The Survivor

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Pavlo slammed his hands on the place mat in front of Nate, silverware and glasses jumping on the starched white tablecloth. Nate strained to lean back, but the pressure on his shoulders was unrelenting. Pavlo pointed at the fingers of one hand, ticking off each ring tattoo. An asterisk in a circle. “Fatherless. I become thief because of broken home.” A white cross on a dark rectangle. “I survive the crosses. Solitary.” A skull within a diamond, split by bars. “I serve in prison for violent criminals only.”

  Leaning forward, he gave off a waft of spicy cologne and old-fashioned shaving cream, the smell of a man from another era. His face inches from Nate’s. His eyes fluttered closed. Words tattooed on his lids. “‘Do not rouse me.’ For this the pricker insert a spoon beneath eyelid to firm it for needle.” Pavlo straightened. One loafer hit the floor, then another. Shackle tattoos on his ankles, words on the insteps. He translated: “‘They drag me under armed guard.’” Pavlo tore at his belt violently. His pants fell, exposing boxer shorts of a blue that matched the ink decorating his flesh. His kneecaps sported stars. “I kneel before no man. And last.”

  With dread, Nate watched Pavlo’s hands move to his boxers. Tattooed thumbs hooked the band and slid them down to midthigh. Nate shoved back violently in the chair, but the man whose seat he occupied stepped in to help the bouncer hold him in place.

  He flushed, skin on fire. He felt like a child, utterly and comprehensively overpowered. The stink of the herring on the table was making him queasy. In the background he could hear the clink of silverware against plates, no one daring to stop eating.

  Pavlo fisted Nate’s hair with both hands and forced his face toward his bare thighs, toward the private smells of musk and talcum powder. The swollen bud of his head nudged out from a nest of gray wire. Cyrillic lettering low beneath his belly button. Pavlo leaned over, teeth clenched as he hissed the translation: “‘Let them hate as long as they fear.’”

  Anger burned in Nate’s chest, evaporating any panic. He braced a foot against one of the table legs and shoved with all his might. The table skidded a foot or so, plates and glasses jumping, and the two men holding him down lost their grip. Nate twisted up and away from Pavlo’s grasp, but then the bouncer palmed his head and slammed it to the table. A cool ring of steel pressed against his temple, and he heard the soft click of the gun cocking.

  “You want to do it?” Nate said. “Then do it. But quit wasting my time with the freak show. I’ve got a job to do.”

  A view of Pavlo, offset by forty-five degrees. Nate felt as though his skull might collapse from the pressure of the giant hand. One finger smashed his nose, another smeared his lips to one side. Vodka glugged unevenly from the toppled bottle.

  Pavlo studied him calmly as he looped his belt, buttoned his coat.

  The spilled alcohol was making Nate’s eyes water. “Pull the trigger,” he said, “or get off me.”

  The Georgian had barely moved. Overflowing his chair, now displaced from the shoved table, he uttered his first words in broken, barely intelligible English. “Take him into kitchen. I will haff cleaned up.”

  But Pavlo gave a small shake of his head, the ring of steel lifted, and the pressure came off Nate’s temple. He straightened up.

  “You are as crazy as Chechen nigger,” Pavlo said. “I have seen many men in many circumstances. And you, my friend, are not correct in your head.”

  This, Nate thought, from a man nicknamed Psyk.

  “We will see if you are still wise enough to fear.” Though his pants were now buckled again, Pavlo set a hand above his groin where the slogan was tattooed.

  “If you want any chance at getting what’s in that safe-deposit box,” Nate said, “then keep out of my way. And stay clear of my family.”

  “I will give you and family space if you obey. But we will be watching. You have four days. And then”—Pavlo made a quick slashing gesture across his stomach with the blade of his hand—“sffft.”

  He pointed toward the door and sat down again at the strewn table.

  Nate felt all eyes on his back as he threaded through the tables, his step quickening as he neared the big oak door and the fresh nighttime air beyond.

  Chapter 21

  Nate faced Janie across the kitchen counter, her hands cupped around a mug of chamomile tea. She’d drawn all the curtains, he’d checked all the rooms, and for the moment it was just them again in their old house, their daughter upstairs. But now, he realized, it was probably time for him to leave.

  He got up from the barstool, withdrew the Beretta from the waist of his jeans, and set it carefully on the counter. “If they come again. You’re here with Cielle.”

  “Is this real?” Janie’s eyes were unfocused, dazed.

  “What?”

  “All of it. Your dying. The death threat on Cielle. Pete leaving.”

  “I’ll make sure Cielle’s safe and you’re safe, too, and then Pete can come back and you and he can work it out, start over.”

  “How about you?” she asked. “The ALS?”

  He smiled. “That I can’t fix.”

  She reached across, slid the Beretta back to him. “I don’t want the gun.”

  He made no move toward it. “I know you don’t.”

  Her eyes went from the gun to his face. “Will you stay with it?”

  He looked down, embarrassed that she’d see what this meant to him. He picked up the gun, tucked it in his jeans again. “I’ll sleep down here on the couch. Keep watch.”

  “Talk to your daughter first. She needs you. Whether she knows it or not.” Janie turned to wash out her cup and he looked at her back for a moment before starting for the stairs. Casper rose from his slumber to follow him up.

  He confronted Cielle’s bedroom door a moment before tapping. “Honey? It’s me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want to see your face.”

  A long silence. Then she said, “I heard Pete say to Mom, ‘I am not cleaning up his mess again.’ Is that what I was to him? A mess?”

  “Oh, honey. No.” He leaned against the closed door. “He was talking about me and what I got us all into. Pete loves you.”

  “Then why’d he leave?”

  “Because he was scared.”

  “I’m scared, too. And I don’t get to leave. Because they’re after me.” Fear cracked her voice. “I never get a say in anything. Everything’s just you guys making choices and doing things, and then I’m the one who has to live with it all.”

  He pressed a hand to the wood. “From here on out, I will tell you everything. Every move, every choice. And you will get a say. Deal?”

  “What were you doing at the bank?”

  Not a hesitation. The question right there, locked and loaded.

  His mouth went dry. How could he tell her something like that?

  “You said you’d tell me everything,” Cielle said. “So?”

  He struggled to find a point of entry. “Remember how I told you your grandma died?”

  Her voice came through the door. “Yeah. Cancer.”

  “I never talked to you about what that was like. For me, as a kid. And so … with me now and what I’m looking at … I didn’t want to put you through that.” He took a breath. “That’s why I was on that ledge.”

  He waited, palm against the door, listening. Nothing.

  Just as he was about to turn away, the knob twisted and the door pulled open a little more than an inch. Her face, red from crying, filled the crack. She looked in his eyes, really looking at him for the first time since he’d come back. Then she nodded and closed the door.

  Chapter 22

  Waking on the well-worn couch to the sight of his favorite potted plant in the corner, the artfully distressed wood of the coffee table, and his dog curled in a spot of light beneath the curtains, Nate felt a momentary peace. Then he sensed the hard metal against his palm. He raised his hand, the pistol he was gripping came clear in the early-morning light, and the whole disastrous situation ca
me flooding back in on him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, and Casper padded over to him. He dug his fingers into the dog’s scruff and kissed his head. How he loved the smell of his fur after it had been baking in the sun.

  First order of business—Urban’s safe-deposit key, which he dug from his pocket. The number 227 stamped unevenly on the head. He tapped it against his knuckles. Flipped it like a coin. Slid it back into his pocket.

  He took his pills at the kitchen sink before walking down the hall to the bathroom. Passing the laundry room, he saw Janie’s kicked-off clothes from last night, her underwear atop the heap. They were her favorite style from the Gap—pink, crosshatched. Not her most alluring pair, but still, the sight of them brought a rush of nostalgia. More times than he could count, he had watched her blow-dry her hair in them, had folded them out of the dryer, had slid them from her body. And now he diverted his gaze and kept on because noting them was somehow inappropriate. The shifting politics of intimacy.

  When he returned to the living room, Janie was there, straining to reach above the mantel, the oversize Lakers T-shirt she slept in pulled high to the backs of her thighs. It took a moment for him to realize what she was doing. With a little grunt, she reached the frame and unhooked the portrait of her, Pete, and Cielle from the wall.

  She turned, noticing Nate. “I bet this makes you happy.”

  “Not today.”

  She set the frame on the floor, leaned it against her legs, and stared down at it. “You were always messy. You infuriated me, and then … well, we could make love or fuck sometimes and I woke up mad next to you and woke up ecstatic, but I never woke up”—she searched for the words—“mildly contented. Pete was so safe after you, and kind, but there were times I thought, ‘If I have to drink another glass of Kendall-Fucking-Jackson pinot noir, I’m gonna hang myself with one of his woven silk ties.’”

  Nate couldn’t help but smile. All humor faded, though, when he saw the weariness that remained on her face. She was voicing everything he’d dared to hope these past few years was true. And yet now that she was relating it, it felt nothing like how he’d dreamed it would be. An impression came over him—walking out onto thin ice, cracks spiderwebbing around his feet. Any direction he moved could put him under. He struggled to find the right next step. To find what was right for her.

  He cleared his throat. “Pete had his good points, too.”

  “Yeah.” Janie carried the portrait to the kitchen and set it against the back door. The spot for trash. “But I will never forgive him for walking out the way he did.”

  Nate recalled standing on the beach that fateful day as Janie, still dripping from her near drowning, argued with her date. He thought, again, Now would be a really good time to not say anything.

  Still facing the door, she lowered her head, and her lovely shoulders rose once and fell. When she turned, her eyes were wet, but she held herself together. “I’m scared, Nate. I’m really goddamned scared.” She stayed by the door way across the room from him, as if any human proximity were painful right now. “I keep wanting to get Cielle out of here while you do this, but a woman and a girl on the run from these guys? Might not be a safety improvement.” She ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. “I suppose I’ll do what I have to when I have to.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Here.” He felt a need to avert his gaze and realized he was no longer talking about safety.

  “I don’t want you to leave either.” The scoop of skin visible at her collar turned pink as it did when she was trying not to cry. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The diamond glinted at her left hand. “But I’m afraid to count on you.”

  “You can.”

  “People don’t change.”

  “I changed once.”

  “Yeah.” Not quite a smile. “For the worse.”

  He sensed, over his shoulder, the empty space above the mantel where the portrait once hung. “Then I can change again.”

  Walking out, he felt her gaze on his back. He stepped over the loose brick on the porch and headed for the curb. As he reached the Jeep, a mangled hand snared the driver’s-side handle and tugged the door open for him. Charles, bowing like a chauffeur, his smart-ass grin showing off a few chipped teeth.

  “You’re going to the bank?” he asked as Nate climbed in.

  Nate tugged the door closed, turned over the engine. “Yes.”

  “To do what?”

  Nate smiled as he pulled out, leaving Charles behind.

  Chapter 23

  A surreal elevator ride up to the eleventh floor, a numb walk through the lobby, and out onto the bank floor, the site of five homicides that he himself had perpetrated. Nate had timed his arrival to coincide with the lunchtime swell. Lots of customers, lots of distraction for the busy staff. The trolley housing the complimentary coffee had been restored to its upright position, though he noticed a ding in the metal side, no doubt where one of the gunmen had kicked it over. After pouring himself a cup of decaf French roast, he took his place at the back of the substantial line.

  Which gave him plenty of time to relive where the bodies had fallen, how the blood spatter had misted, and countless other subtleties that left his stomach roiling. As he trudged forward in the teller line, his fingers worked Urban’s key nervously in his pocket, digging his nail into the indentations of the stamped number—227. The damn box was less than twenty yards away, but the distance between here and there felt like a marathon.

  When he’d finally made his restless way through the velvet-rope switchbacks, a tense young teller greeted him, bringing him up to speed on the policies for renting a safe-deposit box. Was he aware that a checking account was required? Already have one. Each time, he would need to show his driver’s license and sign in to gain access to his box. No problem. His signature would be double-checked against the signature card. Swell. Safe-deposit boxes were either three by five, five by ten, or ten by ten. Which would he prefer?

  “You know?” he said, tapping his hands on the lip of the teller window. “I’m a little bit superstitious. I have a lucky number, and I was hoping I could—”

  “Happy to look for you, Mr. Overbay.” She went back to nibbling at her thumbnail, a thin pendant cross jiggling against the front of her sweater.

  “Two twenty-eight,” he said. “My first street address.”

  She clicked around on the keyboard, her eyes darting at intervals from the screen to his face. Her jumpiness was making him uneasy, and yet how could she suspect he had an ulterior motive? “I’m sorry. That number’s taken.”

  He feigned disappointment.

  “I could get you three twenty-eight?” she offered.

  He took a casual sip of coffee. “How about two twenty-nine? Two twenty-six or -seven?”

  “Two twenty-six it is.” She guided him through a few forms, then handed him a familiar-looking key—226.

  He rubbed the number as if it were a lucky rabbit’s foot. Then dropped the key into his left pocket. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll buzz you through, and the guard will take you back to your box,” she said. As he stepped away, she reached beneath the glass and rested her hand on his sleeve. “I didn’t want to embarrass you, Mr. Overbay, but thank you for what you did for us Tuesday. I was here.”

  Her fingernails, on second look, were chewed to the quick. Her face raw from sleeplessness. He pictured that face pressed to the tile, gunfire erupting overhead as she’d prayed for her life. And here she was a few days later, doing her job as best she could and trying to put it behind her.

  He touched her hand, and she nodded a few times rapidly and turned her focus to the next customer.

  After leaving the counter, he noticed a stout manager at the end of the teller line staring at him, phone to his ear. Did he recognize Nate as well? The man offered a cordial little smile, and Nate returned his attention to the job before him.

  Pausing before the teller gate, he made a fist around Urban’s key in his right pocket. Squeezed.
Cielle’s life rested on the next two minutes.

  A harsh buzz announced the gate’s unlocking. He took a deep breath and stepped through. The security guard, an older gentleman with a fringe of blond mustache, nodded in greeting. As Nate headed toward the massive laid-open door of the vault, his steps slowed, the stutter of gunfire replaying in his head. There’s where the bank manager had toppled over, roses of blood blooming on her stiff pink suit. The glass day gate creaked open, and Nate stepped into the vault, eyeing the corner where he’d unloaded two bullets into the robber’s stomach. He looked down. His feet, precisely in the spot they’d been when he’d felt that letter opener sink into the flesh of his shoulder. He will make you pay in ways you can’t imagine.

  The security guard had said something.

  “Sorry?” Nate said.

  “You okay, sir?”

  He took a nervous sip of coffee. “Yeah, fine.”

  He had to pull it together. Stepping forward, he eyed the nests of boxes. Everything repaired, just as Pavlo had promised. Nate ran his fingers across the small metal doors until he reached what he was looking for.

  Danny Urban’s safe-deposit box.

  Directly below the one Nate had just signed up for.

  The guard fussed among the keys fanning from an overburdened ring. “Let’s see, two twenty-six, right?”

  Again Nate slid his hand into his pocket. His right pocket. “That’s the one.”

  The guard raised the master key, and Nate, pretending to juggle the key and the Styrofoam cup, dropped his coffee. It hit the floor, splattering on the guard’s cuffs.

  “Oh, man,” Nate said. “I am so sorry.”

  “No problem.” The guy swiped at his ankles with a handkerchief as Nate crouched over him. “It’s fine,” the guard said. “Come right out.”