Kearney clears his throat in my doorway. “We’ll leave at first light, Guillermo. Temp’s still at thirty-one.”
“Cool,” Guillermo says. “I’m ready.”
Kearney gives me his classic single nod, says, “Eric,” and disappears. I stare after him. The man is a mystery. An unsmiling mystery.
“Bro,” Guillermo says, leaning close, “Joe had me bugging out for the first month I was here. Every time he came into the room, I’d start reaching for my gun.” He bangs a hand at his side, eyes frantic, like he’s searched his holster and come up empty.
I laugh. “He’s different.”
“You’re telling me. But he’s all right. More than all right. He hates asking for help, trusting people, and he knows that’s half the reason all this happened. One visit to us—a conversation—we would’ve known about Walt, and…” He smashes a fist into the palm of his other hand, then he raises them both. “Now we have to do it the hard way.”
“But we’re going to do it.”
“Fuck, yeah, we’ll do it.” He stands with his bowl and takes my tray. “That’s why you need to get better.”
“Working on it.”
“Took me months, man. Don’t push it.”
I nod as he leaves. He’ll be back later, I’m sure. Guillermo takes care of people, and he’s my one-man cheering-up committee. I run a hand down Bird’s back. “Want to help me write a note?”
I manage to move myself from under Bird without disturbing his sleep, then take a pad and pen from my desk and sit in the chair. He follows to sit on the desk’s surface. Figures I’d spend five minutes trying not to disrupt him only to have him get up anyway. He playfully taps my pen with his paw, then nibbles on the cap. “You want to write it?” I ask.
You don’t realize how much you talk to an animal when they’re with you all the time. I used to tease Sylvie about it, and here I am, asking a damn cat if he wants to write a letter.
I wiggle the pen to make him pounce, then wrestle with him for a minute before I brush black cat hairs off the notepaper and start again. I want to write down what happened, tell her I love her, and pour four weeks of worry onto the page. But if one of Walt’s people finds it in the park, or finds it on Guillermo, it’ll contain too much information.
“This is when secret codes come in handy,” I say. Bird bats the pen a couple of times, and I pet his head to distract him. “We’ll play again in a minute.”
I don’t have to write a lot. She knows my handwriting, and I doubt the Vale of Cashmere is a hotbed of note-leaving. Finally, I write: At Annunciation. Love you.
Fifteen minutes of deliberation for four words. “Move over, Shakespeare,” I say to Bird. “Eric’s in town.”
I swear the cat rolls his eyes.
Guillermo came straight to my room when they returned tonight. The zombies were already thawing, but it could be a good sign—the first freeze was early, and we might be in for a cold winter.
“I put your note there,” Guillermo says. “I couldn’t tell what rock was what. I tried, though. And we found that boot for Anaya, so she can get the cast off you soon.”
“I’m sure the note’s fine,” I say. “Thank you for that, and for the boot. It’s good news.”
“Best news is that they didn’t leave a lot of people at SPSZ. I mean, they’re up there, and they have our guns, but in most spots where they used to have two guys, there’s only one.” He sits in my chair. “Joe thinks we should try for it next freeze, but I said we’re going to the city.”
I blink away the tears that form. Since I’ve been reduced to a convalescent, every emotion, whether good or bad, sits closer to the surface. If I’m angry, I’m livid. Touched, I cry. Relieved, I melt. Frustrated, and it’s a good thing I no longer have a gun to call my own.
“Thanks, G,” I say.
“Hey, I want to go, too. I know Micah will look out for Rissa, but we need to get there.”
I’ve wondered how much to tell him about his sister, and now I figure why the hell not. “Something you should know. She and Micah…they might be a thing at some point. They could be already.”
Guillermo absorbs this bit of information while stroking his chin. “Micah? You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Sylvie says your sister’s been in love with him for a while.”
“Isn’t he twenty-two?”
He doesn’t look particularly displeased, but he’s overprotective of Rissa to the point that Micah might end up with a fist in his face if Guillermo thinks he’s taken advantage of her. “Micah’s the one who’s holding off.”
His eyebrows come down. “Why? What’s wrong with my sister?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her,” I say, hiding my smile. “I think he’s half scared you’ll rise from the dead to come after him. I thought you’d be mad, too.”
“Nah, I love Micah. I just never thought…” He slaps his leg. “Fucking Micah. That kid, man. Once upon a time, I thought he’d be the first to go, and now he’s Rico Suave and shit.”
“Rissa’s grown up a lot, too. You’d be surprised. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“Who do you think put it there? I had to be like a dad to her. I know I went a little crazy, but I didn’t want her pushing a baby carriage around Sunset Park when she was sixteen.”
“Don’t worry, I think Sylvie had the birth control talk with her, just in case.”
Guillermo grabs his forehead. “Don’t. I don’t want to think about it. Micah and Rissa…” He throws his head side to side, groaning, and I laugh hard enough that my liver complains. He stops his antics and grins. “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you guys.”
I can’t say I’m glad I’m here, especially not like this. But Guillermo, alive, is truly a miracle. “We missed you, too.”
68
Sylvie
After bomb clean-up yesterday, our enthusiasm for blasting people into small chunks has dampened somewhat. Denise wiped off the Earth, however, is something I can’t regret. I offered Indy the holster, though she insisted I wear it. I’ve had it on ever since. Between Eric’s knife and Grace’s holster, my belt has become a reliquary for people I’ve lost.
Indy lies on a couch, staring listlessly at the ceiling of The Box. We spent last night mourning for Grace and Eli, and we spent this morning performing chemistry while the thawed zombies shuffled back into position. We’re laying low in case Walt and company are out looking for their friends. “This is the longest day ever,” she says. “What time is it?”
“It’s beer o’clock,” Paul says.
He sets a case of cans on one of our tables. If my feet didn’t hurt, I’d join the others who are on their way to inspect it as though Paul just produced a unicorn. “How?” Indy asks.
“Leo and I went out when you were all gone. Found it in an apartment.” Indy puts her hands on her hips, and Paul mimics her pose with a smirk. “The Lexers were frozen. I can do what I want with my kid. I guess you don’t want any, then.”
He pulls a can from the case and cracks it open, sniffs the rim, and then takes a long gulp. When Indy reaches for one, he slams a hand over hers and traps her under his arm, then raises his can to his mouth while she beats at him ineffectually.
“Sure is delicious,” he says. “Help yourselves.”
Julie and Chris are first to partake, followed by everyone else. Paul has root beer for Jorge and Leo, which he pulls from a bag while he holds Indy hostage. After another minute of her screeching, Paul releases his arm and hands her a beer.
“Jerk,” she says, then drinks from her can. “Thank you.”
Kate brings me a can before she sits on the couch. “I’d tell them to get a room, but we have plenty to choose from.”
I choke on my beer. “I’m not imagining things?”
“I don’t think so. I give them a few weeks to come to terms with it, and then we’ll all have to listen to them at night.”
I laugh at her wink. I like Kate. I like her in the way that I want her to sti
ck around. It’s dangerous, that feeling, because there are no guarantees. Especially when Walt wants her dead. “Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For talking me through panic attacks. For showing me how to blow things up. And for being kind of insane.”
“Finally,” she says. “Some acknowledgment of my many talents.”
“It takes a strong woman to laugh through this.”
“I hear you laughing through it, too. I know yesterday was rough. I barely slept last night.”
“Really?”
“One thing the Irish are good at—bottling up feelings.” She lifts her beer. “Or canning them up.” She smiles at Jorge, who’s taken a seat with his soda. “No beer for you?”
“Eleven years sober,” he says.
“My dad had twenty when he died, God bless him. As a kid, I spent many a weekend on a barstool, drinking Shirley Temples while he drank his beloved whiskey. I got his eyes and his temper, but that’s one thing I didn’t get from him.”
“Lucky,” Jorge says.
“I know it. Maybe it was all that time on barstools. But he cleaned up ten years before my mother died, and she got to have the husband she loved again. Not quite a storybook romance, but, then again, what is?”
“How about you and—” I stop myself too late.
“Declan?” Kate asks, smiling. “As storybook as it gets, complete with petty annoyances, misunderstandings, and the occasional fight. But more love than any of those, and that’s what matters. My mom died happy, and Da rested easy knowing that.”
“Was your mom from Ireland, too?” Jorge asks.
“No, Hell’s Kitchen born and raised.”
Kate continues, but I’m distracted by Brother David moving out the door with his coat. He’s been quiet today. Though he’s often contemplative, this is different. I excuse myself, grab a fluffy down parka, and join him where he leans on the terrace rail overlooking the High Line. The sun is out, though it provides no warmth, and I draw my jacket tighter.
“What’s up, Bucky?” I ask.
“I’m going to regret sharing that nickname,” Brother David says.
“Yes, you are. So, what’s the deal, Buckaroo?”
At my teasing, his eyes regain some of the life we blew out yesterday. “I was thinking of how nothing is simple.”
“True, but what exactly?”
“Was it okay to take five lives yesterday? When do you turn the other cheek and when do you show no mercy?”
“Denise was no good, you have to agree with that,” I say. “And the others, well, they were Walt’s. They chose it. Live by the sword, die by the sword, right?”
“But should we wield the sword?”
I shrug. I refuse to feel guilty when our mission is to save people who I know for a fact are innocent. “They won’t let us live peaceably, and therefore they need to go.”
“They died for the greater good? Our greater good?”
“Maybe,” I say. “They were a whole lot guiltier than Maria or Guillermo or Eric. Or kids and babies.”
“We can’t stand by and let him hurt more people. Unless something changes, or he changes.”
“Exactly.”
Brother David breathes deep and nods. “Thank you, Sylvia.”
“For what?”
“For being willing to talk about it with me. I know how badly you want to end this, and yet you’re willing to see it from every angle. To admit it’s not easy even though, by all rights, it should be.” He points down the tracks. “Roger’s coming.”
“Wonderful.” I’m relieved he’s back but annoyed he’s managed to show up during our one semi-celebratory moment.
“I think Roger wants to do the right thing, but he has a loyalty to his brother that goes beyond what we understand. He needs encouragement. He may not be strong enough to do it on his own.”
I watch Roger close in, my testiness increasing with every inch he travels. I want to encourage him to take a hike through a mob. “But then is he really doing the right thing?” I ask.
“Does that matter to you when all is said and done?”
I shake my head. All that matters is that we get our people out of StuyTown. “But it’s hard to trust someone like that.”
“Then don’t trust him. But it’s your encouragement that means the most. It’s your forgiveness that he wants.”
I think of what Indy once said. Whether it’s that Roger wants to curl up in my lap or get in my pants, I can’t deny that Brother David is right: Roger craves my approval. Maybe I’m working from a place of love and compassion, but I’m not sure it stretches that far. I’m no Brother David. “Why did you stay with Denise yesterday?” I ask.
“Everyone deserves love, even—and especially—the unlovable. She was someone’s child, and a child of God the same as any of us. And I did it because I didn’t want to.” I turn to him, surprised at his admission, and he offers a rueful smile. “Don’t look so shocked. Priests have anger, and we have egos. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Even Jesus was human.”
“Indeed.”
I kiss his bearded cheek, taking us both by surprise. My face is pink, although it was the most chaste kiss in the history of the universe, in thought and deed. Still, you know the world’s gone crackers when I’m kissing priests. “Thank you for being my moral compass,” I say, “even if I do try to spin you south all the time.”
Brother David chuckles. Roger makes his way to the terrace and shakes Brother David’s hand, then eyes my can of beer. “I’d offer you one,” I say, “but we don’t have enough.”
“You wouldn’t offer me one if you did,” he says.
“True.”
He drops his stuffed backpack with a heavy thump. “Haven’t had a drink for two days.”
“Congratulations.”
If Roger notices my sarcastic tone, he doesn’t let on. “Was that you guys yesterday? The trucks that went missing? Did you get the first trucks, too? With the zombies?” We answer with silence. He clears his throat. “Because Walt might send Micah on a run soon. You don’t want to hurt him.”
My breath catches. If we killed Micah accidentally, I’d never forgive myself. “Why? Isn’t he worried Micah will run away?”
“Walt knows he won’t leave the others in StuyTown, and that’s who’ll pay if he tries. My brother likes Micah, and Micah’s playing along.”
“He likes him?”
“Yeah, he says Micah reminds him of himself.”
I wonder how someone like Walt can see himself in Micah. He’s crazier than I thought. I only hope Micah can keep it up for however long he has to, which will likely be longer now that we can’t attack random vehicles.
“Is your brother letting people in?” Brother David asks. “If, say, one of us wanted to help from in there?”
“As long as you aren’t Kate, Louis, or Jorge, I think it’d be fine. Or if he knew you from…before and didn’t like you.”
I drink from my beer rather than scream at Roger that it’s insane how he lets his brother control him. Maybe his insulin leaves him no choice, but I wonder if he’d do the same if it wasn’t withheld. I need a cigarette to stick in my mouth to keep me from saying something horrible, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ask Roger for one.
“Is there a chance they can get out?” Brother David asks. “Truthfully?”
“I don’t know, with Elena’s two kids, and May’s, and then Jin and the others. There’s only one exit, and all the weapons are locked up. The manholes are welded shut.”
“How do you get out?”
“I’m allowed to leave when I want. He knows I won’t be gone for long without enough insulin.” Roger bends to his bag and sets a carton of cigarettes on a chair. “I brought you something, Sylvie. Figured you were jonesing.”
I scowl at the carton, annoyed that he has something I want. “Are those supposed to be an apology? A carton is the going rate for murder these days?”
Roger stills, his face turned to t
he ground, and then he sinks to a chair with his forehead in his hands. His initial sob is soft, and it’s followed by more until he shakes with them. I watch him dispassionately. So many tears, and still nowhere near as many as have been shed over the people his brother killed.
“I’m sorry, Sylvie,” he sobs. “If I could change everything, I swear I would. I should’ve let Eric leave while there was time. I know it’s my fault.”
His raw voice chips away at my wall of detachment, and Brother David’s beseeching gaze reminds me that Roger needs encouragement. Roger raises his head, eyes and cheeks hollow. “Just let me help. It won’t make up for anything, but I can do this. It’s the one thing I can do. Please.”
He does appear sorry, for whatever that’s worth. More importantly, I have to keep him coming back because we need him. He’s the only way to save our people, and that’s worth more than my pride or anger. I rip open the carton and sit in the chair. A minute later, I blow out my first drag and force myself to say, “Okay.”
He nods, sniffling, and pulls a black bandanna from his coat. Brother David rests a hand on my shoulder before he retreats into the building. Roger and I sit in silence while he pulls himself together. Finally, he reaches into his coat pocket and lights a smoke.
“Was that you yesterday?” he asks. I don’t answer, and he takes a long drag. “I just need to know if Denise will be back. If it’s a possibility, I’ll have to track her down and kill her myself.”
I snort. “Why?”
“The lady’s a ball of misery. I don’t know why my brother keeps her around, except that she enjoys putting people in their place. Too much.”
“Denise was at Sunset Park before she left for Sacred Heart. She was a truly horrible person.”
She helped kill my best friend. Even if I could mention Grace without tears, I’d never be able to explain the person she was and how much she meant to me. I don’t want to give Roger that piece of me, of my life, anyway.
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 47
