I pat his shoulder before I grab my boots and head for the terrace, bumping into Paul’s armful of wood on the way. “Watch it, Rossi!” he calls after me.
I push through the glass doors and sit on a faux wicker chair, where I slip my socks and boots over my battered feet. A block away, the Hudson floats with the same crap. Every day is the same crap. I try my best to get through each one, thinking the next will be better. Though sometimes it is, I start at such a low that I don’t reach incredible heights.
The door opens, and Paul sits in the chair next to mine with a groan. “I think I lifted four thousand pounds of bricks yesterday, no joke.”
“It’s already getting warmer,” I say. “I might sleep in The Box tonight. Leo said something about a slumber party.”
“I’m down.” His fingers tap his leg, and he says, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“How I do what?”
He spreads his hands, which are cut and rough from his masonry work. “All of this. After Hannah died, it was like time stopped. I could barely feed Leo.”
“But you did because you didn’t have a choice,” I say. “I don’t have one now.”
“People make shitty choices all the time. Remember how I made your life hell? That was one.”
“All is forgiven. Plus, I got to punch you.” Paul chuckles, and I say, “Eric told me you punched him once. But he never told me why, and I forgot to ask again.”
“It was after Hannah got pregnant. One night, we were drinking, and he said I was crazy to get married at nineteen. That it was my life, but I was going to be trapped and miserable. So I punched him.”
“Sounds like he kind of deserved it.”
“We were wasted,” Paul says with a shrug. “He loved Hannah, but he was worried for me. He regretted it, especially after I told him it wasn’t how I saw life going, but it’d turned into where I wanted it to go, you know? He needed to hear it from me. Also, he’d already punched me, and I wanted to get one in.”
“Understandable.”
Paul gazes across the water as though looking into the past. “I thought it was over and done, but the next morning, hungover and with a black eye, he took me and Hannah to the jeweler and bought us our wedding bands. He was saving his work-study money to take a trip to some mountain in the summer, and he blew almost all of it on our rings.”
Paul twists the silver band on his left ring finger. “Platinum. White gold was cheaper, so we were going with that. But Eric wouldn’t let us after the jeweler said that platinum gets scratched the same as gold, but the metal only shifts and never breaks. He said it was like me and Hannah.”
I imagine the three of them standing in a jewelry store and contemplating the rest of their lives. Even then, Eric was thoughtful, observant in a way that belied his years. I know he wasn’t perfect, though I joked he was, but he tried so hard to be. “Of course he had to redeem himself in the most annoyingly perfect way.”
Paul’s laugh is quiet. “He made Hannah cry, and she didn’t even cry at our wedding.” He rubs his knuckles on his pants, then lifts his hand to inspect the ring. “I should probably take it off.”
“Why?”
“Maybe it’s time.”
“It’s time if you’re ready, and it’s fine if you’re not.”
His nod is pensive, like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how to say it.
“Are you thinking it’s time because of someone specific or just a general kind of time?” I ask. It’s not particularly subtle, and Paul gives me a low-lidded stare. I play dumb. “The thing with you and Noli never seemed to go anywhere.”
“She was cool, but I don’t know. I guess she didn’t…” He lifts a shoulder, looks across the water, then watches the heel of his boot tap the concrete.
“She didn’t make you want to take off your ring?”
“I guess,” Paul says.
“And now, maybe, you do?”
“Maybe, but…” Paul exhales. This conversation is like pulling teeth, which could mean he’s about to lay it out there. “Hannah and I met when we were sixteen. I’ve only ever been with one person. And, obviously, it’s been a while.”
Great big Paul is nervous, which is endearing and honest in a way that makes me want to hug him. He’ll kill me if I do that, or if I say anything about it, so I try for matter-of-fact. “But you and Hannah got it on, right? I mean, regularly?”
“Yes, Rossi,” he says with an eye roll. “But what if we did it all wrong to start with? And shit’s changed a lot in fourteen years. We…you know, weren’t prudes and we…” His eyes move to the Whitney, the river, and then straight ahead. “Maybe there’s new stuff we never heard of.”
The final part comes out in a rush. I’m glad he refuses to look at me because I’ll either laugh inappropriately or die. “Believe me, Paul, if there was anything Hannah needed to know that you guys didn’t figure out, her friends told her about it. In detail.”
“You think?”
I reflect on a few of the no-holds-barred conversations Grace and I had. “Yes. They knew more than you ever wanted them to know.”
“Great,” he says, head dropped back.
“As long as Eric told you about that latest toe thing, you’re set.”
Paul’s head shoots up. “What toe thing? He didn’t tell me about any toe—”
I can’t keep a straight face any longer, and my laugh echoes off our concrete surroundings. Paul crosses his arms, lower lip pooched like Leo’s. “You’re a fucking riot, you know that?”
I pat his side-of-beef shoulder. “I promise you’re good. It’s all just the basics, tailored to the person’s…proclivities, and yours. You never know, one of you might have a toe thing.”
“Toe thing,” he mutters with a shake of his head.
It sends me into laughter again, until Paul jumps to his feet and watches the park. Down the concrete path, through the trees, a person walks our way. For a brief, wondrous moment, I think it’s Eric. A little closer, and it’s obvious the walk is wrong, the bearing off. The figure reaches where the path straightens out, and I pull my gun. My real gun.
“Is that—?” Paul begins, but I’m already on the ladder.
I navigate the next ladders until I’m on the High Line, and then I race toward Roger with my finger on the trigger. Roger stops on the path, hands in the air. I advance until I’m five feet away, trying to both keep my eye on him and check for anyone else coming. He’s drawn and pale, dark hair limp on his forehead. “Sylvie, wait a minute. I—”
Paul steps in front of me, pistol aimed at Roger’s head. I move out from behind him, gun on Roger’s heart. He blinks a few times and dampens his lips.
“Who else is here?” Paul asks.
“No one, I swear. I promise I—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Paul flexes his arms slightly, making sure his pistol is in line with Roger’s brain. “Why are you here?”
We need information, yet I want to put one bullet through his heart, another through his head. Or a couple in his legs, then toss him over the side to the Lexers.
“I didn’t know,” Roger pleads. “Sylvie, I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to what?” I ask, my voice venomous. “You didn’t mean to kill people? You let your brother in. I don’t care what you meant, I care what you did.”
I could kill him. I could do it right now. He knows it, too, and his hands quiver in the air.
“I swear I didn’t know!” he cries. “My brother said he wanted to talk. He said no one would give him a chance if he didn’t catch them off guard. I let him in, but I didn’t know what he was going to do.”
He might be telling the truth, but I keep my gun raised. I don’t care either way. “You knew what we told you. You knew what he did. Why did you believe him?”
“Because he’s my brother!” Roger’s eyes fill. “He’s all I have. I thought he’d made a mistake. A big one, but I thought—”
Footsteps come up behind me. A lot of people, fro
m the sound. “Came to finish us off?” Kate’s voice is cold, emotionless.
“I’m sorry, Kate.” His arms drop to his sides and hang limp. “You don’t have to believe me. You can kill me if you want. But I came to help you get them out. Micah knows I’m coming. They all do.”
I relax my trigger finger. Roger can die, and good riddance, but Micah is another story.
58
After a check of the tracks to be sure he’s alone, we allow Roger inside, where he sits in The Box with a hangdog expression. He’s answered our questions with the information that neither Emilio or Kearney are in StuyTown and the residents are safe for now—barring the ones who became zombies. According to Roger, two hundred residents remain.
“How did you know Walt was your brother?” Kate asks.
“Walter’s his middle name,” Roger says. “Young was our mother’s maiden name. The first time I heard Eri—you guys say it, I thought it was him. But I swear I didn’t want this to happen. I want to help.”
I clench my fists in my lap. He knew for months. And didn’t say a word. He mined our brains for information and used it against us, all while pretending to be a friend. “Kill your brother,” I say. “That’s all the help we need.”
“It’s more than just him,” Roger says. “But I can’t. He keeps my insulin somewhere and he won’t tell me where it is. If I kill him, I kill myself.”
“Like we care.”
His flinch makes me happy, as does the way he seems to shrink more than he already has. If I can’t actually shoot him, I can fire words at him until he bleeds—metaphorical blood, of course.
“Micah will need help getting them out,” he says. “Everyone is okay right now. Jeff—Walt—he’s not hurting anyone.”
“Else,” I say. “Anyone else. How about the hundred or so people in Sunset Park, and everyone since?”
“Not helping, Sylvie,” Kate says.
I cross my arms and open my mouth. Indy whispers, “Shut up for half a second.”
I close my mouth. The apocalypse has taught me nothing if it hasn’t taught me when to shut up. I don’t always listen, but I know when I should.
“What about everyone in StuyTown?” Jorge asks.
“Walt put everything back in order after the first…” He stops abruptly, shrinking a little more. “I guess most people don’t care who’s in charge, as long as their lives stay the same.”
Kate winces. “So much for loyalty.”
Roger picks at a thread on his black jeans. “They also know that if they try anything, they could get put outside the gates.”
“Like Debra,” Indy says.
Roger’s head snaps up. “You know about that? She tried to attack him with a kitchen knife, so he made her an example.”
I want to high-five Debra, give her a hug, and then find her every Precious Moments figurine on Earth. I hope Heaven is a Precious Moments store and she has a limitless gift card. It’s never the ones you think.
“We saw it,” Kate says. “And we saw the bodies of the others.”
“That was everyone he didn’t like from before. Anyone who he thought would fight him, and anyone who tried.”
Kate breathes deep, reining in her formidable temper. “How can we get the others out?”
“I don’t know yet. Micah said after things calm down, we’ll figure out a way.”
More waiting. I shove back my chair and stamp for the terrace, where I light a cigarette. One of Roger’s cigarettes from his stash. I would grind it into nothingness with my boot, but nicotine is the only thing keeping me sane at this moment.
After I’ve finished, someone exits the building behind me. I avert my eyes when Roger steps near. “I’m sorry, Sylvie. I don’t know how else to say I’m sorry, but I’m trying to fix it.”
His hand comes into my field of vision with a black-handled steel knife resting on his palm. Eric’s knife. The one he always goes—went—on about like it was made of magic. To see it without him attached twists the mental knife a little deeper.
“I thought you’d want it,” Roger says. “I didn’t want anyone else to use it.”
When I make no move to take the knife, he sets it on a chair. His hand brushes my sleeve, and I jump three feet away filled with a revulsion so strong that I shiver. “Don’t touch me!”
“Okay.” He swallows audibly. “Okay, I won’t.”
“Did you—” I begin. I don’t want to ask, but I have to know. “Did you tell your brother what I said about Eric not forgiving him? Is that why he’s dead?”
“No,” he says. “He knew. Eric said it to him.”
I spin to face him, propelled by a tumult of emotions—the main one fury. “You were there?”
Roger stares at me, almost haunted, then nods.
Tears leave warm tracks on my cheeks. “Then why didn’t you help him?” I whisper. All the fight drains away, leaving me with the desperate, useless wish that things were different. They could have been different. “Eric was the one who told everyone to give you a chance. He stuck up for you when no one else did.”
Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I tried. I was trying to get him to help me when Walt caught up to us. I told Walt to let him leave, and he said no. But…” He rubs his lips together. “I don’t think he would’ve made it. He was hurt pretty bad.”
“Who stabbed him?”
“I don’t know. He was like that when I found him.”
I wipe my face and watch the water. Roger fought for him a little. Not the way Eric would’ve had their roles been reversed, but someone stuck up for him. He wasn’t alone the entire time. Though that gives me a scrap of solace, Roger doesn’t deserve any praise for being a semi-decent human being in the midst of ruining our lives.
“I told—” Roger chokes, then clears his throat. “I told him I’d make sure you were safe.” He steps forward and stops when I move away. “I’m trying to keep that promise.”
I imagine the moment where Eric knew he was dying and grasped at any straw to save me. It’s too much to endure, and I file it away with the rest of the unendurable. Eric’s overprotectiveness was one thing, as it arose out of love. I’ll never allow Roger, or anyone, to fill in for him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know that. But I want to help. You guys hardly have any food.”
“Do what you want.” I pick up Eric’s knife and walk for the door. “Just don’t get in our way.”
59
Eric
Urgent voices wake me, distant as though I’m under water. I’m no longer cold and the hard beam beneath me has been swapped for something softer. I struggle through the heaviness toward the sound. I’ve been banged up, broken my arm, and shit myself for days. I’ve had my share of injuries, but there’s no end to this throbbing. Someone tugs my leg, and pain shotguns from ankle to hip. Something’s on my chest. Pressing. I can’t breathe.
I rip at the pressure, and a woman says, “Stop, Eric.” It’s a voice I don’t recognize. Hands pin my arms at my sides. “Eric, stop!”
It’s doing no good anyway. Moving my arms is torture. My body thrums with heat that starts in my middle and spreads to every cell. It’s dark. I might be blindfolded.
“Eric, tell me what happened,” the voice says.
Walt came. Roger stabbed me. Please tell me Sylvie is okay. Just tell me that.
“I can’t understand what you’re saying, Eric,” she says. “Open your eyes, Eric. Eric, look at me.”
I try, if only because the repetition of my name is irritating. Eric, do this. Do this, Eric. Eric. Eric. Eric. There’s no blindfold. Only hefty weights called eyelids. A woman’s face comes into focus. Mid-to-late thirties. Warm medium-brown skin and black-lashed dark eyes that peer into mine. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Sleep calls to me. I’m so thirsty. So tired. I try to raise my arm to my ribs and let it fall when even that is too much.
“We know,” she says. “Were you stabbed?” I try to nod, and her return nod says I managed th
at much. “You bled a lot, but it’s slowed. We’re doing our best.”
Kearney’s face looms over her shoulder. My sharp intake of air doubles the pain in my belly, and I wonder who’s groaning before I figure out it’s me. The woman turns with a harsh whisper, and he disappears. I forgot about Kearney. Forgot I’m dead no matter what. If I’m alive, they can use me to get to Sylvie and Paul.
I move my lips.
“What?” the woman asks. She tips an ear with a small gold hoop toward my mouth.
“Let me die,” I whisper. I’m three-quarters of the way there. All she has to do is allow me to finish the trip.
“I can’t do that,” she says. “Besides, too many people here want you alive.”
I shiver at her words. My eyelids lower on their own. I can’t fight them, or her. I only hope I’m beyond saving.
“Get me that fluid!” she commands before her voice fades away.
Pressure on my chest. I jerk and hear something jump to the floor, followed by the patter of small steps as it scurries away. It was a rat. A big one. It bit you. There could be more.
I try to sit up, to check, but I can’t. The pain is intense, the heat is sweltering. I can’t open my eyes, can barely lift my right arm. I feel it with my left fingers. A thick filament tight around my forearm, stuck to my flesh. A spiderweb. I’m in a giant spiderweb. I scrape at the rope, but it won’t tear. It has to come off before the spider feels me moving. Get it off.
“Eric!” That same woman, yelling. Hands pin me down. Trap me in the web.
“Eric. Relax, man. Calm down.”
This voice I recognize, but it belongs to someone dead. We must be in Hell. I’m being punished in Hell because Hell is your worst fears. I’m here because I let everyone die. First Rachel and Cassie, then Maria and babies and kids and a hundred innocent people. Dead because of me. And Sylvie’s dead, too.
I groan. Hear myself crying. Hot tears on my cheeks.
“Okay,” the woman says, “keep holding him. It’ll only take a minute.”
A minute until what? I want to ask. I’m already dead.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 41
