by Paul Heatley
“What about Mom?” Deborah says. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
“Always,” Seth says, smiling at Abigail over the top of the table. “She’s always the most beautiful woman in all the world.”
Deborah turns to Abigail now. “Do you think Daddy is beautiful?” she says.
Abigail laughs. “Of course!” she says. “But I think he’s more handsome than beautiful.”
Deborah looks like she isn’t sure what to make of this. She turns back to Seth, contemplates for a moment, then says, “I think you’re beautiful, Daddy.”
Not to be left out, Danielle is quick to say, “I do too, Daddy.”
Seth looks at his wife. “There we have it,” he says to her. “You’ve been outvoted. Turns out I am a very beautiful man.”
“Then I must be a very lucky lady,” Abigail says.
They eat bread for breakfast. The girls lean forward over their plates, are especially careful not to get crumbs on their clean clothes. Deborah is more successful than her little sister. When they are done, Danielle has crumbs around her mouth, a few in her hair. Seth takes a napkin from the pile they keep in the center of the table for just such an occurrence, and he wipes her face down, picks the debris from her hair.
“Are we ready to go?” Abigail says.
“If we have to,” Deborah says.
“Yes,” Seth says, smiling. “We do have to. You’ll like it one day.”
Deborah blows air out of her pursed lips. She doubts this.
They leave the house. There are agents outside, guarding them. Seth notices, as he and Abigail strap their children into their seats, how the bodyguards speak into their wrists, alerting others to his whereabouts, preparing for his departure.
There have been death threats since the introduction of Seth’s clean energy bill. As it makes its way through Congress, these threats have intensified. Seth wouldn’t mind so much, he could shrug them off, knowing they come with the territory. He knew when he started this thing that he was going to upset a lot of people. What perturbs him, however, are the threats against his family. Against his daughters. The things they say they’re going to do to his wife and a pair of little girls. The threats that mean his children must now be accompanied by Secret Service agents when they go to school. The threats that mean his wife can never be left alone in the house. That mean they are trailed at all times.
This is what he has trouble with.
But, as Abigail has told him, “Stay the course. You knew this was going to be difficult. You can’t give up now.”
“But you and the girls –”
“Are all very proud of you. This thing that you’re trying to do is bigger than us, than all of us. Keep going.”
Parked across the street are reporters. They observe every move of Seth and his family, report on the taking out of trash as if it’s a major world development. The reporters don’t come any closer, though. They’ve been warned, sternly. They will, however, follow him to synagogue.
One agent car leads the way; the other follows, the Goldbergs sandwiched in the middle. They arrive early for Shabbat morning service. There is a gathering outside the synagogue already, people exchanging greetings before they go in for worship.
“This crowd gets bigger every week,” Abigail says.
Seth concentrates on parking the car, doesn’t answer.
He knows what she’s implying. As his bill gains more momentum, more and more people turn up to the synagogue, all of them eager for a glimpse or a word. On the plus side, they’ve all been supportive.
They approach on foot, agents at their flank and sides. Abigail holds the hands of both children, as she knows Seth will need to keep his free. Sure enough, as they get close enough, there is a lot of shaking of hands, patting of backs. People express their support for him, how proud they are of him for taking a stand against big business. The Secret Service agents stand close by, watching the people, keeping some at bay, all the while trying to usher Seth and his family inside.
This is the routine every Saturday morning. This is where they come. This is where they worship. This is where they can be found.
Senator Seth Goldberg and his family.
This synagogue.
Every week.
Every Saturday morning.
16
It’s dawn. Anthony is awake. Tom hasn’t slept.
Tom brings him some water and painkillers. It is more obvious now, as he moves around, how badly damaged his face is, as well as his skull and his arm. It is badly cut and bruised. These wounds were not so clear when he was sleeping, as if every little cut had settled into his features, become part of them. Now, when he moves, they crack, they bleed.
“Where’s Alejandra?” Tom says.
Anthony shoots him a look, eyes blazing.
Tom grits his teeth, knowing he shouldn’t have opened with this. “How you doing?” he says, sitting down.
Anthony pops the pills into his mouth with his good hand, the glass of water balancing on the mattress and leaning against his belly, then takes a drink. He doesn’t drink much. He pulls his face like he feels sick, like he might throw up. “How’s it look?” he says.
“Bad.”
“Then you have your answer.”
Anthony lies back, flat, lets out a long breath. He sounds tired despite his constant flitting in and out of consciousness. He tries to move his left arm in its cast, winces at it like it’s a great weight, gives up.
Tom gives him a moment. He notices how Anthony is not looking at him, almost like he won’t. “What happened?” he says.
Anthony doesn’t answer. He shifts around on the bed, unable to get comfortable. “Jesus, everything hurts,” he says. “And I feel like I’m gonna throw up all the damn time.” There is a bucket at the side of the bed. There is a little bit of spit and bile at the bottom of it.
“You’ve got a fractured skull,” Tom says.
“You think I don’t know that?” Anthony still isn’t looking at him. His face is turned toward the ceiling; his eyes have closed.
“What were you involved in, Anthony?” Tom says.
Anthony doesn’t answer.
“Who did this to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Tom waits. He’s patient. He’s waited this long just for him to wake up.
Anthony lies very still. Tom wonders if he’s feigning sleep. He’s not very good at it. The way his face and his body twitch, it’s clear he wants to move, that he’s not comfortable, that he’s in pain.
“Look at me, Anthony,” Tom says.
Anthony opens one eye hooded by a bandage.
“What happened?”
“That’s my business,” Anthony says.
“Then color me curious,” Tom says.
“I’m not gonna color you anything.”
“Were you dealing again?”
There is a slight hesitation; then Anthony says, “No.”
Tom doesn’t believe him. “Bullshit. Is that who did this to you? You owe money? You were robbed? What is it?”
“That what you think of me, huh?” Anthony says.
“It’s what I know,” Tom says. “From past experience.”
“Past experience. You got it all wrong. You don’t know a damn thing going on here. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“So tell me.”
“No. I don’t want you to fight my battle for me, Tom. Not this time. All my life, you’ve fought my battles. Every single issue I’ve gotten myself into, you’ve pulled me out. Not this time. This time’s mine. I have to deal with this myself.”
“At least tell me what the battle is.”
Anthony says nothing.
“You’re in no condition, Anthony. You won’t be for a while. By the time you’re ready to go after them, whoever they are, they’re gonna be ready for you. What’s to say they haven’t already gone to ground, disappeared – you tell me now, I might still have a chance to find them.”
“They won’t
run away. It’s not their style. They’ll stay right where they are, too proud to go anywhere else.”
“So tell me who they are before I go and find out for myself.”
“This is my battle. I ain’t telling you again.”
“I can go to Harrow, Anthony. I can ask around. You might even have made the news. It’ll give me clues, leads. I’ll tear the town apart if I have to. It’s easier if you just tell me.”
“I’m not interested in you doing it the hard way or the easy way. I don’t want you to do it at all.” Anthony is adamant. “This is mine. Can’t you understand it? Damn it, get it through your fucking skull – I don’t want your help!” Anthony is working himself up; he’s shouting.
Tom hears Jeffrey and Sylvia in the next room, standing, coming closer to the door, listening in case they need to interject.
Tom is getting annoyed now, too. “Where is Alejandra?” he says. “I can get her. I can keep her safe from whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You know I can. Tell me where she is.”
All the fight goes out of Anthony. He deflates. He falls back. His eyes fill with tears.
Tom feels sick. He grits his teeth. “Where is Alejandra?” There is no response. “Where is Alejandra?” He’s shouting now, wants to grab his brother by the shoulders, to make him tell him.
Anthony looks at Tom. The tears roll down his cheeks now. When he speaks, it isn’t with aggression. He doesn’t raise his voice. If anything, he sounds surprised Tom doesn’t already know. “She’s dead.”
Tom reels. He falls back in the chair. Flashes of memory run through his head. Her face. Her laughter. When they kissed. Her smile. She’s looking at him, and she’s smiling.
His hand goes to his pocket, searches out the Santa Muerte pendant. He squeezes it so tight, it feels like it breaks the skin of his palm.
Anthony says something, but Tom doesn’t hear what it is. His mind is still racing. It is still filled with thoughts of Alejandra, with his feelings for her. His chest is tight.
But now he knows, now he is certain, he cannot allow Anthony to deal with this himself. Whatever has happened, it involves him now, and he is not willing to wait for his brother to heal.
Tom stops.
All this thinking isn’t getting him anywhere. He can mourn later. Now, he needs to be practical.
He takes a breath.
Stares at the wall, through the wall, into the distance. Focuses himself.
He looks at Anthony, studies him. Cool and detached, all business. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”
“This is my fight,” Anthony says.
Tom exhales through his nose. “You said earlier you weren’t dealing, but you were lying,” Tom says, going through what he has surmised thus far. “But I don’t think you were doing so voluntarily. When you were with Alejandra, I believed that you’d left all that behind you. And once she was pregnant, I didn’t think that was a lifestyle you’d ever consider going back to. Unless you didn’t have a choice.”
He watches his brother’s face closely. Anthony tries not to give anything away, but there are uncontrollable tics and twitches under the skin that Tom watches for. “Stop trying to interrogate me, Tom,” he says. “It ain’t gonna work. I ain’t gonna tell you a thing you wanna know.”
“How did Alejandra die? In the crash?”
A tic, by the right eye. A flash of unwanted memory.
Tom considers this. “Or was it something else? Was someone else there?”
Tic.
“Who was it?”
No answer.
“Did they kill Alejandra?”
Anthony’s eyes can’t hide it this time. More unwanted memories. They blaze.
“They were there,” Tom says. “At the scene. They caused the crash, and they killed Alejandra, but they didn’t kill you. Why not?”
Tom waits, lets his words do their work. “Did they have bigger plans for you? What, torture? They wanted to make an example?”
Anthony chews his lip.
“And then, while you’re in hospital, you’re still at risk. So much so that someone has to sneak into the commune, leave a phone so they can get in touch with Dad, tell him that you need to be moved. The commune wasn’t as heavily guarded then as it is now, but it was still guarded. You know what these people are like, how seriously they take all this. Hell, we were raised by one of them. But whoever this anonymous caller was, they were able to get in and out without being seen. And the way Dad tells it, they rang that burner phone the moment he opened the box and found it.
“So that tells me whatever is going on, whoever got in touch with you has funding, technology, and the skills to get into places where others ordinarily can’t.” Tom leans forward, counts off the points on his fingers. “And it sounds like they had a vested interest in keeping you alive. Or else they felt guilty.” He watches Anthony’s face closer now, watching for any reaction, no matter how small, as he prepares to show his card. “Were you undercover?”
There is a twitch, a small one, in Anthony’s bruised cheek.
“Who were you undercover with?” Tom says. “Who for? Who was your handler?”
Anthony looks pissed. Won’t answer.
“I imagine he’s the one who left the phone, made the call. What happened, Anthony? Speak to me. How did you get yourself into that situation? What was your objective?”
“Stop,” Anthony says. He stares at him, hard. “Leave it alone. I don’t want you to do this for me. This is for me, Tom. Me. I will deal with this. When I can. I have to.”
Tom gets to his feet.
“Tom,” Anthony says.
Tom promises nothing. He leaves the room.
Anthony calls after him, shouts his name, demands that he come back.
Jeffrey and Sylvia wait for him outside the room. They have been listening in, as he thought. Sylvia’s face is ashen. Jeffrey’s is hard. “What are you going to do?” he says after Tom has closed the door.
Anthony is shouting, still trapped in his bed. “Tom! Tom, get back here, damn it!”
Jeffrey speaks to Sylvia. “Go make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
She nods, slides past Tom into the room, goes to Anthony, tries to calm him.
Tom and Jeffrey walk away from the door, from the shouting. “I’m going to find the people responsible,” Tom says, “and I’m going to kill them.”
“How you going to do that?” Jeffrey says. “He wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“He told me enough.” He pulls the phone Jeffrey gave him out of his pocket, holds it up. “As for the rest, I’ll find a way.”
Jeffrey looks at the phone, raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I hope you do. When are you leaving?”
“Now. But I’m gonna need some things first. Equipment. Weaponry.”
Jeffrey nods. “You know I can supply.”
17
Tom is back on the road in an hour. He drives to the nearest town, still adhering to the speed limit, but wanting to go faster. He pulls over at the first pay phone he spots, gets out of the car and goes to it. The area is clear, no one to overhear. It’s still early enough in the morning that the sidewalks and the road are quiet. Some of the stores haven’t yet opened.
He slides in some coins, calls Zeke Greene.
Zeke is at home. “Hello?” He sounds confused, no doubt wondering whose number this is, possibly recognizing the area code.
Tom doesn’t waste any time. “It’s Rollins.”
“Tom? Holy shit, man,” Zeke says. “We shouldn’t be talking. You’re a wanted man.”
“I’ll make it quick.” In the past, Zeke has told Tom about his cousin. His cousin spends all his time locked away in his room, designing websites, or wasting time on message boards, in chatrooms. And he hacks. “I need to know if your cousin has any contacts in either New Mexico or Texas. They’ll have to be on a similar skill level as himself, or better.”
“I can ask him,” Zeke says, not
asking him why or what for. Zeke trusts him, his judgement in whatever he is doing, and he knows Tom trusts him, too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have called.
“Call me back on this number,” Tom says. “I’ll wait by this phone for twenty minutes; then I’m gone.”
“I wouldn’t do you like that, Tom,” Zeke says.
“I know you wouldn’t. You’re not the problem.”
He hangs up. He checks the time, then gets back in his car. Sits with the window down so he can hear all the better. He watches the street before him, this main stretch of road as it slowly comes to life. As people go into the diner for breakfast, as people cross over to get from one store to another. Cars begin to roll by. A worker comes out of the hardware store, goes two buildings down into the bank.
Tom keeps one eye on his watch. It’s closing in on twenty minutes. His fingers are on the ignition as it hits exactly twenty, but before he can turn it, the pay phone begins to ring.
“I’m here,” Tom says.
“Sorry it took so long,” Zeke says. “He was searching.”
“He get anyone?”
“Only one good enough, like you asked for. They’re in Texas. I got a number here. You ready for it?”
Tom has one of the burner phones from his bag at the ready. “Go.” Zeke reads it out. Tom punches it into the contacts.
“When you call, he says to tell them you’re a friend of Dark Claw 89.” His cousin, he meant. “You got that? They won’t talk about whatever it is you wanna talk about if you don’t. So maybe open with that.”
“Got it. Thank you, Zeke.”
“Don’t mention it, man. Good luck.”
Tom hangs up, gets back in the car, and leaves the small town.
He’s going to Texas.
18
Ben sleeps. Carly isn’t surprised. He was tossing and turning all night, struggling to settle. She leans over from her side of the bed, checks he’s out. “Ben?” He doesn’t stir. He breathes softly. His eyes are closed tight, his brow furrowed.
Carly leaves the bedroom on light feet, creeps down the stairs. Her jacket hangs from a hook by the door. She goes into the pockets, pulls out her cigarettes and her phone. Heading for the back door, she pauses at the foot of the stairs, listens again. Ben is not moving around, is still asleep. Carly goes out back, lights a cigarette. The early morning air is cool against her bare legs. She ignores it.
