Zero at the Bone

by Jane Seville

  On top of everything else, D was acting shifty. Ducking off for private cell-phone conversations, probably thinking that Jack didn’t notice. Keeping his phone on him at all times and furtively checking for text messages. Stepping up the amount of gun and hand-to-hand practice they were doing together, not to mention the amount he did by himself.

  He’s getting ready for something. Jack sat on the front porch, waiting for D to come out with the last of the metal briefcases they’d retrieved from that bunker in Arizona so long ago. Yeah, he’s getting ready to run from whoever set him up for all this. Probably be on the run for the rest of his life. You may be facing testifying and losing your identity, but once he leaves you, D has a whole new set of problems to deal with.

  Jack hated to think of D like that. Hunted, hiding, looking over his shoulder, always wondering, never relaxing. D was the hunter, not the prey. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. Wasn’t your fault somebody set him up. You were just the means to their end. The end of D.

  As much as he hated to think of D on the run, the thought of him being caught was too awful to even hold in his mind for very long. He saw in his mind’s eye D dead on the ground, shot or tortured or beaten to death, and he felt sick to his stomach. What made it worse was knowing how profoundly helpless he was to do anything about it.

  Since that night on the couch when they’d gotten the trial date, their physical relationship had been strained. Jack could still feel D’s breath on his neck as he growled “think I won’t be sorry” while he humped Jack roughly, demonstrating just what he’d be sorry to lose. Jack and D had had sex many times now, but that had been the first time Jack had felt used.

  Since then, the bedroom thing had just not been working. D’s close-mouthed stoicism was back in force and it wasn’t conducive to good sex, and Jack’s dejection over their looming departure made everything seem hopeless and doomed. Two of the nights since they’d just slept side by side, not touching. This morning, the last in this house that had started to feel so much like theirs, had begun with D leaping out of bed without a word and Jack lying there trying not to feel abandoned.

  D came out of the house with a cigarette clamped between his lips, his mirrored sunglasses on his face, the last aluminum briefcase in his hand. Jack saw with vague dismay that D had also shaved his head back to the quarter-inch of stubble he’d had when they first met. “Let’s go,” he said, going to the car and putting the case in the trunk. Jack got up, looking around. That’s it? Just, “Let’s go?” Not one comment about leaving our house, not one backward glance, nothing? D looked at him from where he stood by the driver’s side. “Lock up, will ya?”

  Guess that’s it. Jack tugged the door shut and checked it; it was locked. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and went to the car. They got in their respective doors and put on their seat belts. D started up the car and backed out of the driveway, and then they were gone.

  Jack watched out the window as the house receded from view until he couldn’t see it anymore. He crossed his arms over his chest and faced forward. No use looking back. At least, that’s what he’d say. If he were saying anything at all.

  ~~~~~

  He’d thought that driving for four days straight with D at his most D-like would be excruciating, but it was surprisingly easy. They sat side by side staring out the windshield, not talking. Jack spent a lot of the trip listening to audio books on his iPod and watching the scenery scroll by out the passenger-side window. He kept waiting for D to ask him to take a driving shift, but he never did.

  Each night they stopped at a remote motel and paid cash. Salt Lake City, then North Platte, Nebraska, then Chicago. Too tired to do much more than swallow some fast food and shower, they slept in the same bed, more out of habit than anything else, it seemed. Jack waited for D to make a move, but he didn’t. He debated making one himself, but couldn’t quite work himself around to it.

  The second night, at the motel in Nebraska, Jack woke up in the middle of the night to find that in his sleep, D had rolled close to him and wrapped him up in his arms tight enough that Jack could barely move. He lay quietly, sweating from D’s body heat, until D grunted in his sleep and turned over, releasing him and rolling away.

  And finally, Frederick. Last stop.

  They rolled into their last nondescript motel. D went to the office to get their key, as he always did, while Jack got their bags from the backseat.

  They moved the aluminum briefcase into the room with them, locked and chained the door, and sat down, each on their own separate beds.

  Jack took out his cell phone and called Churchill. “I’m here in Frederick.”

  “Good. Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll come get you in the morning.”

  Jack glanced at D, who wasn’t supposed to exist as far as Churchill knew. “Why don’t I just meet you someplace?”

  “All right. Um… meet me in Baker Park, at the corner of Church and North Bentz. You got that?”

  “Yeah. Nine?”

  “That’ll be fine. Trial starts Monday, so we’ll have the weekend for the prosecutors to prep you, which they’re damn mad they’ve had to wait until now to do.”

  “Oh, they’re damn mad, are they? I’m the one with hired killers on his ass here.”

  “I know. It’s taken extraordinary restraint on my part not to point that out to them.” Churchill sighed. “You be careful.”

  “I will.” Jack hung up. D had moved to the junky little motel room table, his sunglasses clamped on his face and a cigarette between his lips, staring out at the parking lot. Jack stood up and paced off a few steps in each direction, about as far as he could go in the confines of the small room. “So I’m going to meet Churchill tomorrow morning,” he said, as if D hadn’t been listening in to his half of the conversation.

  “Mm.”

  “They’ll take me into Baltimore.”

  “Mm.”

  “And that’ll be that.”

  D just nodded.

  Jack felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes and blinked hard. “That’s it, then? That’s all you have to say to me?”

  He saw D’s shoulders rise and fall in a quiet sigh. “Whaddya want me ta say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess nothing. I guess that’s all I can expect from you. I guess that’s all you have to give me. Nothing.”

  D stared and stared out that window. “Told ya that’s all I had.”

  “But it wasn’t. You had more, and don’t you sit there and tell me you didn’t. Don’t you tell me that it all meant nothing to you!” Jack found himself shouting without realizing he’d started.

  D stood up and whipped off the sunglasses. “What the fuck ya want from me, Jack?” His eyes were angry and challenging, but Jack wasn’t impressed.

  “Nothing. I don’t want a goddamn thing from you, D. I just want to get out of here so I can start trying to forget you.” He stomped across the room to the door.

  “Don’t go out there,” D said. “Might be dangerous.”

  Jack rounded on him. “What the fuck do you care, anyway?” He stepped outside and slammed the door behind him, got in the car and drove away with no thought in his mind as to where he might be going.

  ~~~~~

  Jack didn’t return to the motel until nearly midnight. He’d found a Denny’s a few blocks away and had sat in a corner booth drinking coffee and eating pancakes, because pancakes sounded good and he wanted them, dammit. The waitress didn’t ask him any questions as he continued to sit there hour after hour, sucking down coffee and staring into space.

  It’s better this way. Make a clean break. Don’t muddle things up with last-minute declarations or some kind of half-assed attempt to wring a promise out of him that’s clearly not forthcoming. Let it die, let it be what it was, take your memories and run, and try not to think about it. Accept what he’s been able to give you, don’t ask for or expect anything more, and just be very glad that you never told him how you really feel.

  And how
do you really feel?

  Like I’ll never recover. Like I’ll never draw another breath without half of it being a wish for him.

  He pulled up in front of their room and shut off the engine. The window was dark, but he knew that D wasn’t asleep. Still, he tried to be quiet as he unlocked the door and entered, just in case.

  He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. D was sitting on the bed nearest the door, fully clothed, only his sunglasses off, his elbows resting on his knees as he smoked what smelled like his hundredth cigarette. He didn’t look up as Jack entered. For a long moment they both stayed where they were, not speaking.

  “You tryin’ ta punish me fer somethin’?” D finally growled, his voice rough with cigarette smoke.

  Jack shook his head. “I can’t punish you for who you are.”

  “You been gone a long fuckin’ time.”

  “Had some things to think about.”

  “Like what?” He lit another cigarette.

  Jack sighed. “Like how I’ve been expecting a lot from you, more than you could give. It’s just that the way you were in Redding… I don’t know. Maybe it got my hopes up too much.”

  D shook his head a little. “What is it yer hopin’ for, Jack?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Stupid things like you and me in a house with a dog and a vegetable garden, and Sunday mornings in bed with coffee and the paper.”

  D was silent for a long time. “Jus’ ’cause somethin’ ain’t possible don’t make it stupid,” he finally said, quietly. “And I shouldn’t a… well, I shoulda been more careful. Don’t know how I let it go as far’s it did.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  He looked up and met Jack’s eyes for the first time, glittering in the dimness. “I ain’t said that.”

  Jack nodded, breaking D’s gaze to look down at his shoes. “I’m going to get up early and head out. I’ll call a cab so you can have the car.”

  “All right.”

  “Look… let’s just leave it there, okay? I don’t know if I can take saying goodbye to you, D.” D said nothing, cigarette dangling limply, his hands clasped loose between his knees. “So I’ll try not to wake you, and if I do, just… pretend to be asleep until I’m gone.” D wordlessly stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray at his side. “Just let me go, all right?” Still no response. Jack nodded, taking D’s silence as all the acknowledgment he could expect. He took off his jacket and started toward the bathroom.

  He was drawn up short when D reached out and grabbed his hand in a fast, convulsive jerk like he’d tried to stop himself but his hand was quicker. Jack stopped where he was, then looked back over his shoulder. D was still sitting there in the same position. Only his hand had moved and was now clutching Jack’s hard enough to pinch.

  Jack stepped back a little and turned to face him. He watched, speechless, as D drew Jack’s hand close and rubbed his forehead across it. He grasped it with both hands and pressed it to his face in an unlovely, helpless clutch, whipsaw breaths exhaling moisture onto Jack’s fingers. “D…,” he whispered.

  D pulled on his arm and reeled him closer, then dropped his hand and pressed his face into Jack’s belly, his arms going around Jack’s hips. “I cain’t,” Jack heard him murmur. Jack wondered what it was that D couldn’t do. There were too many choices.

  Jesus. I can’t take this. Jack wished, just for the moment, that he were the kind of man who could remain impassive and resolute at such a time, but he wasn’t. He sagged into D’s arms, wrapping one of his own around D’s shoulders and cupping the back of his head with his other hand. D was just sitting there, his face still pressed into Jack’s stomach, breathing in long, emphatic pulls like he was getting ready to free-dive, saturating his insides with Jack before the deep plunge.

  Jack slid to his knees within the circle of D’s arms so they were face-to-face. He cupped D’s face in his hands and made him meet his eyes. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

  D just shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  He stared into Jack’s eyes, his own blank and confused. “I didn’t wanna let it get me,” he said, sounding hoarse. “I didn’t wanna feel it. I’m sorry.”

  Jack nodded. “I know.”

  “I dunno what ta do.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I cain’t let ya leave like that, like ya said you was gonna.”

  “I didn’t want to. You were making me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you be sorry.” The tears had escaped and were running down Jack’s face by now.

  “We coulda had that whole trip together—”

  “Shh. It’s too late for that now. We still have tonight.”

  D nodded, then seized Jack’s face in shaking hands and kissed him, a hard, frantic kiss that pushed quickly through Jack’s lips and made him push back, gripping D’s shoulders to keep from toppling over backward. D broke off and stood up, pulling Jack to his feet and going for his clothes. Jack shoved D’s jacket off, then yanked at his shirt until it yielded. They push-walked each other around the bed, kicking off shoes and disentangling from mischievous pant legs that wanted to trip them up until they crawled together into the bed, naked and sighing their relief into each other’s mouths, murmuring nonsense syllables to fill the stark memories of the past two weeks.

  In the hours that followed, it seemed to Jack that the dingy walls of the motel room flew apart and left them wrapped up in the center of some vast plain of emptiness, clinging together to keep it at bay, hardly daring to speak or let their lips part company or else it would dive in and take them too soon. He shut his eyes and arched his neck as D rocked into him, their limbs tangled together and laced like clasped fingers, moaning with pleasure and hearing D whisper in his ear, flipping them over so he was on top and could ride D hard, looking down into his face.

  They’d barely caught their breath before D was reaching for him again, sliding down the bed to take Jack in his mouth, then crouching over Jack’s face at the head of the bed. They collapsed into a tangled heap, Jack holding D tightly to his chest and feeling the thump of his heart through both their skins. They dozed in fits and starts, waking each other with touches which turned time and again into sex until by the time morning came they were both rubbed raw, exhausted and limp.

  Eight o’clock. Jack sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He heard D roll toward him, seeking his warmth again. “Hmm,” he grunted. “Timezit?”

  Jack sighed. “Eight.”

  Long pause. “Oh.”

  “I have to shower and get going.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jack got up quickly and went into the bathroom, hoping he’d make it. He managed to hold it in until he had the water going strong, then he stepped under the spray and cried, hoping the shower would cover the sound. When he’d calmed down enough, he washed quickly, smiling ruefully at the many red marks D had left on his body. He stepped out of the shower and shaved, then brushed his teeth.

  When he emerged, D was sitting at the end of the bed, the sheets pooled around his naked hips, smoking. He glanced up at Jack. “You look a fair sight perkier’n I feel.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. I’m fucking exhausted.”

  D nodded. “But it… was worth it, weren’t it?”

  Jack smiled wearily, then leaned over and kissed his forehead. “You bet it was.”

  D cleared his throat and looked away, uncomfortable as always with expressions of tender feeling. “You, uh… pick which one you wanna take.”

  Jack frowned. “Which one what?”

  “Gun, dumbass.”

  “You’re giving me one of your guns?”

  “You put in the time on ’em. You oughta have some protection on yer person.”

  “Won’t they take it from me?”

  “Ask yer friend Churchill if he can get ya a permit ta carry concealed. Seein’s as you got death threats hangin’ over ya that shouldn’t b
e no problem.”

  Jack nodded. “Okay.” He hauled the gun case off the floor and opened it on the motel table, looking across at all D’s guns, many of which were now familiar as old friends to him. “I think I’ll take the Glock.”

  “Thought you’d pick that one,” D said. “Yer good with that weapon.”

  “It’s my favorite. Still wish you’d let me shoot that Desert Eagle, though.”

  D chuckled. “Hell, I hardly ever use that one myself. Too much gun. Now, I want ya ta stay sharp with yer hand-ta-hand too. Lotsa martial-arts studios are offering Krav Maga workouts these days. See if you can find one.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “I ain’t gonna be ’round ta pick up yer slack, ya know. And them instructors out there in the real world ain’t gonna coddle ya like I done.” D was smirking, so Jack knew he was just taking the piss.

  Jack loaded the Glock and slipped it into his bag along with several boxes of ammunition. He turned slowly and looked at D sitting there, looking uncharacteristically defenseless, naked with a haze of smoke hovering around his head. Jack sat down at his side. “I have to go soon,” he whispered.

  D nodded.

  “D, I… I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Don’t hafta say nothin’.”

  Jack stared at his lowered profile. “Thanks for my life.”

  D lifted his head and met Jack’s eyes, and for the first time, Jack could see Anson looking back at him, the façade that he called D worn thin and threadbare. “Thanks for mine.”

  Jack reached out and twined their fingers together. His heart was breaking; there just wasn’t a way to put a nice face on it, and there was no way to say it to him.

  “So yer gonna go testify,” D said, staring at the carpet. “Then yer gonna go inta Witsec. I gotta hit the road and try’n figure out who set me up fer this before they find me and kill me. Right?”

  Jack nodded. “Right.”

  “And that’s it, then.”

  “Yeah.”