time it is?"
Jacob looks at his watch. It's almost two o'clock.
"You know Decker has me on nights at the club, right?"
"Yeah, but---"
"So don't fucking call me during the day, Jacob. You know this."
Jacob hears Marcus shuffle the phone back to the cradle, and he shouts into the receiver. "Claire Reese. I saw Claire Reese." He waits for the dial tone. It doesn't come. He hears more shuffling and the unmistakable scrape of a lighter.
"Where?"
"The Circle K on Camelback. Right down from my place." He relays the clerk's story about the Blue Firebird, leaving out that he didn't recognize her and let her wander off. He gets enough shit from Marcus as it is.
"He say where she wanted to go?" Marcus asks.
Jacob closes his eyes and tries to remember. "Somewhere close," he says. "I can't---"
"Are you stoned?"
"I'm cool," Jacob says, but he knows he's not. All he'd wanted that afternoon was to get as high as possible and watch Blade Runner on his VCR. Eventually the plan grew to include ice cream, but by then he'd already smoked a Rastafarian amount of weed. Still, once the idea was there, his mind wouldn't let it go. "Don't worry about me."
"Are you sure it was her?" Marcus asks. "Seriously, Jacob, if I call Decker and you end up being wrong---."
"Indian School," Jacob says. It comes back to him all at once. "Fifteenth and Indian School."
Marcus exhales into the phone. "You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm fucking sure," Jacob says. He'd only met the girl once, but she wasn't easy to forget. Claire Reese was stunning---dark hair cut short, green eyes, and a light complexion that made Jacob think of everything he'd never have in life. The girl he saw on the phone had longer hair, but everything else was the same. "Trust me on this."
"All right, I'll get someone over there." He laughs. "I can't believe Cooper was stupid enough to come back in the same car."
Jacob can. This was, after all, the same guy who skipped town with almost thirty grand of Decker's money. Coming back in the same car, as far as Jacob was concerned, was par for the course. "What do you want me to do?"
"Head home, I don't care." He pauses. "No wait, drive around and see if you can find her. If you do, take her to your place. I'll meet you there. We might need her."
"For what?" Jacob says. He thinks about the ice cream melting in the car, Blade Runner back in his apartment, his entire afternoon dissolving in front of him. "I thought you only wanted Cooper."
"If we can't find him we'll get his wife. He'll want her back."
"I don't know, man. The clerk said he barely slowed down when he dropped her off. Maybe he ditched her for good."
"Either way, she'll know where the son of a bitch is."
Jacob makes a doubtful noise. He hates the idea of driving around, looking for this girl. He's too stoned for that kind of activity. "Aw, man, I don't think---"
"Don't fucking whine at me, Jacob," Marcus says. "Just look for her. If you find her, hold her. It's not tough."
Jacob waits a moment before responding. "All right," he says. "I'll look around, but if I don't see her I'm going home."
"Think of it this way," Marcus says. "If you find her, I bet Decker lets you have your job back."
Jacob considers the possibility for a moment. It was probably true. Decker might not give him the same shift---maybe not even the same club---but he'd most likely let him tend bar at one of the smaller dives in Tempe, and that was fine by him. He needed to work again. Ever since Decker threw him out, his days had been a long string of rented movies and bong hits. And as much fun as that was, it'd begun to get old. "But I thought Decker said---"
"You bring in Cooper Reese, and I wouldn't be surprised if Decker lets you manage one of the clubs." Marcus laughs. "Then you can give away all the God damn drinks you want."
Marcus is giving him shit, but still, Jacob can't help but smile.
~
Traffic on Camelback road is light, and Jacob says a quick prayer of thanks to whatever gods handle that type of thing. He's been in Phoenix almost four years, and he's gotten used to the heat and the floods and the scorpions, but he's never gotten used to the drivers. He has a theory that the heat cooks away people's brains over time, rendering them incapable of driving safely. So far he's seen nothing that disproves this theory. Stop signs, speed limits, traffic lights---in Phoenix they're all optional.
Jacob, in contrast, drives slow, especially when he's high. He's used to people passing him on both sides, always honking, always screaming. It's unnerving. It takes something serious to get him to drive when he's high, like ice cream, or the possibility of getting his job back.
The last time Jacob counted, Carl Decker owned seven nightclubs throughout Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe: two strip clubs, two dance clubs, and three small neighborhood bars. Jacob had bartended at a small strip joint called Whiskey Street, just outside of Scottsdale. Things had gone along great until Decker noticed the inventory not matching up with the sales and, without Jacob knowing, installed cameras and waited.
In the course of one month, Decker estimated Jacob gave away close to three thousand dollars worth of drinks. That was almost a month ago, and Jacob hadn't worked since. Luckily, Marcus was Jacob's cousin, and Decker and Marcus were thick. Otherwise things could've wound up a lot worse.
~
Jacob sees her about five blocks up from the circle K, walking along the side of the road. He's lucky. A girl who looks like that doesn't walk for long. There's always someone willing to stop.
Jacob passes her and pulls into a strip mall parking lot. He parks in front of a tuxedo rental and waits for her to pass. When she gets closer, Jacob opens the door and gets out. He waves to her. At first she doesn't seem to recognize him then she crosses the parking lot to where he's standing.
"You still need that ride?" Jacob asks.
The girl nods and walks around to the passenger side. Jacob leans across to unlock her door. He puts the ice cream in the back. The container is already getting soft. She gets inside and says, "Why'd you change your mind?"
Jacob shrugs. "Just did." He pulls out of the parking lot and heads back toward his apartment. "Too hot out here to walk."
"You got that right." She takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it. "You care if I smoke in here?"
Jacob shakes his head and rolls his window down a couple inches. The air is hot and he adjusts himself so it's not blowing on him. "What happened back there?" Jacob asks. "The guy at the store said someone threw you out of a car."
"My old man."
"No shit?" Jacob smiles. "What happened?"
"What's it to you?" She reaches out and ashes her cigarette on the floor. "Why don't you mind your own goddamn business?"
They are both quiet for a while, then the girl speaks. "I'm sorry," she says. "Shitty day." She takes a deep breath and Jacob thinks she's going to cry. Instead she laughs. "He's tweaking. I can't reason with him when he's like that."
"Tweaking?" Jacob says. It takes a moment for him to understand. "As in---"
"Meth," the girl says. "He needs to get high, and he thinks I took his money." She shakes her head. "I've got half a mind to call his probation officer and tell her what he's been doing. Maybe I can get the son of a bitch put back in jail. Things were so much better when he was inside."
"Did you take his money?"
The girl smiles and blows a thick stream of smoke against the windshield. "Where are we going?" She points behind her. "Indian School is back there."
Jacob motions toward the bag in the back seat. "I've got ice cream," he says. "I need to drop it by my apartment so it doesn't melt. Do you care?"
"How long will it take?"
"Not long," he says. "You're welcome to come up, get out of the heat."
The girl turns and looks back at the bag. She puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales. "I'm not going to fuck you," she says.
Jacob hadn't expected her to, but still, he can't help feel a bit disappointed. "I wasn't trying to say---"
"I just want to make that clear, up front," she says. "I don't do that kind of thing anymore. Especially with strangers."
"I understand."
"Make sure you do." She turns toward the passenger window and the blur of orange trees passing along the road. "You live close?"
"Only a few blocks."
The girl nods and looks around the inside of the car. "I hope your apartment is nicer than your car."
~
Jacob follows her up the stairs to his apartment, watching her ass as she walks. He wonders if she was serious about not fucking him. She probably was, but he doesn't want to ask, just in case she changes her mind. He doesn't want to sound desperate.
When they get to the top of the stairs she stops and digs through her purse. "Which one is it?"
"Number six," he says, motioning to a door at the end of the hallway. He walks past her, shifting the ice cream bag from one hand and shuffling through his keys with the other. "I wasn't expecting anyone, so it's a mess." He reaches down and unlocks the door. "I can pick up if you---"
Jacob feels something hard press against the base of his skull. He knows what it is before he turns around. The gun is tiny, and he tries not to smile. It looks like one of those models designed for small hands, probably a .22 caliber.
"Go inside." She waves the gun at him. "Hurry, hurry."
Jacob can't stop staring. He tries to imagine what it would feel like to be shot by a gun that small, the tiny bullet burning into his forehead. He'd heard small caliber bullets didn't have much power and had been known to stay inside a person's skull, spinning like a marble in a bowl, ripping tissue from bone. The thought scares him, and he moves quickly.
"You don't need to do this," Jacob says. "They only want your husband."
"My husband?" she says, closing the door. "What the hell are you talking about?"
At first there is only a tiny spark of doubt. "It's okay," Jacob says. "They think you'll lead them to Cooper. They don't want---"
"Who the fuck is Cooper?" She moves toward him and presses the gun against his chest. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, so just shut up." She glances around the apartment then motions toward the hallway and the bathroom. "In there."
"Come on, Claire."
"Who?" She pushes him with the gun. "Just shut the fuck up and get in the bathroom."
Jacob moves slowly, watching her. For the first time he allows himself to wonder if he's made a mistake. He tries to pull up a memory of Claire Reese, the way she spoke to him when they'd met. He remembered her sounding delicate and smart, like an Audrey Hepburn character, not like this girl, nothing like this girl.
The tiny spark of doubt grows, and Jacob feels it burn at the base of his stomach. "You're not Claire Reese?" he asks, but once it's out he knows the answer. Claire had green eyes. This girl's eyes are brown, and her hair is past her shoulders. Last time he saw Claire---a few months back---her hair was cut above her ears. Not enough time had passed for it to grow that long. Jacob steps into the bathroom and slumps against the sink. "You're not Claire Reese."
"Hand me your wallet," she says.
Jacob does. He stares at the water stains on the floor, thinking about what he's going to say to Marcus.
She reaches for the door handle. "If you come out of this room I'm going to shoot you."
Jacob starts to speak, but she slams the door. He drops the toilet lid and sits down. "Doesn't your husband drive a blue Firebird?" he asks.
The girl doesn't answer. He sees her shadow moving in the space under the door and hears her shuffling through his living room. "Is this all the money you got?" she says.
Something soft hits the door, probably his wallet minus his last five bucks. He doesn't answer her.
"You got anything else in here?"
"Do you know Cooper Reese?" Jacob asks. "Blue Firebird? Bulls eye on the---"
"Man, shut the fuck up."
He hears something heavy slide across the kitchen counter and then the sound of glass shattering and the metallic rush of coins across linoleum. The girl is muttering something, but Jacob can't make it out.
"I don't have anything," Jacob says. "You don't have to break stuff."
There's another loud crash from the living room. Jacob hears cables being pulled and he stands up. "Come on, now," he says. "Don't take my VCR."
"Shut up."
The noise becomes frantic and Jacob cringes. He imagines her tearing the cable from the wall, pulling the jack out of the TV. He reaches for the doorknob then stops himself and steps back. "Just be careful, will you?"
A few minutes later he hears the front door open and softly click shut. He waits, then says, "Hello?"
No answer.
He presses his ear against the door.
Silence.
He turns the doorknob and inches the door open, peeking through the crack. The shelf above his TV is down, and his collection of shot glasses is scattered across the living room floor. He walks out slowly. All the shelves are empty. The coffee table is upside down, and his Sports Illustrated and Maxim's are heaped in a pile by the couch.
His VCR is gone.
In the kitchen, his change jar is broken, and the floor is littered with pennies. The Ice cream is still by the door. A thin, milky pink liquid has leaked through the bag and soaked into the carpet.
Jacob sweeps a shot glass out of the way with his foot and walks to the front door. He pulls it open slowly and looks out. The hallway is empty. He hears a car start in the parking lot and he feels his pockets for his keys. "Oh, shit." He jumps over the coffee table and looks out the window.
The girl is in his car, backing slowly out of the parking lot. She's struggling with the clutch, and the car jerks and stalls. She restarts it and the car lurches toward the exit.
"Hey!" Jacob shouts to her. He turns and runs out the door and down the hallway. He takes the stairs two at a time, the dry wood moaning under his weight. He misses the last stair and falls forward. The hall carpet scrapes into the side of his face and Jacob inhales a dry mist of ancient dust. He pushes himself up and touches his cheek. The skin is raw and burning.
When he gets to the parking lot his car is gone. He sits on the edge of the walkway and leans forward, resting his arms on his knees.
A moment later, Marcus pulls up, and Jacob laughs under his breath.
He'll tell Marcus there was no sign of Claire, that she must've found another ride. A girl who looks like that? He'll believe him.
Marcus parks in one of the visitor spaces and gets out of the car. He walks toward Jacob. He's smiling.
He'll tell Marcus someone broke in while he was looking for her, and when he got home his apartment was trashed.
And they took his VCR.
Hopefully he'll believe him.
When Marcus gets close he holds his hands out over Jacob's empty parking space and asks, "Where's your car?"
Jacob shakes his head. He doesn't know how to explain the car.
Marcus smiles, and Jacob sees the laughter in his eyes. He looks away. He hopes Marcus will keep quiet, but he knows he won't. Marcus lives for these moments.
Still, maybe this time Marcus will see things are different. Maybe he'll lay off.
Jacob hopes so.
He gets enough shit from Marcus as it is.
Mattie watched from the porch as the fat man lurched up the dirt road. His left leg, twisted at the knee, dragged and buckled with each step. Behind him, a thin trail of dust drifted white in the breeze before dissolving over the cornfields that lined the road. He moved slow, keeping his head down, and when he reached the driveway he stopped and stared at the house.
Mattie walked to the edge of the porch and squinted against the setting sun. The man didn't move. She raised the rifle to her shoulder and studied him down the length of the barrel. He stood for a moment, looking from the road to the house and then back again, before stepping onto the driveway.
Mattie took a deep breath and began to count. "One... Two... Three..." She squeezed the trigger and the back of the man's head opened onto the road. A second later his body dropped hard into the dirt.
A scatter of crows rose from the cornfield then drifted down again like ash.
The fat man didn't move.
"Did you recognize him?" The voice came from the upstairs window. Mattie didn't turn around.
"I think it was Mr. Cavender," she said. "I'm not sure."
She was sure.
Mr. Cavender had been her Freshman Lit teacher the year before. There were rumors that the district had to widen the restroom doors by the teacher's lounge to accommodate his girth. Mattie didn't know if this was true, but it wouldn't have surprised her.
"So, they got to the school?"
Mattie didn't answer. She stared at the body at the foot of the driveway and searched for movement. There was none.
"Mattie?"
"Close the window, Nathan. Get some rest."
They were quiet for a moment, and then Nathan spoke. "Have you seen him?"
Mattie turned toward the window. She saw a flash of blond hair and felt her stomach sink. "No," she said, turning back to the road. "Not yet."
Nathan closed the window.
Mattie sat back on the porch. She laid the gun across her lap and ran her hand along the barrel, feeling the heat of the metal against her skin. She took a cartridge from the box on the porch and replaced the empty shell. Her shoulder ached, and she massaged the muscle with her hand.
"It'll get easier the more you do it." Her father reloaded the rifle and held it out to her. "Remember, take a deep breath, count to three, and squeeze the trigger, don't pull."
Mattie took the gun.
The keys in her front pocket dug against her hip, and she thought about the Jeep in the garage. Tomorrow would be day three, and they would have to leave. She'd promised. Three days. No more.
Mattie looked down the road that led to town, and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. The road was empty, the sky was red and heavy, and all around her the cornfields swayed green and endless in the breeze.
~
There had been rumors. News reports, incomplete and vague: something bad happening in the city. Soon after, the TV and radio went out completely and that was it. The next day Mattie's father drove into town and came back with the guns.
"I think it's time you learned how to shoot." He handed her the rifle. It was heavy, and she almost dropped it in the dirt. Nathan laughed behind her. Mattie turned toward him and wrinkled her nose, then smiled.
"Don't worry," her father said. "You'll get used to it."
~
Mattie was upstairs when the first one came.
Nathan was alone. He was on the tire swing, when the man came out of the corn.
Mattie heard her father yell, and she ran to the front of the house. There were shots, and she saw Nathan on the ground, pushing himself across the grass and away from the oak tree. The tire swing spun in circles on the branch.
Nathan was crying, and there was blood on his arm. Her father reached down, lifted him to his feet, and pointed to the house. Nathan ran to the porch and stood behind her. He held his hand over his arm and blood seeped between his fingers.
Her father walked to the man under the tree. He was twitching and trying to stand, and as the man got to his feet her father shot him again, spraying his chest, wet and black, over the tree trunk. The man fell, and her father turned back to the house. He'd only gone a few steps before the man stood up, bracing himself against the tree.
Mattie couldn't speak. She watched the man take a few steps before she raised her arm and pointed. Her father turned around and lifted the gun to his shoulder. This time the bullet took off the top of the man's skull, and he didn't get up.
By nightfall, Nathan developed a fever. He was cold to the touch and sweat poured off him in rivers of sickness. The scratch on his arm was bruised and black.
The next day they lost power to the house.
"I'll go to Gretna. If there's not a doctor there, I'll drive to Fremont." He handed her the keys to the Jeep and pointed at her. "Three days Mattie, I mean it. You don't see me by then? You and Nathan head north to Uncle John's." He nodded toward the house. "Maybe in a couple days he'll be in better shape to travel."
Mattie turned the keys over in her hand. She didn't look up.
Her father loaded his gun into the cab of the pickup. "Promise me, Mattie. Three days. No more."
She promised.
~
Mattie closed the front door and slid the locking bolt in place. The smell in the house was worse today, and the flies were everywhere, hundreds of them, moving like living art on the walls. She covered her mouth with her sleeve as she walked up the stairs toward the bedroom.
Nathan was leaning back against the headboard and staring out the window. The remaining sunlight bled into the room and dripped gold across the bed.
"We have to go tomorrow, huh."
"Uncle John's expecting us." Mattie leaned the gun against the wall and sat on the edge of the bed. "Dad told him we were coming. He'll be looking for us."
Nathan turned toward her, and for a moment she didn't recognize him. His face looked thick and gray. Black veins spread like spider webs up his neck and blossomed along his cheeks. His eyes looked old and worn. Only the blond hair, bleached by the summer sun, reminded Mattie of the eleven-year-old underneath.
"You're not going to leave me here, right?" His eyes moved back and forth between hers. "You remember what you said after mom died. You promised, remember?"
Mattie touched his leg through the blanket. It was cold, and her hand sank into his flesh. "I'm not leaving you," she said, pulling her hand away. "Why would you think that?"
Nathan looked back at the window. "'Because my scratch." He pulled his sleeve up, and Mattie had to look away. The arm, from the fingers up, was ashen gray with black lines running in every direction. He looked at it for a moment. "It's not getting better."
"How do you feel?"
Nathan shrugged. "Cold."
"You should rest tonight. We've got a long drive tomorrow." She reached for the leather belts tied to the headboards. "Give me your hands."
Nathan moaned.
"I can't watch you all night. I can't take the chance that you might hur---"
"I'd never hurt you, Mattie." Nathan stared at her.
Mattie looked away. "I know," she said. "But you could hurt yourself." She patted the bed with her hand. "I just want us both to be safe, okay."
He lay back in the bed, and Mattie tied the leather straps around his wrists. They were long and allowed him to move a little, but not too much.
Mattie closed the door and arranged her blanket on the floor along the side of the bed. She leaned up against the wall and watched the sunlight fade outside the window.
"Where do you think dad is?"
"Nathan, don't."
After a moment he spoke. "I bet he went on ahead. He's probably already at Uncle John's."
Mattie was quiet.
"I'm sure that's where he is," Nathan said. Mattie heard his breath wheeze in his chest. "How long does it take to get up there?"
"Not long," Mattie said. "Go to sleep now."
Nathan shifted on the bed, and Mattie closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his breathing. Wet and slow and fading.
~
Fading...
The gun was lighter now, and as she walked up the steps to the porch she barely felt it in her hands. She looked down to make sure it was there. It was, and she squeezed it against her chest as she walked. The boards on the porch bent and moaned under her feet. She opened the screen door to the house and reached for the doorknob. There was a buzzing behind the door, and Mattie stopped. It was quiet, almost inaudible, just a low, rhythmic hum.
Mattie pushed the door open and stepped inside. The entryway floor was covered with dirt, and the wallpaper flayed off the wall in long strips. There were cobwebs along the ceiling that pulsed back and forth above her head.
And there was music.
She held her breath and listened. It was coming from the living room, slow and easy, a waltz, her dad's favorite. She moved toward the sound, and felt her stomach twist. She walked faster. There were voices coming from the room, a woman's voice, somehow familiar, and the unmistakable rolling sound of her father's laughter.
Mattie turned the corner to the living room. She saw them for a second---she did---and then nothing. The room was empty. The picture window was cracked and boarded over. The chandelier, broken and detached, lay in pieces on the floor. And all around her, the room buzzed.
Mattie looked at the fireplace against the wall. There were ashes and soot falling in from the chimney. A shadow passed in front of the boarded window, and Mattie jumped. She raised the gun. The buzzing was louder. Rocks and ashes bounced from the fireplace into the room, and she heard scuffling in the chimney. Something was there, trapped behind the brick, trying to get free.
"Mattie!" She heard Nathan's voice. It came from outside, and she backed into the hallway and ran to the front door. It wouldn't open.
"Mattie!" She heard him scream, and she let go of the gun. She grabbed the doorknob with both hands and pulled. The door opened and she ran onto the porch.
There was no one. The road was gone. The corn had covered it, growing up the driveway to the porch, brown and rotted and thick. In the distance, the oak tree, tire swing hanging motionless from its branches, stood dead and skeletal, silhouetted against the fading light of the sky.
"Mattie!" She turned and ran back inside. A shadow moved at the top of the stairs, then disappeared. Mattie looked for the gun, but it was gone. The buzzing was louder, drowning out his voice. She walked toward the stairs and put her hand on the railing. It was cold and slick against her skin and she pulled away.
"Mattie!"
She walked slowly and listened for his voice through the buzzing. The air was thick with the sound, growing louder with each step. There were pictures lining the wall along the stairway, family portraits and school photos, a happy family, children smiling from behind glass frames.
The bedroom door was closed. She reached out and put her hand against the wood. It buzzed and vibrated under her fingers. Mattie took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Quiet.
Everything stopped. Nathan was sitting on the bed, blond hair falling forward over his forehead. He was looking down at his hands.
Mattie walked into the room. "Nathan?"
Nathan looked up, and Mattie stopped. His eyes were gone. Only black sockets, cold and empty, stared back at her. Mattie began to scream.
Nathan stared at her, and tiny cracks formed along his skin. Behind them, she saw movement. His body shook, and his skin split and came apart in small, dissolving explosions of noise and flight. The buzz was deafening. Flies, millions of them, filled the room, choking the air black. Mattie closed her eyes, feeling them in her hair, and on her skin, and in her throat as she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
~
Something hit the ground, and Mattie opened her eyes. She sat up and reached for the gun in the corner. The room was dark except for a gray morning glow that sank through the window.
Nathan was on his side with his back to her. One of the belts had come loose.
"Nathan?" He didn't move. She sat the gun down and reached for the leather strap on the headboard. "The belt came off. I need to put it back." She ran her hand along the strap to the knot at the end.
His hand was still attached.
Mattie dropped the belt and the hand thumped against the wood floor. She picked up the gun and stepped away from the bed. Nathan was still on his side, and she could hear wet popping sounds coming from his throat. She moved around the room. Nathan didn't look up. He was chewing through his other wrist, and the fingers on his hand twitched with each bite.
The sound she made surprised them both, and when he looked up Mattie saw the gray, rotted flesh between his teeth. He reached out to her and black blood dripped from the open arm and coated the bed like oil.
Mattie ran.
She opened the door and took the steps, two at a time, to the entryway below, then through the kitchen to the garage. She dropped the rifle in the passenger seat and went around to the overhead door, turned the handle, and lifted it open.
The morning air was cold, and the wind from the north chilled her skin. The sun was coming up, and a long, thin strip of light sliced across the horizon. She breathed deep, letting the air clear her mind, then walked back to the Jeep and started the engine. Static hissed out of the speakers, and Mattie jumped at the sound. She reached forward and turned the radio off.
Now the tears came all at once. She couldn't stop them. They covered her like a wave, and she leaned her head on the steering wheel, squeezing until her fingers ached. As the tears passed, Mattie wiped them away with her sleeve. She put the Jeep in gear, and when she pulled out of the garage she stopped.
There were shadows moving in the driveway.
Mattie sat for a moment, watching them get closer. Dark shapes, silhouetted against a burning pink sky. She leaned forward and turned on the headlights.
Now there were faces, and Mattie recognized each one; neighbors, classmates, friends. The woman closest to the Jeep was wearing a pink and yellow waitress dress that Mattie knew from the Dinner Diner in town. Her skin looked rough, like asphalt, and her lips were dried and shriveled back away from her teeth.
She was smiling.
Her right arm had been snapped just above the elbow, and a thin shard of bone showed from under the short yellow sleeve of her dress. Her left arm hung to her side, weighted down. She was carrying something, but Mattie couldn't tell what it was.
When she got closer, Mattie saw the diaper.
The woman was holding the child by one badly dislocated arm. Its face was gigantic, bloated purple and black. The eyes were gone, and its head, unattached from muscle or bone, rolled sickly between its shoulders. In the halo of the headlights, Mattie watched the child twitch, the mouth opening and closing, empty and silent.
Mattie couldn't move. She was aware of others coming up the driveway, out of the corn, all moving toward the house. She wanted to scream. She wanted to drive. She wanted to head north, to take Nathan and just go. She'd promised her father. She'd promised Nathan.
She'd promised Nathan.
Something hard hit the rear window, and Mattie looked back. One of them was behind her, slamming his head against the glass. Mattie put the Jeep in reverse and backed up fast, into the garage. He held on, and when they hit the wall, a wet smack covered the window.
Mattie looked back. The glass was coated with a slow, black ooze. Through it, in the dimmed red glow of the taillights, the man slumped against the jeep.
Mattie grabbed the gun and got out. She inched her way along the wall toward the door, never taking her eyes off the man. When she got closer, the man's head rolled back, his eyes focused on her.
She stared at him, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then the man opened his mouth and screamed. The sound started slow, building, growing louder, reminding her of the tornado sirens that sounded in the spring, sending everyone underground.
Mattie looked up, toward the driveway. The others were getting closer, and she reached for the doorknob and went inside. When she closed the door behind her, the screaming stopped.
Everything was quiet.
She made sure the door was locked, then lifted the gun and walked through the kitchen toward the front of the house. There was a low scraping noise coming from outside, and she tried to block out the sound.
When she got to the entryway, Mattie looked up at the bedroom door. It was half open, and as she climbed the stairs she watched for movement in the room. There was nothing. Her legs felt weak, and she balanced herself against the railing as she went. When she reached the top, Mattie held the gun against her shoulder and stepped inside.
The bed was empty, and for a moment she felt certain Nathan was behind her. She backed up, lost her footing, and came down hard on the floor. The gun fired into the ceiling, and dust fell in shards around her. Mattie slid back against the wall, pushing herself to her feet.
As she stood, she saw him on the other side of the room, staring at her, only his eyes visible over the top of the mattress. Downstairs, she heard glass break, and she knew they were inside the house. Mattie ignored the sound and walked slowly around the bed toward Nathan. When she got closer, her breath caught in her throat.
She didn't recognize him.
Nathan's face was the color of tar and covered with flies. His skin leaked dark fluid, which ran down his neck and swelled into a stain on his shirt. The smell was terrible. His eyes were cataract white, and she wondered if he could see her. She took a step forward. His eyes followed her movement.
"Oh, Nathan." She was moaning, and the sound hung in her chest.
Nathan leaned forward, and she jumped away. He stopped, watched her for a moment, then leaned back against the wall.
Mattie let herself slide to the floor across from him. She held the gun between her knees and stared into the barrel. She thought about her father, about Nathan, about the promise to drive north if it came to that. She tried to imagine what they might've found up there, then smiled and traced the trigger of the rifle with her toe.
If it came to that.
From the hallway, she heard the familiar creak of footsteps on the stairs. They were close now, and Mattie pushed herself to her feet. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand then lifted the gun to her shoulder. Nathan sat unmoving, his blond hair dripping down his forehead.
Mattie stood over him. "I'm so sorry, Nathan," she said. The muscles in her arms burned under the weight of the gun. Outside, the sun was coming up orange, and the light leaked through the curtains into the room.
She closed her eyes, and all she could hear was the grinding buzz of the flies. They surrounded her, unrelenting and constant. The sound pushed through everything until it was all that was left. After a moment, she looked up. Nathan was watching her.
They were all watching.
Mattie took a deep breath and began to count.
One...
"A Sharp White Light" was originally published in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine in 2005. This is the last short story I wrote and the only straightforward mystery I've ever done. When I started working on it, I wanted to write something longer than anything I'd written before, and doing that presented an entirely new set of challenges. At the time, most of my stories clocked in at around 3000 words. When I finished "A Sharp White Light," it was almost four times that length, and for the first time I saw how I could expand a story line to fit multiple scenes and characters. It was the boost of confidence I needed to start seriously considering working on a novel. This story also turned out to be a testing ground for characters and plot ideas that I eventually used in later books.
"Rivers" was the only short story I wrote that was never published. It came close a few times, but something about children killing children didn't sit well with editors (go figure). I liked the basic idea behind the story, and I've since turned it into a novella. It's not quite ready to see the light of day, but it's coming.
"The Walls Around Us" was written in 2002 and originally published in The Seattle Review in 2004. It's also the first real short story I ever wrote. Before "Walls," I was mostly writing fragments of scenes and dialog and calling them stories even though they weren't. This was the first piece I wrote that felt complete. This was also the first story that surprised me. The homage to Poe was accidental, and the ending presented itself while I was writing. The surprise of seeing how the story was about to unfold was something I've never forgotten, and it remains one of the ongoing joys of writing.
"To Lay Down With Animals" was the last short story I wrote in 2005 and was originally published in Pulp Pusher in 2007. This is one of the darker stories I've written, and I had a hard time finding a publisher for this one in the US. One editor sent a rejection that can only be described as hate mail. Luckily, the story found its way overseas and was picked up by the talented Tony Black for his noir-zine. Unfortunately, like so many short fiction markets, Pulp Pusher no longer exists.
"Folded Blue" started life as a writing exercise. When I'm stuck, or can't seem to put together a coherent sentence, I'll sit down and write a scene with two characters. I won't think about where it's going or try to influence the story in any way. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. In this case, it turned into something I was not expecting. I never tried to publish "Folded Blue" until this year when it was published in a wonderful new noir-zine called Shotgun Honey.
"The Firebird" was originally published in The Edge: An Anthology of Crime Fiction in 2005. It was one of my early attempts at crime fiction, and it turned out much more whimsical than I'd intended. Something about a stoner main character melting down in the desert heat struck me as funny, and the story developed all on its own.
"A Season of Sleep" was originally published in the zombie anthology, COLD FLESH, in 2003. It has been reprinted several times in other magazines and anthologies, and it remains one of my favorites. I started the story thinking it was going to be about a young girl who goes crazy and starts shooting her neighbors, but it quickly turned into something different. Lucky for me, I wrote it right as the current zombie craze was kicking into gear, and it sold right away.
JOHN RECTOR is the author of the novels Already Gone, The Cold Kiss (optioned for a feature film now in development), and The Grove. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and won several awards including the Porterhouse prize. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska with his family.

