by Ellis, T. W.
Given I had worked in a lot of restaurants and cafés by the time I arrived in Rome I expected I would do the same there once I had found a kindly owner or manager who didn’t mind that I couldn’t speak the language. That part was easy enough – Italians are some of the loveliest and most welcoming people I’ve ever come across – but staying employed wasn’t so simple. It was summer in Rome and it was a hell of tourists. The pressure to serve them all fast and accurately was too much for my limited Italian and, I’m embarrassed to say now, lazy work ethic.
I was fired before the end of my shift.
Which really put the pressure on to find something else fast because I had a shared room in a hostel I had used the last of my cash to rent.
I spend so much time standing in the shower I’m as pruned as I would be after a long bath when I finally step out and grab a towel.
Dry and dressed in a robe, I take the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet and sit down on the edge of the bathtub to apply a liberal amount of antiseptic salve to my soles, before wrapping my feet in tight gauze.
I do a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. At least until I decide to give my toenails a trim while I’m here and cut my big toe with the nail-trimming scissors. They’re so sharp it didn’t take much to produce a fat little blob of blood. Just a nick that barely stings but it makes me so angry I want to scream.
I toss the scissors and the waterproof grooming bag I took them from across the room. I clench my teeth and my fists. I feel my pulse thundering at my temples.
The anger subsides eventually. I regain my calm and tidy up, collecting the spilled contents of the grooming bag and setting it back in its place next to the sink.
I must have done a good job with my feet because I can walk again. I’m not going to be breaking any records on the treadmill any time soon but I can take proper steps. A little awkward, sure, yet it’s a huge improvement over the hobbling and shuffling I’ve been forced to do since running through the woods. The gauze wrapped around my feet acts a little like slippers. It’s almost comfy.
I return to the medicine cabinet to put back the first aid kit and grab a couple of paracetamol … and stop. I stare at the many bottles of medication lined up. Diazepam and Tramadol. Prozac and Lithium. If I were on my own I would take something stronger than paracetamol, that’s for sure. But I need to stay alert. I can’t spend the rest of the day in a numbed stupor. I need to be coherent by the time Leo lands and I don’t know how long Wilks and Messer are going to be hanging around.
It occurs to me I’ve been so long in the bathroom that Wilks and Messer could have finished their phone calls or whatever they needed to do and be gone already. Maybe they shouted up the stairs that they were leaving and I couldn’t hear them.
If I weren’t so tired I would check, but I’m yawning as I go to our bedroom and sit on the bed to towel my hair. Then, I find myself slumped against the headboard because supporting my own weight is too much effort.
Before I know it, I’m lying down.
My eyelids are so heavy.
I just need to close them for a minute.
Just a minute …
11:45 a.m.
Rusty is tired because Rusty is always tired. It’s not her weight, she knows. No one is more tired than those super-fit people with their skin so thin and drawn it looks like it might slide right off them. No, she’s always tired because tiredness is inherent to adulthood in this day and age. The human body was not designed for the stresses of modern living. It was built to survive the wild, to hunt and gather, not to fight through this unforgiving wasteland that we once called civilisation.
In this quiet apocalypse we’re all tired, all zombies.
Worse, we don’t even know it.
‘You ever concern yourself with the human condition?’ she asks Sabrowski, who enters her office with a neat binder of documents midway through Rusty’s wayward thought process.
Just asking is asking for trouble, she knows. Asking for her faith in her officer, nay humanity, to be shaken once more.
‘Is that like a virus?’ he asks, frowning in confusion.
She sighs and nods in reply, because why not? It’s her own fault for inviting him into her ponderings in the first place. Might as well roll with it.
‘Yeah,’ she answers, ‘and the worst part is it kills you stone dead. Guaranteed. Once you have it, you’re doomed.’
The concept of inevitable doom slows Sabrowski down a step and he’s hesitant to place the binder down on her desk in case it might expedite his demise.
‘Are they fixing on coming up with a cure?’
His tone is both hopeful that Rusty will dispel this new dread she has instilled in him and yet fearful she cannot.
She leans back in her chair and drums her fingers on her desk. ‘I guess some super-smart folk are working their asses off to find one. Might even be a whole lab dedicated to that very pursuit. But, way I see it, some things aren’t worth curing even if they can be.’
Rusty sees she has stoked the fires of Sabrowski’s imagination because his sparse moustache is twitching in a way she’s never witnessed before.
‘Vaccination, then?’ he suggests in a thin voice. ‘Cause you can’t trust them. They got arsenic and all kinds of stuff inside to keep you sick so you keep on paying.’
‘Apples contain arsenic.’
‘Then I won’t eat apples no more.’
Rusty pushes both palms down on the desk and leans forward again, closing the distance between herself and her officer so she can stare right up at Sabrowski and he can’t fail to recognise her scepticism.
‘Officer Sabrowski, kindly inform me of the last time you actually ate a piece of fruit.’
He thinks. ‘I had maple syrup on my pancakes this morning.’
‘Maple syrup isn’t— You know what, forget it. Get back to work, Officer.’
He gestures to the binder. ‘I don’t have nothing to do now.’
Rusty throws the closest pen at him. ‘Then find something.’
He’s quick enough to flinch out of the way of the pen because she throws so many. He’s no cat but he’s built up a decent amount of muscle memory on account of all the practice she’s given him.
Sabrowski collects the pen from the floor and slots it back into the desk tidy before exiting. He’s well-trained in that way.
Rusty slides the binder closer and scoops it up to check the printouts inside. She isn’t too good with computers. From the very first time she sat down with one and realised her chunky fingers were going to struggle typing with anything approaching accuracy she pretty much gave up on the idea. She can get by because she has to as the chief of police, but she gets Sabrowski and Zeke and whoever else is in earshot to do most of the work when it comes to technology. Better for all concerned that way.
So, it was Sabrowski who dug into Leo Talhoffer’s background on her behalf, and when he finished he printed out all the relevant information and assembled it in the binder Rusty now reads through. She appreciates his efforts even if he could have used the hole puncher a little more carefully so half of the documents didn’t spill out when she held it a certain way.
To make sure he knows this, Rusty yells at him through the internal window. Only a little bit, however, because he’s been so thorough in his research.
A while later, he fetches her a cup of her good coffee by way of apology. She didn’t even have to ask and is quite touched by the gesture.
‘You’ve got a good heart deep down,’ she tells him as he presents the cup. ‘Maybe the rest of you will catch up one day.’
Rusty sips and leans back and reads through all the information on the focus of everyone’s attention.
Leo Talhoffer is thirty-six years old and has the sort of blond-haired, blue-eyed, perfect-teeth look to him that gets Rusty’s back up on general principle. Some people are born with a winning hand and people like Rusty didn’t even get a seat at the table.
She’s seen him around town now and ag
ain – Rusty’s seen everyone around town now and again – but she’s never exchanged words with the man and never seen him up close.
She reads that he had humble beginnings all the way to Brown and did well for himself, majoring in Business. Funny, then, that he seemed to drift in and out of dead-end jobs during the rest of his twenties, a few months here, a few months there. Never made it a year in any one place yet all the while having the time and resources for plenty of overseas travel. Some people just get an easy ride in life, Rusty is sure just from looking at those perfect WASP features.
The sommelier business was probably started with family money too, and grew fast every year until now, when Leo is turning over a mighty fine chunk of change. Not yacht-buying profits, but enough to make Rusty re-evaluate her life choices as a government employee. She can’t afford a paddling pool.
Maxed-out credit cards, though. Not a great deal in his personal bank account and his business account is in the red.
Rusty finds this interesting.
What’s also interesting is there are no large transfers that give her reason to look twice. His accounts look normal. He’s spending too much, but who isn’t? We need to buy as much stuff as possible to distract ourselves from the apocalypse all around us, to convince ourselves that the relentless tiredness is a choice, that being a zombie is worthwhile.
Rusty puts the folder down, careful to make sure all the unholed documents aren’t going to fall out again. She pushes her chair back so she can swivel it ninety degrees and set her heels up on her desk. Then, she thinks.
She didn’t find what she expected to find. It’s still early days and despite Sabrowski’s fine work she only has the abridged biography of Leo Talhoffer. It’ll take time until she has the complete picture of the man and his life. But still …
On a hunch, she shouts for Sabrowski to return.
‘Coffee okay?’ he asks, worried and tense in readiness to duck another pen.
Rusty says, ‘If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck … ’
Sabrowski is as confused as he is concerned.
‘Rest assured this might be the single greatest cup of coffee the world has ever known.’ She gestures to the cup. ‘Civilisation has peaked right here, right now.’
Sabrowski beams. ‘Really?’
‘Not even close,’ Rusty says, and Sabrowski’s light dims so fast she feels a stab of guilt. ‘But it’s a commendable effort, Officer, and one you should be proud to call your very own doing. However, it is not this B-plus cup of java that I have summoned you inside these hallowed halls to discuss.’
‘It isn’t?’
Rusty shakes her head. She stabs at the binder with a rigid finger.
‘Did I miss something out?’
‘On the contrary. Again, you did some fine work, Sabrowski. Mighty fine. You did such good work it makes me wonder why you’re so bad at your job the rest of the time.’
Sabrowski’s skinny shoulders sag.
‘Lighten up, Officer. I’m just giving you a gentle ribbing.’ Rusty scoops up the binder and slides it across her desk. She would throw it to him only half the pages would fly out in the process. ‘But now I want you to do it all over again … albeit with a single caveat.’
‘Ma’am?’
3:59 p.m.
It’s dark when I open my eyes.
Not full dark, not night, but it’s much later in the day than when I closed my eyes, much later than I intended. I’ve been asleep for hours in that deep, trance-like slumber of the truly exhausted. Only I don’t feel in the least bit refreshed. My eyes are sore and my throat is dry and I’m groggy like it’s first thing in the morning and I’ve woken up far too early. It’s an effort to push myself up and a worse struggle to get off the bed.
For a brief moment I think it is morning and I dreamt Leo leaving and the knock at the door and Wilks and Messer and Carlson and Rusty. In that moment I believe the morning’s events have all been one horribly realistic nightmare.
That delicious delusion ends the instant my feet find the floorboards and I feel the unforgiving sting of reality.
Why is reality always painful?
I retie my robe. It came loose as I slept.
The house is quiet. I hear only ambient noise, my own breathing and my own thoughts. Wilks and Messer must be long gone by now having done everything they needed to do. Perhaps they left while I was in the shower, or if they left a little later maybe they called up to say they were going and I was so fast asleep I didn’t rouse.
I feel relief that they are no longer here, because I want to be alone, but there is a creeping sense of worry too as I think about Carlson. Whoever he is he’s still out there and I’m all alone.
Wilks and Messer wouldn’t have left me here by myself if there was any danger. Carlson might be in custody now thanks to a coordinated dragnet of federal and local officers. Or he might be downstairs right now, having broken in after he watched from the treeline as Wilks and Messer left.
Don’t be paranoid, I tell myself.
If only my anxiety listened to reason I wouldn’t have anxiety issues in the first place.
On the landing, I notice the door to Leo’s office is closed. Did I close it earlier before I climbed out of the window? I almost smile, almost laugh. It all seems so silly now. Did I really flee from my own house because a voice on the phone told me to do so?
I descend the stairs, relieved to be able to do so standing up, although it does hurt a little. The gauze around my feet is doing a tremendous job but I’m still unsteady, still cautious of placing too much weight on the wrong parts of my soles. I use the banister for support and it helps me to take the edge off the pain.
I don’t hear anything, which leads me to believe there’s no Carlson waiting to ambush me on the ground floor. He could be stationary, of course, but if he was really here why didn’t he just take advantage of the fact I was asleep upstairs?
He needs information. He could be searching the house, taking advantage of my slumber to do so. I look back over my shoulder. I can’t see the door to the office but I picture him in there, perhaps hacking Leo’s computer or rummaging through documents. Has he heard me get up?
I take a breath and hold it tight and try to silence those thoughts. They’re not about Carlson, they’re about me. They’re doubting me. They’re the voice inside my head that will never trust me, that will never be satisfied with anything I do.
They wake me up, at least, and my thoughts switch to Leo. He’ll still be in the air over the Atlantic, I think. What do I say to him when he calls after he lands? I feel ill-informed and unequipped to deal with whatever comes next. Wilks and Messer may have been light on the advice, but before I speak to Leo I intend to think things through. I want to run my marriage through a mental microscope and see what I’ve been missing for however long this money-laundering thing has been going on.
Assuming it isn’t all one big mistake.
I’m still clutching to that hope, but it’s feeling more unrealistic the more I think about it. The FBI wouldn’t show up at my door unless they were sure, unless there was some compelling evidence, some proof. And there’s Carlson. Whoever he is, his involvement reinforces the case against Leo. If it weren’t true, why would Carlson call me, try and get me to go with him? If what Wilks and Messer claim is untrue then Leo is just a sommelier. No one calls a wine merchant’s wife first thing in the morning to play some twisted practical joke that just happens to match up with what two FBI agents in her home are saying.
Oh, Leo, you should have told me.
I’m almost at the bottom of the stairs and feel relieved I made it down without falling, without so much as slipping. It’s rare that I give myself any credit but I take a disproportionate sense of pride in this small accomplishment.
The front door lies a few feet away. There are semi-transparent blocks framing the upper edge, and from the boost in height provided by the stairs I can see through them. There’s a porch light outside that comes on
automatically when it gets dark and illuminates the driveway and I see a dark ripple outside.
A vehicle.
The big Ford Explorer still parked on the driveway.
I find Wilks in the living area but not Messer.
Wilks has her back to me. She’s stood up, talking on her cell phone.
‘ … I don’t know what to say about that. It’s not how we planned it. But problems can be fixed. That’s why we’re here, after all.’
There’s a pause, and for some reason I resist the urge to speak, to demand to know why she’s still in my house. I say nothing. I want to listen.
‘No, the police chief is a neutral observer. She’s not a problem.’
I frown. Why would Rusty be anyone’s problem, least of all the FBI’s?
‘That’s factually incorrect,’ Wilks says, the volume of her voice a little higher, a little more intense. ‘We have this under control. There won’t be any further missteps. The wife isn’t—’
Wilks cuts herself off because she’s seen my reflection in a picture frame.
‘I’ll call you back,’ she says to the person on the other end of the line.
She turns to face me. For a moment her face is blank and expressionless.
Then she smiles as if she’s forgotten her manners.
‘How did you sleep?’ she says.
I rub my eyes. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘A colleague,’ she answers. ‘At the Bureau.’
‘What time is it?’
‘About sixteen hundred hours.’
I say, ‘Why are you still here?’
‘We would have had to come back,’ she explains without explaining at all. ‘Didn’t make sense to drive all that way only to do it again.’
I frown. ‘This is not okay. You can’t just camp out in my house all afternoon without permission.’
She nods. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I would have asked but you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you after all you’ve been through. I made the wrong call. I see that now.’
