by Sidney Bell
“You should go,” he said, more gently. “I don’t want to scare you, but to be honest I’m not—I won’t hurt you, but I’m not really in control of myself, at the moment, and I might say things I don’t—”
“We should clean that up,” she murmured, jerking her chin at his hand. Blood dripped onto the floor. He didn’t move, and she reached out, brushing her fingers on his shirtsleeve, light as a whisper, not daring to actually touch him.
He turned on his heel and led the way out of the shed and through the back door into the kitchen.
“Do you have a better first aid kit?” she asked.
He glanced around, not sure where it was, and she rolled her eyes and grabbed paper towels from the counter instead. She wrapped a wad around his fingers and squeezed hard.
“Ow,” he muttered, and she gave him a fleeting, apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I learned it in health class. Direct pressure will stop all but the very worst bleeding. Here, hold it up. Over your head. Gravity helps. Keeps the blood near the internal organs to help keep you from going into shock.” She bit her lip. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? That’s—I do that sometimes, and—no, put your hand up. Up.”
Feeling ridiculous, Miller put his hand in the air. “It’s a cut. I’m not going into shock.”
“Right. Sorry. I get bossy sometimes too. That’s what my dad says.”
He sat at the breakfast bar, propping his arm up on the counter like a kid waiting for a teacher to call on him. She stayed in the kitchen, hands jammed into her back pockets. Now that she had nothing to do, she was back to eyeing the door like she wanted to run for it.
“So how was all of that gonna go down?” Miller asked. “You said you wanted to scare him?”
Her brown eyes welled up. “I wanted him to know what he’s done. I was waiting inside, and when he came in, I was going to say that if he didn’t want me to start the fire, he’d have to listen. I wasn’t going to actually do it. The gas can was so heavy, though—”
“You realize we could’ve been inside? You could’ve killed one of us. You could’ve been killed.”
“I know.”
“Is getting back at him worth that?”
“He ruined everything!” she cried, wiping her cheeks. “He deserves to pay!”
Miller sat back and considered her. The whole cycle seemed clear suddenly, and it left him tired. “You remind me of Church. Wanting to be good but angry enough that it takes over everything else.”
The flash of rage on her face distorted her features. “I am nothing like him,” she said loudly. “If you knew what he’d—”
“Oh, pull your head out of your ass and think for two damn seconds.”
Stung, she jerked back.
“I know it’s easier if he’s a bad guy without any redeeming qualities,” Miller snapped, “because then you don’t have to feel guilty for paying him back. But the truth is, you’re following the same path he did. He let his anger drive his actions, and he ruined something he shouldn’t have ruined.”
He tried to rein his own anger in, but had little success. “When he realized what he’d done, he set out to pay for it. He called the ambulance, and he sat down and waited for the cops to show. Doesn’t seem all that different from you losing control and burning down a building, only to show up here to apologize.”
Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. Two livid splotches of red rose on her cheeks. Finally, she said, “I have to protect my dad. He’s been through enough.”
“Don’t lie,” Miller said, not unkindly. “I mean, I believe that your dad’s had a rough road, but this isn’t about protecting him. This is about you hurting Church because he hurt your family. It’s understandable. It’s human—”
“You don’t know—”
“—but if you really wanted to protect your father you wouldn’t be pulling this shit. What do you think it’d do to him to see you in jail? To see you go down that road, messing up your life? You think that wouldn’t tear him up? He might even blame himself, and it doesn’t sound like he deserves that.”
She stared at the wall. Her narrow shoulders heaved with ragged breaths.
A small pool of pity welled up in him. He knew about the need to protect a father, and it was more imperative, somehow, when that father was flawed, because then the vulnerabilities became impossible to ignore. He knew too, how it felt to be forced to think past his own anger to what was right, to do as his parents, imperfect but determined to be decent, would expect him to do. It’d been easier with Church. Breaking in and stealing a TV hadn’t hurt like losing his workshop, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t coming up with the same answer. Things were replaceable, lives were not, and there was only one choice. Or, rather, there was only one choice he could live with.
“You hungry?” he asked wearily. “You like eggs?”
She frowned, seemingly bewildered by the change in topic, and he almost smiled. He was pretty sure that was exactly the look that Church had aimed his way at that question.
* * *
By the time they were done eating, Miller had a better picture of the Kontakte household after Church’s attack. There’d always been alcohol around, too much, but the pills were what pushed her mother out of the house, Rebecca explained. She and her sisters spent as much time with him as they could, but she knew her dad was lonely, knew he worried about all of them. He sounded sad on the phone sometimes. She thought of him alone in that house, in pain, unable to open his pill bottles because his hands shook too much, unable to drive because of the nerve damage, unable to work because too much activity made his limbs even more spastic. And since she was a kid and had roughly zero control over her life, she couldn’t force her mother to let her move back in with her dad.
She picked at the edge of her plate with a thumbnail. “Why are you being nice to me? I mean, you didn’t call the cops. You’re letting me eat your food.”
“Well, if you ask Church or my sister, it’s because I’m that kind of dumbass. But I...” He thought about it for a minute, then added, “I think that’s my father coming out in me. He believed—strongly—in doing his best for other people. It made him rigid in some ways, but even if it meant sacrificing his own needs, even if it wasn’t popular, he tried. He wasn’t always good at it, but he never stopped trying.”
“That sounds like my dad,” she said. “He never stops trying either.”
“That’s all you can ask of someone.”
“What happens now?”
“Church and I decided we weren’t going to turn you in as long as you knock off pulling this shit—”
“I will. I promise.”
“—so we settled on just telling your dad. He’s probably about done getting the full story from Church by now.”
Her expression turned to terror the way only a busted teenager’s face could.
“You’re getting off easy,” Miller reminded her.
She swallowed. “I, um, should probably go home now.”
“Probably.”
She got to her feet and made a weird stuttering motion, like she’d thought about hugging him but killed the impulse.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “And thanks.”
She hurried out the back door so quickly that he didn’t even get a chance to explain that he also had a front door.
After he cleaned up the dishes, he wandered into the living room. The clock said it was barely after ten, and it already felt like the longest day he’d lived since his father died.
He found his phone and looked Church up in his contacts. He might as well pick him up so he didn’t have to ride the bus home. Miller was still trying to decide if he should text or risk interrupting by calling when the knock on the door came, so he didn’t think to check the peephole.
Stupid.
In fact, it wasn’t until he saw the guy from the SUV with the bandaged nose from earlier and the three men standing behind him that Miller’s attention shifted to the here and now. One of the guys looked bored, the second was handsome with shrewd eyes, and the third was huge with a dumb expression on his face.
Before Miller had the door open all the way, they were on him, shoving their way inside. Startled, he pushed instinctively away, but it was too late. Before he fully realized what was happening, the big guy had already slipped behind him and grabbed his arms.
“What the hell?” Miller gasped, trying to wrench free and making zero progress.
“Bad day,” the big one said sympathetically into his ear, and the handsome guy snapped, “Yasha, for crying out loud.”
“Shut up, both of you,” SUV guy said, closing the door behind him. “Grisha, go close the blinds.”
The bored guy—Grisha—exchanged a look with the handsome one and said, “Vasya...”
“Do it.”
Grisha shrugged and went to the window.
Church had mentioned the Russian nickname thing, so Grisha’s use of Vasya had Miller suspecting that SUV guy was Vasily Krayev. Miller watched as he took off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa. Sweat beaded at his temples and darkened the bandage across the bridge of his nose. A gun dangled from his hand, ready at his side, not that he needed it. With Yasha gripping Miller’s arms from behind, the shrewd, handsome one hovering nearby and Grisha in the corner blocking the way to the kitchen and the back door, Miller wasn’t going anywhere.
“If you’re looking for Church, he isn’t here,” Miller said.
“He’ll be back.”
“No, I mean he took off this morning. For good. Stiffed me on some money too.”
Vasily shook his head and peered out the window again. “Saw you making out on the street. Wouldn’t ditch his boyfriend, would he? No, he’s coming back.”
Miller’s stomach turned over. Part of it was predictable, tight-wound tension at the idea that Vasily knew what he and Church were to each other, that Vasily knew Miller was gay.
Larger than the fear, though, was the pleasure that speared through Miller at the sound of boyfriend. He was Church’s boyfriend, and hearing it should’ve been a wholly nice moment.
The urge to tell Vasily to fuck off for ruining it was irresistible. “You don’t know a thing about me or him,” Miller said.
Vasily moved so fast that Miller didn’t see the gun before it struck him in the mouth.
For a second all his nerves seemed to be in shock, like they didn’t know what to do with that much pain. Then the agony bloomed, red and hot and throbbing, radiating up from his jaw through his temples and into his skull. Blood welled up where he’d cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth.
“Be respectful.” Vasily resumed pacing, tapping the gun against his thigh as if tempted to hit Miller again. “You don’t know what he’s cost me. Him and that—that whore.”
It hurt to speak. “What do you want?”
“You know Ghost?”
“I met him once. He doesn’t give a shit about me, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s not going to care that you came here.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” Vasily gave Miller a nasty smile. “Where’s your phone, boyfriend? We’re gonna make a call.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
After taking two buses across town, and having to kill almost twenty minutes waiting for the second one to show, Church was lifting his hand to knock on George Kontakte’s door when his phone buzzed. Miller. Probably wanted to give him an update or offer to pick him up later.
Either one could wait.
“What the hell are you doing back here?” George Kontakte said, keeping the screen door closed in front of him. He wore a robe and slippers. What was left of his hair stood out all over like baby-duck down. “Nice bruises. So much for changing your ways, huh?”
Standing on the guy’s porch with the lukewarm morning sunshine on his back, Church said, “We need to talk about Rebecca.”
“You don’t say a word about my daughter, you little—”
“She set a building on fire today, man. Just let me come in so we can figure out a way to keep her from trashing her life, okay?”
Kontakte’s fingers closed convulsively on the door’s handle as if he’d rather give up a hand than let Church back into his house. It made the cheap screen rattle on its hinges. After another minute spent staring at Church, he nudged the thing open.
* * *
“No answer,” Vasily said, making Miller slump with relief, at least until he continued, “We’ll have to make sure the message is compelling then.”
He nodded at Grisha, who straightened from where he’d leaned against the wall. “Vasya. Are you sure—”
“She says she wants Ghost, I’m gonna get Ghost, and then we’ll see who doesn’t know how to—”
“All right, all right,” Grisha muttered. “Calm down.” He looked at the shrewd brother, who lifted his eyebrows a hair and jerked a shoulder an inch, as if to say, Hell if I know.
Vasily was leaving a voice mail as they hauled Miller behind the breakfast bar. He struggled but Yasha seemed unimpressed by his efforts. He only grunted, “Seryozha, take his other arm, huh?”
The shrewd, good-looking brother—Seryozha—latched on to Miller’s left arm like a leech and tugged, freeing Yasha to force Miller’s right hand down flat on the counter.
“Gonna want to breathe through it,” Yasha said into Miller’s ear as his grip tightened.
“Shit,” Miller whispered, fighting hard and making zero progress. He told himself not to scream because he didn’t want Church to hear and freak out, but panic crawled under his skin and he wasn’t sure he had it in him. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Make sure it’s loud enough to carry.” Vasily held the phone up to Miller’s face.
Grisha slammed his gun down on Miller’s fingers. Miller managed to keep his mouth shut, although a low, rough groan escaped. It was hard to care when his hand was one enormous, throbbing wound where it rested on the counter. There was no blood, but it was already swelling.
“Jesus,” he gasped, and Yasha jostled him sympathetically, which only made it worse.
“He wasn’t loud enough. Again,” Vasily said to the room in general.
“Vasya,” Grisha said slowly. “You sure this is—”
“Mama put me in charge! Church knows where Ghost is. That’s all we need. We get him here and Church will tell us, and then I’ll tell her, I’ll show her, and she can know what it feels like to have someone treat you like an idiot child—”
Vasily kept muttering. Miller tuned him out because Grisha was sighing and shaking his head and turning to face the counter, the gun lifting once more.
Miller braced himself.
* * *
There weren’t any cookies this time. There was just George Kontakte’s face clenching while Church poured the whole story out—the window, the truck, the egged house, seeing her at the workshop. Kontakte sat in the same squat recliner, rocking at a pace that had the springs twinging softly. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They were on his thighs one second, on the arms of the chair the next, then folded in his lap.
“I can’t believe she’d do this,” he said, only a trace of fight in his tone. It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to.
“She loves you,” Church said.
The shadow of a smile crossed Kontakte’s lips. “Yeah, I guess the brat does at that. I’ll talk to her. I’ll make her stop.”
“All right.”
“She won’t come after you again. You don’t—you don’t have to tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Kontakte licked his lips. “You’re
only doing this because you owe me.”
“Probably. I don’t know. Miller’s doing it because it’s the right thing, though.”
They sat there for a little while, neither of them talking. Church wasn’t sure if he should stay or go, and Kontakte wasn’t giving him any cues. He seemed lost in thought. Eventually, though, he said, “Unless she messes up again, you don’t have to come back.”
“Okay.” Church decided that was that. As he passed behind the recliner, it stopped rocking abruptly.
“Hey, kid?”
He glanced at the back of Kontakte’s head—he could see pink scalp beneath the thin hair. It looked strangely vulnerable, especially in contrast to the clawed grip he had on the armrest. “Yeah?”
“We’re square now.”
“Not really,” Church replied. “But it’s nice of you to say.”
He shut the screen door firmly behind him.
* * *
“Maybe we should call him again,” Grisha suggested when twenty minutes had gone by without a response. He sounded bored and irritated at the same time. “Maybe we didn’t make it loud enough the first time.”
“He’s got two hands,” Yasha pointed out. He glanced apologetically at Miller, who didn’t protest. He wasn’t sure he could make the words come. He was sitting on the carpet, legs straight out in front of him, cradling his hand as gingerly as he could. He’d lost his knees when the gun came down on his broken fingers the second time, and Yasha had dumped him on the floor rather than hold him up. He wasn’t sure if he’d screamed or not. The pain had killed his awareness of everything else. He thought he probably had, if only because his throat hurt. Sweat dripped from his temples as he swallowed convulsively and tried not to puke. He doubted they’d let him go to the bathroom.
He hoped Francis Bacon was scared enough by the sounds he’d made that the cat would stay hidden.
On the plus side, they seemed to think all the fight had gone out of him. Grisha still blocked the kitchen and back door, but from time to time Vasily wandered toward the picture window to peer out at the street, leaving the front door exposed. The dead bolt had a thumb turn, so in theory the only thing stopping him from escape was his ability to get the door unlocked and open before anyone grabbed him.
