There’s a memory I love. It’s me and Naomi Eddes, it’s six months ago, give or take. The last Tuesday in March.
“Well, I have to tell you,” she says, looking across the table at me with a tiny tree of broccoli poised at the end of her chopsticks. “I am quite taken with you.”
We’re eating at Mr. Chow’s. Our first and last date. She’s wearing a red dress with black buttons down the front.
“Taken, huh?” I say, playing at bemusement, teasing her for the outmoded turn of phrase, which I actually find poetic and charming, so much so, in fact, that I am falling in love with her, across the smudged table, under the blinking neon sign that says Chow! Chow! “And why do you think you’re taken with me?”
“Oh, you know. You’re very tall, so you see everything from weird angles. Also—and I’m serious—your life has a purpose. You know what I mean?”
“I guess,” I say. “I guess I do.”
She’s referring to a topic of conversation from earlier in the evening, about my parents, how my mother was murdered in a supermarket parking lot and my father hanged himself in his office six months later. And how my subsequent career, she suggested jokingly, has been like Batman’s, how I’ve turned my grief into a lifelong sense of mission.
But it makes me uneasy, I tell her, that version of events, that way of seeing.
“I don’t like to think that they died for a reason, because that makes it sound like it’s okay. As if it’s good that it happened, because it ordered my life. It wasn’t good. It was bad.”
“I know,” she says. “I know it was bad.”
She furrows her brow under her bald head and eats her broccoli, and I go on, explain the way I prefer to look at things: how it’s tempting to place things in a pattern, name certain events as the causes of certain subsequent events—but then when you think again you realize that this is just the way that life happened to happen—like constellations, like you blink once and it’s a warrior or a bear, blink again and it’s a scattered handful of stars.
“I changed my mind,” says Naomi, after I’ve been talking this way for a while. “I’m not taken with you anymore.”
But she’s smiling, and I’m smiling, too. She reaches forward and dabs ginger-scallion sauce from the corner of my mustache. She will be dead within forty-eight hours. It will be my friend Detective Culverson who calls me to the crime scene, at Merrimack Life and Fire.
“Can we agree, at least,” she says at Mr. Chow’s, still alive, still brushing sauce off my face with her thumb, “that you have put meaning in your life. Can we agree to that?”
“Sure,” I say. She’s so pretty. That red dress with the buttons. I’ve never seen anyone so pretty. “Okay. Yes. We can agree.”
* * *
The remainder of Tuesday, October 2, I spend burying my sister in a shallow grave between the flagpoles on the front lawn of the police station. In lieu of a service I sing while I dig, first “Thunder on the Mountain” and then “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” and then a medley of Nico’s favorites, instead of mine: ska songs, Elliott Smith songs, Fugazi songs, “Waiting Room” over and over until I feel like I’ve dug deeply enough into the police-station lawn to lay her body down and say goodbye.
For several hours after that I help Jean. I haul bodies up out of the bunker one by one; I move Astronaut’s Bunsen burners into the general store so she can use them to cook up macaroni and cheese, if she wants; I push and roll loose stones and hunks of concrete back down onto that first step, sealing the stairwell back up as best I can. I don’t know how long she’ll last down there, or how she’ll do, but that’s the best I can do for her, it really is. There is a helicopter parked in some field somewhere in these woods, but I don’t know how to fly one and neither does she, and where would she go?
She’s got guns, in case she needs to use a gun.
And then I roll out, just after midnight on October 3, with that one particular memory, of me and Naomi at Mr. Chow’s, threaded through my ribs like a red ribbon.
It’s a quiet ride. Not a lot of people out on the road tonight; not a lot of action on the streets. Probably most places in the world are blue towns tonight, everybody deep into their last round of praying or drinking or laughing, doing whatever there is left to do before everything changes or dies. I roll through Rotary and pass by the house with the semicircular blast wall, the redbrick ranch house on Downing Road. I don’t know if it’s the same fella who shot at me with the machine gun, but there is some fella up on the roof, with a John Deere cap and a massive belly, surrounded by his family: a middle-aged woman in her Sunday best, plus two teenage daughters and a little boy. They’re all up there on the roof, at rigid attention in the moonlight, saluting an American flag.
I find my way to State Road 4 going south. I remember the route. I’ve always been good at spatial geography: getting a sense of a place or a system of roads or a perpetrator’s place of residence, registering the small details in my head and keeping them straight.
In a perfect world I wouldn’t sleep tonight, of course, I’d stay up somehow, but my body doesn’t know what day it is, and my eyes are bleary and I’m veering off the road. I find my same rest stop as before and I fold up my coat in the same way and after three hours of sleep I am awoken by the bright distinct howl of a train whistle, which seems impossible. But then I open my eyes and stumble to my feet and stand there watching it pass, way off in the distance, wondering if I’m dreaming. A long freight train rolling slowly across Ohio, smoke pouring from the engine.
I pee in the woods, get back on the bike, and keep on going.
* * *
Pink sky at sunrise, autumn morning chill.
I heard Officer Burdell once, in the kitchen at Police House, talking with Officer Katz about her plans for the last day. She said she was going to spend it thinking about “all the things that suck eggs about being alive. Having a body and that. Hemorrhoids and stomachaches and the flu.”
I felt at the time like this was a bad strategy, and I feel that way now. I take one hand off the bars of the Schwinn and send the Night Bird an air salute, back in Furman, Mass. Send one along to Trish McConnell while I’m at it.
Then I put my hands back on the handlebars and make my turn at the fruit stand. Singing again, as loud as I can, each line caught by the wind and carried off over my shoulder, little snatches of melody, bits and pieces from Desire.
* * *
I hear the dog before I see him, three fine bright barks devolving into a growly canine coughing fit, cough/bark, cough/bark, then just cough, cough, cough as Houdini limps with determination from behind that shed out to see me.
“Here, boy,” I say, and my heart swells just looking at him, loping and shuffling along toward me across the slight roll of the farmland.
The autumn corn is halfway through its harvest, half the stalks still burdened, half tilting, barren. There’s a pumpkin patch I hadn’t noticed before, in a dirt corner just to the right of the front porch, green winding vines and fat orange globes. Two of the women are up on the porch, two of the daughters or daughters-in-law, sitting on hard chairs in their long dresses and bonnets, sewing or knitting, working on blankets for the winter. They rise at my approach and smile nervously and take each other’s hands, and I ask politely if I might speak to Atlee, and they go to fetch him.
Houdini ducks in and out of my footsteps, snorfeling at the dirt, and I bend and scratch the white fur behind his head, and he growls low and contented. Someone’s given the guy a bath. Someone trimmed his fur, too, combed out all the bugs and burrs. He almost looks like he did when I met him, puckish little creature scampering around the filthy home of a drug dealer on Bog Bow Road. We look at each other and I smile, and he smiles too, I think. You thought I was gone, too, didn’t you, Hen? You did, huh? Or not. Who knows? You never know what a dog is thinking, not really.
Atlee Miller doesn’t ask after the outcome of my investigation, and I don’t volunteer any information. We excha
nge nods and I point to the wagon.
“I brought back your jackhammer. Thank you.”
He waves one hand. “Not sure I’ll need it.”
“My sister—she thinks we might all live. Somehow. So I thought it couldn’t hurt to bring it back.”
“Can’t hurt,” says Atlee, and he nods. “Can’t hurt.”
We’re talking quietly out on the lawn. I can see the rest of the family behind him, the kids and the teenagers and the aunts and uncles and cousins, framed in the big windows of the house, reacting to my return.
“I thought I might stay for lunch,” I say. “If you’ll have me.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. Maybe even the hint of a smile somewhere in the gray of his beard. “Stay as long as you want.”
* * *
In the busy hour before lunchtime I am mostly a silent presence in the house: the tall stranger alone in a corner like furniture. I smile politely at the women, make funny faces at the little boys and girls. I do not experience, as I had feared, any unwelcome rush of memory, no bloody moving pictures behind my eyelids. The house smells like bread. The children are giggling, carrying precarious trays of cutlery out from the kitchen. One of Atlee’s sons has hurt his back farming, and so when there is difficulty in wrestling a heavy wooden table out from the kitchen, I get up and lend what strength I have.
We sit then for lunch. I have a seat right next to one of the children’s tables, by one of the largest windows, wide and square, no curtain, a full view of the sky.
As the food is brought out, my courage suddenly drops out of me, and just for one awful minute my heart feels loose and floating and my hands start to tremble and I have to hold myself frozen by force of will, watching that big window, wide and square. I allow myself the last brief possibility that it will after all have been a dream, and that when I close my eyes tightly and open them again everything will be as it was—and I even try it, squeeze them shut like a child, press my knuckles into the lids, hold the pose until starbursts dance to life inside my eyelids. When I open them again Atlee’s daughters and sons and their wives are bringing out the meal: stewed vegetables, braised rabbit, bread.
Atlee Miller bends his head and the room grows still as all of them silently pray over the food, the same as the last time, and the same as the last time I leave my own eyes open. I look around until I find her, and there she is, at her seat at one of the children’s tables, young Ruthie with the strawberry braids, her eyes open like mine are open. Her face is pale and she sees me seeing her and I hold out my hand to the kid. I stretch my long arm and hold out my hand to lend her my courage and she holds out her hand to lend hers to me, and we clasp hands and look at each other as the sky begins to glow, and Atlee keeps his head down and the room continues in silent prayer.
I hold Ruthie’s hand and she holds my hand, we sit like that, giving each other strength, like strangers on a crashing plane.
THANK YOU
This book, and this series, was built on a lot of input and help from a lot of smart and kind people, starting with forensic pathologist Dr. Cynthia Gardner, astronomer Dr. Timothy Spahr, and my brother, Andrew Winters.
Thanks to my wife, Diana; to my parents and her parents.
To early readers Nick Tamarkin and Kevin Maher; to everybody at Quirk Books, especially Jason Rekulak and Jane Morley; to Joelle Delbourgo and Shari Smiley and Molly Lyons.
To Don Mattingly of Mattingly Concrete; Katy and Tim Carter and their chickens; planetary scientist Professor Don Korycansky at UC Santa Cruz; everybody at the Concord, New Hampshire, Police Department, especially Officer Ryan Howe and Lieutenant Jay Brown; Detective Todd Flanagan at the New Hampshire Attorney General’s office; Russ Hanser; Danice Sher (PA), Dr. Ratik Chandra, Dr. Nora Osman, and Dr. Zara Cooper; and Amish experts Professor David Weaver-Zercher and Professor Steve Nolt.
At Quirk, our strikingly unconventional titles include best-selling fiction, award-winning craft books and cookbooks, irreverent reference guides, wall-enhancing poster books, and plenty of titles in a category all their own (you try to explain The Resurrectionist). But we’re not just book creators, we’re also a community of book lovers. Join us for literary pub crawl suggestions, Worst Case Wednesday survival advice, love letters to libraries, plus announcements about contests, giveaways, book release events, and author signings. We’re seekers of all thing awesome, and since you are awesome, isn’t it time we talked?
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About the Author
BEN H. WINTERS is the Edgar Award–winning author of The Last Policeman and its sequel, Countdown City. He lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.
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