Loose Cannon

by Sidney Bell

“It won’t be long,” Kellen agreed. “Hours, probably.”

  “Hours, then.”

  * * *

  When Miller stumbled out of the car and began running toward the workshop, Church cursed and dropped his phone, following as fast as his bruised ribs and sore muscles would let him. For a moment he thought he’d be forced to tackle Miller to keep him from getting burned, but he ran out of steam only a few steps later. He was gasping, his expression so raw and open that it hurt to look at him.

  “Church,” he said helplessly, and all the will seemed to go out of him. Church took his hand to tow him back to the rental car, picking up his phone as he went and resuming his conversation with the 911 operator, and Miller followed like a child, silent and obedient, climbing up to sit on the trunk where Church told him to. If it weren’t for Church’s hand knotted in Miller’s jacket collar, he thought Miller might’ve slumped to his knees in the snow.

  The firemen arrived not long after, sirens screeching, their radios full of static as they yelled to one another over the roar of the blaze. Church hadn’t known how loud fire could be. They uncoiled hoses and brought blankets and asked questions that Miller wasn’t following, so Church answered for him.

  It seemed to last forever.

  By the time the flames were under control, the workshop was almost entirely gone. The air reeked of damp wood and sharp heat, bitter in Church’s nostrils, burning his throat. Rage coiled dark and brutal and thick under his skin. He wanted to smash faces—Vasily’s, Mama’s, hell, even his own. Anyone who had a part in hurting Miller like this.

  He was stroking the back of Miller’s neck with his thumb and glancing out over the growing crowd of fucking rubbernecking assholes when he saw her.

  He couldn’t place her at first: young, dark hair, skinny, her expression sick, her cheeks bright, bright red. She stood on the far edge of the parking lot, near the low cement wall that separated the workshop property from the place next door, a good hundred feet from the nearest fireman, and twice that distance from Church. Her hands were knotted into fists at her sides. Her mouth hung open, in shock, maybe, or fear.

  He frowned, trying to figure out where he knew her from, and that was when she looked at him. She looked at him, and he looked at her. Her gaze slid past him to land on Miller and hovered briefly.

  She ran for it.

  Church lurched in her direction, instinctively drawn to follow, only to stop short as he realized who she was.

  Miller peered up at Church with dark, shadow-bruised eyes. “Are you leaving?” he asked, bewildered, and Church swallowed hard.

  “No,” he said clumsily, since his tongue wasn’t working so good all of a sudden. He couldn’t breathe. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe. He put his hand back on Miller’s nape, tugging him closer again, and Miller slumped against him, his gaze on the charred, tumbled walls of the workshop.

  It made sense now. The anger of the vandalism, the timing. Rebecca Kontakte wouldn’t have been old enough to make sense of the attack when it happened, but she’d be fifteen now, wouldn’t she? Old enough for this kind of anger. Old enough to hate. Church could see how she might think he got off easy, especially since her father’s injuries left him an addict and tore up her family.

  He wanted to punch the car. Wouldn’t mind breaking his hand at this point. If he’d only figured it out sooner, he could’ve done this differently. Could’ve found a way to make things right.

  Sorry, he would tell her. I didn’t mean to. I was angry.

  He’d have said it on his knees if he’d thought of it. He’d been where she was. He knew what it felt like to see a parent suffer, knew the way it made your guts sticky with tar that you couldn’t help because you were just a stupid kid.

  He knew the way rage made you its bitch.

  She’d looked scared, though.

  She might’ve been angry when she’d struck the match, but the size of it had scared the shit out of her. The sirens and the damage had brought her back from wherever she’d gone that’d made this seem like the right choice.

  If Church told the cops that Rebecca Kontakte had committed arson to get back at the man who’d hurt her father, she’d end up in the system, much as Church himself had. It would follow her for the rest of her life, permanently change the kind of person she’d grow up to be. She’d probably be taken away from her family, from the father who’d already paid more to Church than he should’ve had to. Church owed George Kontakte more than this. Maybe, he thought, he owed Rebecca more too.

  But Miller.

  Miller didn’t owe anyone jack shit.

  He didn’t deserve to have his truck covered in filth and slurs, didn’t deserve to have his home and sense of safety violated, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve to have his dream ruined so viciously.

  He was innocent and good, and Rebecca Kontakte had spit on him because of Church.

  Shame choked him. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit it, but he’d promised he wouldn’t lie anymore.

  He forced himself to say, “I saw her. Rebecca Kontakte. She’s his daughter.”

  “Daughter...who? Who are you talking—”

  “The guy I beat up. His daughter was here. It was her. The window, all of it.”

  Miller closed his eyes briefly. “Oh.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Church whispered. “But it’ll stop now. Okay? I’ll tell the cops and it’ll be done.”

  It’d be easy. There were cops all over. Some were holding back the crowd, a few were talking to firemen, and a couple were sort of loitering and watching. He could talk to any one of them, even if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Fuck, he wished he could do this differently. He wished she’d done this differently. Wished she’d come at him directly instead of hurting Miller. Church could’ve forgiven her that.

  Miller nodded, gaze dull as he stared at the blackened wreck of his workshop.

  Church waited with him, taking occasional glances at Miller in concern. The corners of his mouth were heavy and slack. His broad shoulders curled inward, his hands limp in his lap. Church felt disloyal for wishing he could’ve helped Rebecca Kontakte.

  He would’ve given anything to hold Miller. To say he was sorry with his hands and body as much as his words. But there were people around, and it would only upset Miller more. It was a tiny thing to give him, Church keeping himself from reaching out, but if it was the only thing he could do—

  “You don’t want to,” Miller said. “Turn her in, I mean.”

  “You come first,” Church said flatly.

  “That’s not—I—thank you. But you don’t want to.”

  Church winced, ashamed by the impulse to agree. He repeated, “You come first.”

  Miller closed his eyes. “Would you—Shut up. I’m not...you’re right to—Church. It’s...it’s the kind of man you... I told you that you were...”

  “I’m so lost right now, dude,” Church blurted. “You’ve gotta, like, complete a sentence here.”

  “How old is she?”

  “I don’t know. Em’s age, I guess. Fourteen? Fifteen? Why?”

  For a very long time, Miller didn’t say anything. Finally, he asked, “Can you make her stop without turning her in?”

  “What?” Church asked.

  “Maybe you could talk to her father again? You should—that’s what you want, right? Can you do it? You should do it, if you can.”

  And Church—

  Church had heard people talk about their hearts stopping, but he’d always thought it was the sort of crap that belonged in date movies. It never actually happened to anyone. That would kill you, wouldn’t it?

  Well, turned out it did happen. And it did kill you, in a way. Everything about him, the meat parts anyway, just stopped, because there wasn’t enough energy in the universe to ke
ep his body going while this...this new thing took him over.

  “I love you,” Church said, the words wrenched out of him, and he was instantly frustrated with them. They were way too small, those words, empty and clumsy compared to this feeling burning in him, this living, breathing force taking up all the space where his guts used to be, where his heart used to beat. There was nothing else in him that moved or existed, nothing but...but...awe.

  He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. It wasn’t like Miller didn’t have a history of this sort of thing. It wasn’t like Miller had never given an idiot teenage wannabe burglar something to eat and a couch to sleep on.

  “I love you,” he said again, low and guttural. “I can’t even—I love you.”

  Miller’s brow creased. “Yeah, I love you too.”

  “No, you don’t get it.” Fuck, he was useless. He should’ve learned some poetry or something, should’ve known that one day he’d need a way to make it clear. It was Miller, and Church should’ve been ready for this, for the moment when everything fell short of what Church needed it to be when he offered it up.

  He wanted to kiss Miller so bad that his whole body ached for it, but he couldn’t. He remembered Miller’s reaction the last time they kissed outside, and that was the last thing Church wanted right now.

  Whatever his face looked like seemed to tell the story, though, because Miller’s confusion cleared. He squeezed Church’s hand. “It’s okay. That’s how it feels for me too.”

  And then he kissed Church. In front of a dozen firemen and a crowd of strangers. In plain view of the street. In public, Miller kissed him.

  If his heart had been beating, it would’ve stopped all over again.

  Miller tasted salty and smoke-tinged and sad, but it was the best kiss of Church’s life. He grabbed on, held on, kissed back with everything he had.

  Right now, even with the creosote-soaked air pressing down on them, that felt like a lot.

  * * *

  Once Miller had promised Church a dozen times that he’d be fine on his own, Church had gone to see George Kontakte, and Miller didn’t have anything to do but sit on the trunk of the rental car for half an hour or so until the biggest fire truck rolled out. Only a few stragglers were left to rubberneck by that point, so the cops were wrapping up, as well. Miller watched them with disinterest.

  It was easier than watching the firemen poke through the remains of his workshop.

  The loss was a tearing, vicious wound inside of him, and later, when he’d had a chance to adjust, he would think about all the ways this wasn’t world-ending. He had insurance, so even though it’d eat up time and money, he’d be able to rebuild and live with it. He wasn’t there yet, though. He’d loved this building, this thing that he was making for himself with Church at his side. Right now it was all he could do to keep his temper and grief at bay so he didn’t do something rash, like track down a fifteen-year-old to yell at her for being stupid. Tempting though it sounded.

  It was weird. He wanted to rail at everyone and everything, but at the same time, he was so proud of Church for wanting to help the girl that it almost hurt. He didn’t mind the way Church had looked at him when he’d said Church should try to help her, either.

  Helping the girl was the right thing to do, Miller was sure. He knew himself well enough to know he’d forgive her eventually. He just didn’t want to think about it anymore yet.

  A fireman walked over, lifting a hand in sober greeting. He wore slacks and a white shirt under his yellow-and-black coat, and he carried a clipboard. “You’re the owner, right? Got some stuff for you to sign so we can get you out of here.”

  Miller started to respond, then hesitated, his attention caught by an SUV loitering a few spaces away with the engine running. The man inside was broad-faced and dark-haired and talking emphatically on a cell phone. Nothing untoward there, except that the man had a dingy bandage across the bridge of his nose, which was swollen and purple beneath his eyes, and he was staring at Miller with shocking intensity as he barked at whoever he was speaking to.

  The fireman cleared his throat. Miller turned away from the SUV driver and said, “Yeah, I’m the owner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Half an hour later, Miller walked into a silent house, paused in the still emptiness, and then promptly walked outside again, this time into the backyard to the mammoth shed.

  The inside looked like a ghost town. Only a few tabletop machines remained, and extension cords dead-ended uselessly from beneath strips of duct tape on the floor. Most of his best tools had been at the workshop, although a few of his secondhand things remained. His books were all still here, as well as his how-to videos, most of which were on VHS they were so old.

  He’d bought a new, larger lathe and stand for the workshop. The cast-iron parts of each might have survived the fire, although he doubted the electrical components would be salvageable. The motor and switchgear were probably toast.

  But his old lathe was here. Smaller and less expensive, it was hardly commercial quality, but it’d get the job done. Miller selected a blank bit of lumber, hardly caring if it was fully seasoned; it wasn’t like he’d be selling whatever he made. He eyeballed the placement rather than measuring, checked the speed and got the blank mounted. After rolling up his sleeves, he put on his ventilated face shield, grabbed a roughing gouge and got to work.

  He started by turning rows of beads, then cutting into the cylindrical sections to produce fillets and coves so that the blank piece of wood became a chair leg.

  After fifteen minutes, he took off his face shield and stopped the lathe, inspecting the work. It wasn’t uneven or anything. He was far too experienced to produce work that sloppy, no matter how frustrated and distracted he was, but it was unimpressive. He started over with a fresh blank, turning the workpiece down to smaller and smaller diameters, testing himself with increasingly delicate work. When that piece was so thin that it snapped, he started over.

  Again and again, until his hands ached from the vibration and he was sweaty behind his mask, because it wasn’t helping. He got more frustrated instead of less.

  He kept looking at the clock.

  Church had left Miller the rental car, so he’d had to go by bus. It could take forever to get across the city if you had to transfer routes, but he should be almost to Kontakte’s place by now. Miller wondered how the other man would accept Church’s explanation. Maybe he wouldn’t believe Church. Maybe he’d think it was another attack, this time at one of his kids.

  It was with a chunk of sassafras that Miller finally paid for his incaution.

  Because he hadn’t bothered to inspect the ends of the workpiece before selecting it, he hit a crack with the skew chisel and a whole shoulder split away as the tool caught on a poor angle, jumping in his grip. He didn’t react in time, and his form had been shitty to begin with, so he wasn’t shocked by the bright red blood spilling over the knuckles of his left hand.

  He used his knee to press the button that stopped the lathe, knocked the face shield off, and went to the first aid kit. He hadn’t restocked it in ages, but there were a few packets of gauze left. He tore a few open and pressed them to the cut.

  He felt downright stupid. He hadn’t turned wood this badly since his father died.

  That was it, he realized. He was grieving.

  “Are you all right?”

  He startled, turning to see a girl standing in the doorway of the shed. She was about Em’s age, wearing jeans and a heavy coat, her dark hair long and loose around her shoulders, her face bare of makeup and still round with baby fat.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Rebecca Kontakte. My father is the man that Edgar attacked.”

  He closed his eyes and breathed as the rush of red fury slammed into him.

  This was new, and he took a momen
t to parse it out. He’d admit he could be a cranky bastard, but anger this overwhelming and alive, as if it could take over his body if he allowed it to, was alien. He didn’t get mad like this. Before now, he’d have said he didn’t have it in him.

  The sensation was powerful in a way that felt downright good, but it also terrified him. He didn’t want to feel this way, like he was owned by some outside force, made to do things which would cost him his decency. Miller’s heartbeat throbbed in his temples as he stood there, struck dumb by twin impulses—to hurt her like she’d hurt him, and also to forgive her so he could keep himself.

  Was this what anger felt like to Church? Was this what Church’s father felt before he swung at his mother? Miller had told Church to take care of it without turning her in, but that’d been easier before she was here, tangible and confronting him with the reality that his pain had been consciously inflicted. She was a scared kid, sure, but she’d also cut Miller to the quick.

  He could smell the creosote on her clothes.

  It took a minute or two before he dared to look at her again.

  “Pretty bold move, coming here,” he managed.

  She shifted her weight a few times, peering out into the yard as if she wished she were anywhere else but here. Then she squared her shoulders. “I came to apologize.”

  He laughed, low and bitter.

  Her heart-shaped face scrunched up. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said. “I just wanted to make Edgar see what he’d done.”

  “It’s Edgar-Allen. Not that it matters. He goes by his last name.” The gauze was soaked through by now, and he clenched his fingers to hold the sodden mess in place. Or maybe he couldn’t help making a fist. “What am I supposed to do with you? It’s a serious crime, what you did, you know that, right?”

  She swallowed, her bottom lip trembling. “I know.” Her voice wobbled, but her chin rose. “I figured. But it’s the right thing, isn’t it? Coming to apologize?”

  “The right thing would’ve been not burning my fucking workshop down in the first place,” he gritted out, and she flinched. It made him feel like a bastard, seeing a teenager—a child, really—physically recoil from him.