Envy the Night

by Michael Koryta

  A powerful moment, one that had stayed with her as few others had and one that she’d never discussed with anyone, and would not discuss now, with Frank. It was a bit too much, a bit too personal.

  “When I had to come up here, it was the first time I’d been on my own in a long while,” she said instead. “It felt good. The other thing, and this was a good deal more personal, was that he made too much money. Not millions or anything, but enough that he wanted me to forget about a day job and concentrate on my art.”

  “Generally considered a positive thing.”

  “That’s what I thought. First I had my mother and my stepfather taking care of me, spoiled little shit that I was, and then the future husband promising to do the same thing. Wonderful, right? But when I came up here and started going through my dad’s things, really looking at his life, at how hard he and my grandfather had worked to make a living off that crappy little shop . . .”

  “Made you feel soft?”

  “Made me realize I am soft. My dad got up at three in the morning when it snowed, ran the plow till eight, then came back and opened his shop up and worked all day. Would run the plow again in the evening, if he had to. Did that all winter, for thirty years. When I went back through their books, I saw that there was never a time when that shop did more than struggle to keep bills paid, but they kept them paid. For sixty-eight years, they kept them paid.”

  The wind blew hair into her face and she pushed it back.

  “I’ve never worked for anything. Not that counted. I worked for good grades, worked on my art, but that’s not the same. I’ve never had to work hard, never had my back to the wall in any way in my entire life. I suppose it’s awfully childish of me to say that like it’s a bad thing. I suppose I should just be grateful.”

  “Is that what the fiancé told you?”

  “Among other things.”

  “So you called it off?”

  “He gave me an ultimatum.”

  “Poor bastard. Hate to bluff on a play like that.”

  “I guess.”

  “A name,” Frank said. “I require a name.”

  “Seth.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Someone named Frank is criticizing another guy’s name?”

  “Frank was half of the first names of the Hardy Boys. It doesn’t get any more solid than that.”

  She was laughing again, and he seemed to have drawn closer without ever moving, and there was a sudden intimacy to the evening that absolutely did not belong. Even while understanding that it didn’t belong, she didn’t want it to go away, either. There was a pause that went on a few beats too long, his face close to hers.

  “This is where you tell me what a shitty kisser Seth was,” Frank said. “To inspire me.”

  “Inspire you to what?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Can’t do it,” she said. “He was actually a very good kisser.”

  “She sets the bar high,” Frank said, and then his hand was sliding across the back of her neck and pulling her forward and his lips were on hers and, what do you know, he was better than Seth.

  22

  __________

  It was the first time he’d watched anyone kiss through a rifle scope. When Ezra realized what they were doing, he dropped the gun and looked skyward, despondent. Just what this mess needed. What the hell was the kid thinking?

  He lifted the gun again, watched them for a few seconds, Nora Stafford beautiful even bathed in the wavering green light of the scope. Okay, that was what the kid was thinking. On second look, even through the scope, it made a hell of a lot of sense. Well, good for Frank.

  Very good, really. Ezra hadn’t liked the boy’s look this evening. Reminded him too much of other men he’d known, in other places. It wasn’t the way he wanted to see the young Temple go. The girl could be good for him. Once they got this shit cleared up, got those sons of bitches from Florida or wherever they were from sent on their way, the girl could be a wonderful thing for Frank. Ezra hadn’t seen her many times, but enough to know that she was a different cut than others her age. As was Frank. Certainly, as was Frank.

  Ezra went into the water two hundred feet from the island, swam naked through the cold lake, spent all of thirty seconds on the motor, and then swam off into the darkness again, leaving the outboard disabled. Whole thing had taken maybe five minutes, but they were minutes that took him back to those other places, those other times. Damn, but the three of them had been close once. You got a different sort of close in combat. He’d read a couple of textbooks on the brotherhood of battle once, written by psychologists sitting in university offices in towns that held peace rallies even when the country wasn’t at war. Read just enough to know that the authors didn’t understand their subject, and then gave up and moved on to other books.

  The lake had healed Ezra. That was something none of the psychologists would understand, but it was as true as anything he’d ever known. This place had healed him. He liked to believe the violence had drained away slowly, that the lake and forests had soaked it up, taken it from him. What he feared, time to time, was that it hadn’t drained away at all. That it was just a little better hidden.

  He was esteemed throughout the area as a hunter, but what he never told anyone was that he’d let the real trophies pass by. He’d looked at some amazing bucks in the scope, and once at a bear that went a good eighty pounds beyond any he’d ever seen in these woods, and he’d turned away from them. Let them go in peace. Just to prove he didn’t even have to hunt, didn’t have to kill, didn’t have to squeeze the trigger ever again if he didn’t want to.

  The lake had done that for him.

  He was glad when Frank and Nora stood up and went into the cabin, left him to watch nothing but the building and the woods through his scope. He didn’t want to watch people through the scope anymore.

  They’d been kissing for a while when Nora put her palm on his chest and pushed him back.

  “What?” he said, breaking away. “I shouldn’t have done that?”

  “No, it’s just”—she was smiling at him—“not really the night for it, you know?”

  He was looking at her hard, trying to read her, but she’d turned back to the lake.

  “Is he still out there?” she asked.

  “Ezra? Yes.”

  “I wonder if he was watching that little display.”

  “Probably.”

  “He must think I’m a slut.”

  “I doubt it. But if you want to try to convince him . . .”

  She laughed at that and got to her feet, dusted off her pants. He stood up, too, stretched, and tried not to stare at the lake, searching for the boat the way she had.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. If I did anything—”

  “It’s fine.” She held her hands up, palms out. “Relax, okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I just don’t want to let that moment turn into something it shouldn’t.”

  “You can trust me,” he said and immediately regretted it. He was coming on too strong, overreacting to her withdrawal. She was right—this wasn’t the night for it. Not at all. But his first thought when she’d pushed him back was that she was scared of him. It had been in his mind earlier, when he brought her to the cabin, and hadn’t left yet. He was not like the rest of these people who had invaded her life, and he had to have her understand that. He was not dangerous.

  “I do trust you,” she said, but now the awkwardness between them was evident. “Don’t worry about it. It’s cold, though. So maybe we can go inside?”

  She rubbed her upper arms in a false gesture, and he just nodded and walked to the door and held it for her, thinking that there was a reason he was so concerned about whether she was afraid of him, and it came from a place of guilt. Even while he implored her to trust him, while he said he would protect her, he was also asking her to believe in a complete fraud—the idea that his connection to all of this was circumstantial, an extraordinary coincidence. It had been easier to as
k her to believe that than to tell her that he’d come here to kill someone. What would she do if he told her that? What sort of response would that little disclosure provoke?

  They drank another beer but kept their distance. She sat on the couch, and he took the chair beside it. They spoke in soft voices for about an hour, and the conversation slowed and vanished, and after a while he realized she was asleep. He repositioned her on the couch, got a pillow under her head and a blanket over her body, then sat beside her and willed sleep to stay at bay. Wasn’t fair to make Ezra do all the watching.

  He thought about his cell phone at some point as he sat there in the dark, got quietly to his feet, and went to find it. He’d turned it off after going into the police station, and now he turned it back on, heard a chime indicating a message was waiting. The sound seemed loud in the quiet house, and he looked over at Nora. She didn’t move, and her breathing stayed slow and deep. He played the message.

  Grady Morgan. The sound of Grady’s voice hit him as hard as Ezra’s had a few days earlier, maybe even harder. Frank scarcely took in the content of the message at first, just that voice. There was a tension to it, maybe even some anger.

  Grady had heard about the day’s events, of course. Frank should have expected that. As soon as Atkins showed up, he should have expected that Grady would get a call. If he’d been thinking, he would have preempted Atkins, explained things and given Grady some warning. Now Grady had heard only Atkins’s side of things, and he was worried.

  Frank looked at the clock, saw it was nearly one. Late for a call, but Grady’s tone had some urgency. He probably wouldn’t mind.

  After one more check to ensure that Nora was sleeping soundly, Frank slipped out the door and into the night to make the call.

  Grady had been asleep for about an hour when the phone rang. He turned onto his elbow, reached out and grabbed the receiver, mumbled a hello that was thick with sleep.

  “It’s Frank.”

  Grady said, “What the hell kind of trouble did you get into?”

  “Atkins didn’t tell you?”

  “I’ve heard what he said. Now I’m asking you.”

  “Can’t tell you anything different except that these guys are involved with Devin. That much seems clear.”

  “Frank . . .” He wanted to ask the question, had to ask it, but it didn’t leave his lips.

  “What?”

  “Here’s how I’m going to phrase it. And, damn it, you tell me the truth. Were you down in Miami when it got started?”

  Say no, say no, say no. Don’t make this my fault, Frank, don’t tell me that a man is dead and you’re going to prison because of the lies I told so many years ago . . .

  “Grady, I haven’t been to Miami since my dad took me down eight years ago. I don’t intend to head that way, either.”

  Grady moved the phone away from his mouth so Frank couldn’t hear that exhalation of pure relief. It didn’t sound like Frank was lying. He’d been nowhere near Miami, had not put those bullets into Devin Matteson.

  Grady said, “So you’re telling me that—”

  “What happened in Miami? You seem to know a lot more than I do.”

  “Devin Matteson was shot.”

  Silence filled the line. Grady’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, turning shadows into furniture around the room. He sat and waited.

  “Just shot,” Frank said at last, “or killed?”

  “Shot. Three times in the back. But he didn’t die.”

  “Of course not,” Frank said. “Wouldn’t be that easy.”

  “Listen . . . are you telling me the truth? You really have nothing to do with Matteson?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then why are you up there?”

  “You still want the truth? Because I heard he was headed this way.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Ezra Ballard.”

  “Well, I wish you hadn’t gone up there,” Grady said. “You should have called me. Now look at what it’s turning into. Stay away from Ballard, and stay away from whatever ideas he’s got.”

  “Who said he’s got any? But I don’t want to argue with you. Tell me what you know about Devin. Who took him out?”

  Grady sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Nobody knows. But his wife went MIA the same night he got popped, so that’s taking the focus.”

  “You mean she might have done it?”

  “That, or she bolted with whoever did.”

  “His wife disappeared.” Frank’s voice seemed to have tightened.

  “Yes.”

  “You got a description of her? Know anything about her?”

  Grady paused. “Why are you asking?”

  “You surprised to hear I’m interested in whoever shot Devin?”

  Grady didn’t like that answer. He’d spent enough time talking to Frank to recognize when he was being evasive.

  “Agent Atkins was telling me about the guy you got tangled up with,” he said. “Vaughn.”

  “Is that his name?” Frank said, but it sounded false.

  “Yeah, it’s his name.”

  “Told us his name was Dave. That’s about all I can offer. That, and he’s a nervous little prick. Jumpy. Doesn’t fit the mold for the rest of them. What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing, yet. But people in Miami are looking into him.”

  “That’s where he’s from?”

  “Originally. He works at Coleman, though. As a guard.”

  “Coleman,” Frank echoed, and Grady knew he remembered, knew he was thinking about Manuel DeCaster, drawing all the same connections Grady had.

  “Atkins seems to think the guy is still in your area, though,” he said. “Thinks that’s what today’s killing was about.”

  “Yeah, that’s the simple math.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Silence.

  “Frank, if you know, tell me.”

  “I hadn’t seen the guy before yesterday, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  Again the evasiveness. Grady said, “Frank, listen to me—I want you to leave. Get in your car first thing in the morning, and get out of there. Will you do that?”

  “Atkins might not like it.”

  “I’ll deal with Atkins. You need to get out of there.”

  “Devin’s going to make it? Three bullets weren’t enough?”

  “He was recovering.”

  “Was?”

  Grady hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “So what changed?”

  “He’s gone, Frank. He left the hospital against doctor’s orders, and he’s gone. Now, I don’t know what the hell is going on up there, but I think he wants a part of it. And you need to be gone when he gets there. All right? You need to be gone.”

  Frank didn’t say anything, but his breathing had changed, slowed.

  “Are you listening, Frank? Get out of there, first thing in the morning.”

  “I don’t have a car,” Frank said, and there was something in his tone that made Grady get out of bed and onto his feet.

  “Look, I’ll drive up there myself. I’ll drive up and talk to this Atkins guy and then you can ride back down with me. Leave them to figure it out. That’s what you’ve got to do, Frank.”

  “No, Grady. You stay down there. Okay? You stay down there.”

  “Frank—”

  “Thanks for the insight, though. This is important to know.”

  “If you know where Vaughn is, you’ve got to tell—”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Grady. Thanks again.”

  He hung up, and Grady swore loudly into the dead phone. The conversation had ended too fast. Grady should have told him. It was time now. He had to tell him. He turned the light on, and blinked against the harsh brightness until he could see the numbers clear enough to call back.

  Frank had turned the phone off again.

  23

  __________

  The flashlight blinked three times, then stopped. Ezra waited for the pause, then
hit the lights on his boat, just tapped them on and right back off, enough to show Frank that he understood the signal.

  It was almost two in the morning, and Frank wanted Ezra to come in? This couldn’t be good. Ezra ignored the outboard—too noisy—and turned the trolling motor on, brought the boat in to the beach with no sound but that soft electric whir. Frank met him in the shallows, waded out, and took the bow line and threaded it through the U-bolt Ezra and Frank’s father had bored into the log wall long ago.

  “You all right?” Ezra stepped off the boat and onto firm ground.

  “We’re fine.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  There were no lights on the boat or outside the cabin, and Frank’s face was only a few shades lighter than the shadows that surrounded it.

  “Devin’s on his way.”

  The wind was blowing warm and steady out of the southwest, and Ezra turned his face into it, breathed it in.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just talked to Grady Morgan. You remember him?”

  “FBI.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Didn’t seem to be my biggest fan.”

  “Didn’t know you.”

  “Sure,” Ezra said. “Well, what did Mr. Morgan have to say?”

  What Frank told him then made some sense. Made a lot of sense, actually, because the one thing Ezra had never been able to get his head around was why Devin would possibly have called him and told him to open the cabin up. The only reason he could have understood was if it had been a taunt, Devin deciding he’d screw with an old man’s head, make it damn clear that Ezra no longer intimidated him or never had. Problem with that was the tone of the call. The message had been simple, businesslike, as if he’d never had a problem with Ezra. The answer, Ezra understood now, was that it hadn’t been Devin who made the call. The other guy, Vaughn, had apparently understood Ezra’s role as caretaker, but it didn’t seem he knew the back story.