“I’d care,” he said.
“Do spirits hang around after death to observe their mother’s reaction?”
Casey tilted his head. “I…I don’t know, Lei.”
“If Satan exists, and he has a sense of humor, that would be my version of hell.”
Mother would always be Mother. But the rape? Elzbieta had a point: Leila had to stop letting it define her.
“Every day, I wake up and hope I don’t relive it,” she said. “The hairline fracture in my windshield reminds me of the crack in the sidewalk where my rapist pounced. I remember the cloth smelled like syrup mixed with chemicals.”
Casey nodded. “Chloroform.”
Leila dropped her hands and exhaled in exasperation. “I don’t want to talk about this.” Her auto insurance only paid half the cost of a new windshield, so she couldn’t afford to replace it. And since the crack didn’t require a fix, she just left it. Casey would have offered to pay to fix it, but he knew she wanted it there to remind her to check the back seat before getting in. Some people were too proud to take handouts from siblings. Leila was loath to admit weakness.
Casey recalled hearing about how the rapist tackled her behind the shrubbery, and seeing how wickedly gnarled the branches had looked. There had been only one light illuminating the off-campus apartment complex and everything had been dark. Where were all the pedestrians? Where were the SAFEWalk people? The police?
The night after the attack, she would tell her rape counselor, her friend Amelia, and Casey that the perpetrator had whispered in her ear, “Just relax and it will hurt less. In fact, it’ll feel goooood.” At the time, Leila’s entire sexual experience had amounted to kissing Bobby Lowenstein at a middle school dance. Casey wished he could go back in time, use what he knew now to avoid a narcoleptic attack, ask someone else to hang out with them in case he had an attack, and protect his sister. That night, they had both lost their innocence.
Leila grabbed a duffle bag and shoved clothes in it.
“What are you doing?” Casey said.
“I’m going to Madison. I’m getting the hell out of here. I miss Amelia.”
“Take it easy. It’s getting late and you’re in no—”
“I’m going, Case. If you want to stay here, fine. But get the hell out of my way.”
He stepped aside, and she left without another word.
18
MONDAY, JANUARY 24
Casey’s cell rang; he answered and sat on his sister’s bed.
“Thread, it’s Scott,” said Scott Breaston, Casey’s editor at Sports Scene magazine. He typed as they talked. Most editors in movies were portrayed as impatient blowhards who rode their reporters for production. The truth was, Casey found it hard to get an editor to care about his stories—they were typically too focused on meeting deadlines and in tracking the hot issue of the moment. The upside, of course, was that Scott rarely checked in during assignments. Casey ignored Scott’s typing, since he knew not to take it personally, and said, “Got a great story developing here.”
More typing. “Stars sell,” Scott said. “Are you getting inside Narziss’s world?”
“Intimately. He may be responsible for the disappearance of a young woman who worked at the Hail Pro Shop.”
Scott stopped typing. His chair squeaked. “From last week? You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Narziss had been playing ‘prom night’ with the missing woman.”
“Anyone go on record about that yet?”
“No. I think his wife might at some point, though. Word is the missing victim is preggos.”
“I hear you,” Scott said. “You’re following it?”
“Like pilot fish to a shark. Might miss a few days of practice.”
“Do you need me to assign someone to cover the championship game?”
“I’ll be there; I pretty much have the football angle covered already. By the way, I have a sidebar on how the community is cuckoo for Hail puffs. The priests and ministers pray for the team in church.”
Scott started typing again. “Sources need to go on record.”
“You said that already.”
“Hear Cummings broke his leg?” Scott said, referring to the Hail’s star running back.
“What?”
“You didn’t hear?”
Casey felt instant heartburn. “I didn’t see—”
“Relax. It happened during a motorcycle accident after practice. He’s in the hospital. The Associated Press just tweeted the story.”
Casey had Twitter on his phone, but hadn’t checked the updates lately. He knew that, with Cummings out, Green Bay would have a hard time beating New York. Without the threat of Cummings running the ball, the New York defenders could chase Green Bay’s quarterback with reckless abandon. Maybe even knock Johnny Oakley out of the game. “I was about to follow up on this disappearance lead out of town.”
“Go ahead. But Cummings might have something to say about Narziss. You’re tight with Cummings, right?”
“I have his cell number from my days at the newspaper.”
“Great. We need something for the magazine that won’t be on all the blogs and sports sites across the country.”
Casey reassured him, ended the call, and dialed Cummings. His smartphone felt hot on his ear. “Marshon, you okay?”
“Yeah dawg, I’m a-ight,” Cummings said, “for being in the hospital.”
“Sorry that happened, man, but glad you’re okay. Did the doctor say anything about resuming your career?”
Cummings half-laughed. “I’m comin’ back. No doubt about it. My leg is confetti but, damn, how can I not? Doc said there’s a five-percent chance to resume my career. That’s all I need.”
“If anyone can, it’s you.”
“Damn straight. I came back from the broken collarbone, so I can come back from this.”
“Nice,” Casey said. “Listen, we go way back, right?” Casey had written an article during his last year with the Green Bay Times about how the team had strong-armed Cummings behind the scenes, refusing to pay him the going rate unless he agreed to insert a clause in his contract to void everything in the event of a career-threatening injury. Cummings couldn’t negotiate with another team because he was a “restricted” free agent, meaning the Green Bay Hail had the right to match contract overtures from other teams. After Casey had written the article, Hail fans lit up blogs and talk radio, outraged that Cummings wasn’t getting his due and worried that the team would one day lose their star ball carrier. Johnny Oakley spoke out to the media about his desire for the team to keep Cummings. A week after Casey’s article, Cummings got a stellar contract from the Hail without the dubious clause. At the time, Cummings had told Casey he’d never forget it.
Now Cummings said, “We’re boys. I’d be screwed right now if you hadn’t written that article. Come with it.”
“Ever see Narziss with a Latina?”
Without hesitation, Cummings said, “You mean Elena?”
“Yeah.” Casey tried not to sound too geeked.
“Damn, she’s fiiiine. If J-Lo and Eva Mendes had a baby, it would look like Elena.”
Casey ignored the scientific implausibility of Cummings’s statement. “Where’d you see them?”
“J-Lo and Eva?”
“Elena and Narziss.”
“He snuck her into the assistant coaches’ locker room once.”
Narziss was Mr. Entitlement. “Bet he knew the coaches looked the other way,” Casey said.
“Hey,” Cummings said, “they have different rules for Todd ‘The Prez’ Narziss.”
“Have you seen him with Elena anywhere else?”
“At Club Addiction. A couple of us went out the other night with the girls.”
“Not Friday, the night Elena disappeared?”
“No,” Cummings said. “Monday? Yeah-yeah, the Monday before that. I had a bad feeling about it.”
Casey didn’t respond.
“CT?” Cummings said. “You there?�
��
Casey couldn’t respond. He had fallen into partial cataplexy and sleep paralysis, hunched over. His momentum took him to the floor. As he rolled, he snapped out of it. He recovered his phone. “Marshon? You still there?”
“I’m in the hospital with broken legs. Where would I go? What’s up witchyou?”
“I fall asleep sometimes. It’s how I roll.” He reached into his jeans pocket, extracted a caffeine pill, and swallowed it. He marched out of Leila’s bedroom, into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, grabbed a Red Bull and drank it to wash down the pill.
Silence.
“Anyway,” Casey continued, “you were saying—about a bad feeling…”
More silence.
“Marshon?” He looked at his phone, and the call was still connected.
Pause.
“You there?” Casey said.
Cummings burst into laughter. “That’s how I roll, dawg.” He cackled with glee. “A-ight, CT, A-ight.”
Casey rolled his eyes.
“I got this vibe from The Prez like he had something to hide,” Marshon said. “He was acting all nervous. I asked him about it, but he denied there was anything wrong.”
19
MONDAY, JANUARY 24
Hailangelo lay back on his king-size bed, staring at the print on the ceiling directly above him. Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss portrayed a man smooching his lover on the cheek, both of them cloaked in golden robes with turquoise and blue flowers in their hair. She knelt before him, eyes closed, enraptured by his presence, as if their passion and soul connection had drained her energy to the point of exhaustion. She clung to the man, who was the only force keeping her upright, her right arm draped over his and his hands embracing her porcelain skin. Hailangelo envisioned a sculpture that would bring The Kiss to life. He had already found the proper fabric for the cloaks—one for the statue and another for himself. Now he simply needed the muse.
Earlier in the day, he had poured himself a Black Russian and watched people outside his window. One of his neighbors, Rihanna Morris, played with her daughter, Shantell, who sat in a red sled. He had seen Elena Ortega walking little Shantell to school each weekday morning.
Rihanna pulled a rope attached to the sled carrying her daughter. The sled left a wake behind in the snowy grass. A truck had plowed several days’ worth of snow into the back corner of the parking lot outside their apartment, and Shantell jumped out of the sled so she could use the embankment as a sledding hill. The ride was brief, but so was the climb up for more. Without fail, the girl squealed with glee each time down.
Hailangelo had thought Shantell would be perfect for a statue based on the Norman Rockwell painting, The Problem We All Live With. It featured a little African-American girl, just like Shantell, walking to school while escorted by deputy U.S. marshals, amidst racist protestors hurling tomatoes. Hailangelo viewed every race as equal—equally vile—and delighted in different tones and hues to use as material. He didn’t care if his statue’s race matched that of the original painting; only that they matched the beauty and spirit of the inspiration. Still, the resemblance was obvious.
Hailangelo knew he had a problem: he created unique, rare works of art that couldn’t possibly be fully accepted or appreciated by his contemporaries. Perhaps long after his death he’d be heralded as a visionary master. But for now, he would have to contend with the law. To him, blending into society, mimicking “appropriate” behavior and avoiding detection were realities, necessary skills he could develop and hone. He was certainly not the first persecuted artist to have his creations destroyed by religious zealots, morality police, or dictators—and he wouldn’t be the last. Like the statues themselves, he sculpted his life according to his own preferences, but also took into account the reaction of his adoring public.
For these reasons, he had to let the giggling girl glide down the snow bank forevermore. He couldn’t take her. Society would rise up and not allow it. He drained the last of the vodka and set the glass in the sink.
Society couldn’t control his compulsions. The hunger remained. Just because he couldn’t bring Rockwell’s The Problem We All Live With to life didn’t mean Rihanna couldn’t ripen for his kiss. Yes, she would look gorgeous in a golden cloak. He closed his eyes, content with the vision for his next statue.
Casey dreamed they were dead, and he couldn’t believe it. In the dream, he looked around Cresh Funeral Home. His mother wore black and yammered on to her friends and relatives. Those around her searched for an escape route from her dissertation.
Mother’s long gray hair hung down under a black-brimmed hat as she stood near the caskets, peach drapery adorning the walls behind her.
Weird, Casey thought, that the two caskets are empty but the lids are open.
The one on the left moved a few inches periodically, even though nobody touched it. He suddenly needed air. “Excuse me,” he said, leaving a circle of people listening to Aunt Dorice, who was about five-foot-three and two hundred pounds. She was ten minutes into a story about her Plum French Toast Bake, which she insisted was low in fat.
Casey opened a golden door handle, walked through oak doors and a vacant room. He continued through a second empty room and arrived at a third door. Instinct told him not to open it. He couldn’t tell why.
He opened it. In the backyard, people lay on the snowbanks, convulsing. Maggots covered their faces.
Robert Cresh, the funeral-home owner, stood right in front of Casey in a black suit but wearing no winter coat, watching the victims as a shepherd would survey his flock. Cresh’s nametag was pinned to his lapel. Despite the fact that Casey had never formally met him, Cresh’s face lit up as if Casey were the prodigal son.
“Casey!” Cresh said, his face covered in corpse makeup. “Glad you could make it.” He held up a wine glass. “Care for some vintage formaldehyde?” He drank the entire glass and said, “Ahh.”
Casey smiled uncomfortably and scanned the backyard. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Cresh smiled. He had a bushy unibrow.
“Oh, I don’t know—the convulsing, maggot-infested zombies, maybe?”
Cresh chuckled and shrugged. “They’re just lawn gnomes.”
Casey stared blankly.
Cresh frowned. “Fine. This is where the dead come when their hearts stop beating. And they remain here unless revived.”
“How comforting.” Casey started to wake up, but still felt tired and wanted to explore this dream. Something beckoned him…
Annoyed, Cresh pointed to the corner of the backyard. “If you must know, Leila and Elena are right over there.” Sure enough, their bodies were contorted on the ground, gesticulating and making distorted snow angels.
Casey blinked rapidly. “Who else knows about this place?”
The Cresh-ire cat smiled. “You mean does anyone else know you let that rapist ravish your sister?”
“How do you—”
“I see the trees rot,” Cresh said. “The maggots feed, the birds circle, the rabbits turn away.”
Casey looked at his feet, ashamed. “I didn’t think she’d get raped.”
Cresh raised his brow. “Or commit suicide.”
“What? Who? Leila?”
No answer.
“Leila committed suicide?” Casey grabbed Cresh by the lapels. Or did he mean Elena?
“Release me at once!” Cresh said, and Casey complied. “Even a dog knows when a friend needs him, Casey. Instead, you chased squirrels. No matter.” Cresh smoothed his lapels and turned his back to Casey. He faced the convulsing bodies. “I’ll have you here soon enough.”
Behind him, Casey heard someone approach, giggling.
“He’s right, Casey.”
Casey turned.
His mother stood there, holding a kabob of two meatballs with a carrot in the middle. She smiled at him. “Delicious!”
Casey awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up in his hotel bed. “Whoa.” The clock read 3:13 a.m. He paused as images of Lei
la, Elena, Cresh, and his mother spun in his head like clothes in a dryer. He waited for them to settle at the bottom. Just a dream, he thought. Dream, dream, dream. Not real. He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. He knew he’d need a lot of energy for the trip to the taxi driver’s cottage.
Later that morning, Casey did his best to forget the nightmare, but the image of his mother holding the kabob persisted until about an hour into the Hail’s practice, during which Narziss caught three passes and barreled over defenders after each catch. He seemed to have no fear.
“That’s more like it, Narzy,” Coach Druthers said. Teammates pounded their fists on Narziss’s shoulder pads and Oakley swatted his star tight end on the butt to show approval. If the pressure from his rough first playoff game was getting to Narziss, he sure didn’t show it on the practice field. Coaches said, “You play like you practice.” Casey bought into that to a certain extent. However, players knew that maintaining focus in practice to execute techniques and strategy correctly was one thing. Doing so in an actual game—especially in the playoffs—was quite another.
“Todd Narziss is ready to play,” Narziss told reporters in the locker room after practice. “Nothing affects his mentality, especially his own dropped passes. That’s in the past. Last time I checked, this next game against New York will start out tied at zero, so it’s a fresh start. We plan to win fifty-two to nothing.”
The room buzzed about the upcoming conference championship game on Sunday with a bid to play for the world title at stake. The media throng had expanded to include a famous writer from the New York Times and a hotshot reporter from ESPN. One might have expected the players to be excited by all the national media attention, but by this point in the season, it just annoyed most of them.
“Narziss is tired of waiting around, answering all these questions,” Narziss said, clenching his jaw as he sat on the bench in his varnished locker. “I just want to play football and forget about everything else.”
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