by Jack Heath
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I’ve heard enough divorce stories to know how the next few months must have gone.
‘It’s okay.’ She lifts her glass of soda. ‘I didn’t want to hurt him—he was a nice guy—but I just couldn’t keep going. So I moved out and lived with my folks for a bit, until I couldn’t stand my dad’s bitching about how I’d thrown my life away.’
‘Seems to me like you did the opposite.’
‘That’s what I said, right before I moved out. So…’ She leans back in her chair. ‘After McDonald’s fired you, what did you do?’
I blink, startled by the segue. ‘Uh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Lived on the streets for a while.’
‘Shit, really?’ Thistle says. ‘How long?’
‘Three years. Felt like longer.’
‘How did you get out of that?’
By stealing things and selling them. Cars. Drugs. Guns. I decide to skip that bit.
‘I went to the library and set up an online business,’ I say. ‘Solving puzzles for money.’
‘Puzzles?’
‘Yeah. Riddles, Rubik’s Cubes, jigsaws, whatever. People post them to me, I solve them and send them back.’
‘And people pay you to do that?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why?’
‘When you say you can solve any puzzle, people want to prove you wrong. Some of them are willing to bet money on it.’
‘So you make enough to live off?’
Only because half the payments come from Nigerians—and they’re really for credit card numbers, not puzzles. ‘Sure,’ I say again.
‘But you’re smart,’ she says. ‘You got skills. No offence, but isn’t there something better you could be doing?’
‘Ten million Americans are looking for work,’ I say. ‘Lots of them have college degrees and references. What chance have I got?’
‘None, if you don’t try,’ Thistle says. But she doesn’t sound as if she likes my odds.
The waiter returns to take our plates away. ‘Can I get you the dessert menu?’ he asks.
Thistle looks at me.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I lie. Now that Thistle has turned her focus to my life, I’m keen for the meal to end. The less she knows about me, the better. Why was I so open? I’ve been careless.
‘No thanks,’ she tells the waiter.
‘Coffee?’ he presses.
‘Just the check.’
He nods and walks away, probably hoping the next occupants of this table will be less tight.
‘I would like a coffee,’ Thistle whispers. ‘But it’s so expensive here. How about we move on?’
I look out the window at the glimmering stars. ‘Will anywhere be open?’
Thistle shrugs. ‘Your place or mine?’
I should say no thanks. Tell her I’ve got too many puzzles to do. But the idea of her seeing my house, of having an FBI agent drinking coffee in a kitchen in which a dead body is currently concealed, is so alarming that I panic.
‘Yours,’ I say immediately. It just slips out.
•
Thistle’s house is even smaller than mine, but the neighbourhood is better. I’m not seeing any bars on windows, and none of the letterboxes bear dents from baseball bats.
‘You live alone?’ I ask as she pulls into the driveway.
‘I have a roommate. She’s in Florida visiting her mom.’
I’m both relieved and worried. I don’t like meeting new people, but I don’t like being alone with Thistle, either. She’s dangerous to me, and I’m dangerous to her. Nothing good can come of this.
She unlocks the front door. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says, as she pushes it open and flicks on the light.
There’s no mess. She’s just being modest. The table is bare but for a weekend newspaper, there’s only one CD on top of the player while the rest are alphabetised on the rack.
In fact, I get a sense that this is cleaner than the place usually is. She expected me to come here.
A young Jack Russell terrier bounds up to us and barks at me.
‘Hello, Junie!’ Thistle says, scratching the dog’s ears. Then, to me, ‘Don’t mind her. She hasn’t met anyone new in a long time.’
The dog sniffs my feet and then sprints away into another room.
‘See? She’s bored of you already.’
Thistle slips off her shoes and walks into the kitchen. I can make out a tattoo through her stocking—a ribbon of musical notes curled around her ankle.
She puts the kettle on the burner. ‘It’s just instant, I’m sorry. Cream, three sugars and one salt, right?’
‘Good memory.’
‘It’s memorable.’ She gets the milk out of the fridge. ‘Make yourself at home.’
I look around. ‘Where’s your violin?’
She blinks. ‘What makes you think I play the violin?’
It might be rude to point out the callus on her neck. ‘Just guessing.’
She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Close. I play the viola.’
I sit down on the sofa. ‘Are you in an orchestra?’
She laughs. ‘It’s not that kind of music.’
‘What kind of music is it?’
She pours boiling water into two mismatched mugs. ‘It’s, uh…modern.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ I say.
‘No way.’ Her dark skin makes it hard to tell, but I think she might be blushing.
‘Yes way.’
‘I’m too embarrassed.’
‘The more you stall, the bigger a deal it is and the more embarrassing it will be.’
She thinks about that, says, ‘Good point,’ and flees the room.
I’m just starting to wonder if she’s climbed out her bedroom window when she comes back, holding what I guess must be a viola. It looks like a violin, but a little bigger—the body is maybe seventeen inches. Her left hand is curled around the frog of a bow.
‘Promise not to laugh?’ she says.
‘Is it going to be funny?’
‘I hope not.’
‘Then I won’t laugh.’
She sighs, and presses the viola to her neck.
I wait.
I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe the lonely cry of a sonata, perhaps the same amelodic stuff she was always humming as a child. But what she gives me is something altogether different.
She starts bouncing the bow on the strings, quickly, evenly, creating a sound like the strumming of an electric guitar. With every eighth beat she brings the bow down hard on the body of the viola and it cracks like a snare drum. Her tattooed foot stomps the ground, strengthening the beat, and suddenly I find my toes are tapping as well. And then Thistle is dragging the horsehair across three strings at once, making distorted sounds that Metallica would be proud of.
She would be out of place in an orchestra. This isn’t classical music at all—this is rock-and-roll.
She’s humming, maybe unconsciously, and suddenly I recognise the tune. It’s ‘Baby, I Ain’t Your Man’, by Harry Crudup and the Smooth Candies. I like her version more than his.
Last week she said she hadn’t heard of the band. She must have looked them up and learned this song.
Thistle and I had the same start in life—rescued by police from the clutches of our dead parents. But she’s become a smart, tough FBI agent who can learn a new song on the viola in only a week or two. I’m a poor, unemployed cannibal. Where did our worlds diverge? Where did I go wrong?
Thistle strikes the final chord and leaves her bow raised, like a swordswoman rallying her troops.
‘Holy shit,’ I say.
Thistle laughs. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s incredible. How did you teach yourself to do that?’
She doesn’t ask how I know she’s self-taught. Maybe she’s getting used to me figuring things out.
‘I found this in a pawnshop,’ she says, tapping the viola. ‘I just liked the look of the wood, and the shape, you know. I got a bow at a different pawnshop, the
n I played along to CDs at home. First just the bass lines, then, when I got a little better, the melodies and the chords. I’ve been playing for maybe eight years now. Never showed anyone before.’
She sits down next to me on the couch. ‘Do you play anything?’ she asks.
‘Remember when we were kids,’ I say, ‘how there was a playground just up the street from the home? Sometimes I used to go there, pull sticks off dead branches, and play the equipment like it was a giant drum kit.’
‘There’s an elementary school just near here,’ Thistle says, deadpan. ‘We could go there together and jam.’
I laugh, imagining what would happen if someone called the cops after seeing us beating on the play equipment. ‘We probably wouldn’t get away with it,’ I say. ‘We’re not as cute as we used to be.’
‘Sure you are,’ she says, and kisses me.
I’m paralysed, like a cat who’s spotted a rival. Her lips are touching mine as she waits for some kind of response.
She must think I’m deciding whether to kiss her back. In reality, I’m just trying to suppress my carnivorous instincts. My mouth has never been this close to someone without biting them.
And I’m failing. First I’m probing her upper lip with my tongue, tasting her. Then I’m sucking, then I’m nibbling gently.
Stop, I tell myself. Stop this.
But I can’t.
Thistle slides across me, straddles my lap, rakes her fingers through my hair. I can smell her lime perfume. My hands creep around to her lower back, and I can feel the knobs of her vertebrae through her top. She has no idea of the danger she’s in.
‘What about the coffee?’ I say. It’s the best excuse I can come up with.
Her mouth brushes against my earlobe. I can see the veins pulsing in her neck. I can feel my lips pulling back, an involuntary reflex, exposing my canines.
‘Fuck the coffee,’ she whispers.
‘That doesn’t sound sanitary.’
She laughs, and starts fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. I slide my hands up the soft skin of her thighs, under her skirt. I squeeze her butt cheeks—firm and smooth.
This is a crisis, and it could soon become a disaster.
She sighs as she pulls my shirt open. Her fingernails graze the hard flesh that’s left when hunger has burned all the fat away. The scar tissue on my ribs, my belly, my hips.
‘You’re so tough,’ she whispers.
She thinks I’m the opposite of her rich, handsome ex-husband. And I am—in more ways than she knows.
Thistle grabs at my belt.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ I say.
She slips the strap through the buckle. ‘No one at the Bureau has to know.’
She’s right, something in my head says. You could devour her and get away with it. No one would guess, except maybe Luzhin, and he couldn’t prove anything.
Come on. You never turn down free food.
Thistle lifts her top over her head, revealing small, juicy breasts in a half-cup bra. I can see scars under her armpits, just like the ones that cover my arms. Old fleabites from our beds at the home. We’re the same, her and me—except we’re not.
She reaches behind her back to unclasp the bra.
‘Stop. Please.’
She pauses. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t do this,’ I say, partly to myself.
‘Why not? Don’t you want to?’ She looks pointedly down at my crotch, where a bulge is visible under the zipper.
How could I possibly explain?
‘Not before we’re married,’ I say.
Her eyes bug out. ‘What?’
‘I mean, I’m not proposing,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean—I’m kind of religious, that’s all. I can’t do…this. Not before my wedding night.’
She stares at me, like she can’t decide if I’m serious.
‘It’s a sin,’ I add.
Thistle stands and picks up her top. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I get it. If you’re not interested in me—’
‘No, I am,’ I say. ‘I am. I really like you. I just can’t.’
The words are out of my mouth before I realise that they’re true. I do like Thistle. And the fact that she likes me too feels like the first good thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t let myself hurt her.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I want to. But it’s an affront to the Lord. And if I see any more of you, I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself.’
This last part is pure truth, and she sees it. After a long moment, she sits back down on the couch next to me.
‘So…you’re a virgin?’ she says.
I try to look embarrassed. It’s not much of a stretch. ‘Yeah. I mean, I’ve done some stuff, but not the actual…you know.’
‘Penetration,’ Thistle says bluntly.
Her no-bullshit attitude is one of the many things I like about her. ‘Yeah. That.’
‘So which religion are you?’
I smile, stalling. ‘You must think I’m crazy.’
She shakes her head. ‘No! Not at all. I’m just curious about your beliefs.’
‘I’m Catholic,’ I say.
‘I didn’t think anyone could stay Catholic after meeting Mrs Radfield.’
I shrug. ‘There was a church I used to go to most Sundays. The priest was really nice.’
‘So you don’t go to church anymore?’ she asks.
I don’t like the idea of Thistle thinking that I believe in God. I wonder what the Bible says about cannibalism. Eat this, for it is my body. But even more, I hate the idea of her thinking I don’t like her.
‘I go at Christmas,’ I say. ‘And Easter. Do you?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m an atheist. Does that bother you?’
‘No. I’m not sure how much of the good book I believe, it’s just…your virginity is something you can’t get back, you know?’
‘True.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I hate feeling like I let you down.’
‘It’s okay,’ she says. She puts her arms around my neck. ‘In fact, I respect it. Celibacy must take a lot of willpower.’
I think of all the times I’ve eaten someone and sworn I’ll never do it again.
She kisses me on the cheek. ‘I shouldn’t have come on so strong. Still interested in that coffee?’
I nod. She gets up and pads back over to the kitchen, still in her underwear. She’s enjoying making me uncomfortable.
I pull my shirt back together and do up the buttons. Then I pull on my jacket.
Jane Austin’s envelope falls out of my pocket. I hadn’t got around to looking at the pictures yet. I open the flap and start flicking through them.
Suddenly I’m squeezing them so hard I’m crumpling the corners.
‘Reese!’ I yell.
She whirls around. ‘What?’
‘Robert Shea and Cameron Hall don’t just look alike,’ I say, running over to her with the photos. ‘They’re identical twins.’
‘That makes no sense,’ she says. But her eyes are widening as she shuffles through the photos. She’s seeing what I saw—that the kid in the pictures looks exactly like the one I rescued from the warehouse, except for a different haircut and a couple more pounds.
‘Annette Hall is Robert’s mother,’ I say, figuring it out as I say the words. ‘She gave him up for adoption—maybe she could afford one kid but not two. Then the Sheas took him in. Now the same kidnapper has abducted him.’
‘Why couldn’t it be the other way around?’ Thistle asks. ‘Why couldn’t Cameron be Celine and Larry Shea’s son?’
‘Because he looks too much like—’
Something snaps into place in my head. We’re looking for someone the Halls know. Someone they might willingly go somewhere with. Someone with a motive to kidnap both Cameron Hall and Robert Shea.
Ninety percent of kidnappings are executed by relatives.
‘I’m thinking we need to find the dad,’ I say.
CH
APTER 16
I have six faces and twenty-one eyes, but I am blind. What am I?
The woman is a short, slim forty-something with high-riding jeans and a well-polished belt buckle about three times the practical size. It makes up for her engagement and wedding rings, which are no bigger than a cop could afford. She makes it across the foyer to the FBI receptionist before I do, so I sit on the faux-leather sofa and wait.
‘I’m here to see the field office director, thank you,’ the woman says, like she’s ordering a sandwich.
‘Sure thing, honey.’ The receptionist doesn’t ask for her name. She just picks up the phone and dials. ‘Hi. Is the director available?’
There’s a pause.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says, answering a question.
Another pause.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says again, meaning, I understand.
Another pause.
‘Thank you kindly. Bye.’ She hangs up. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’
‘He’s always here,’ the woman says. ‘He’s been here for twenty years.’
‘Sorry, honey. Can I take a message for him?’
‘Sure. Tell him not to push for joint custody.’
She spins around and walks out without looking at me. I don’t look directly at her either, but even with my peripheral vision, I can tell it’s the woman from Luzhin’s family photo.
‘Mr Blake,’ the receptionist says.
I stand up and walk over. ‘Can I use your phone?’
‘Sure thing.’ She holds up the receiver. I take it and dial.
The line chirps in my ear, five times, six times, seven. Somewhere, a hundred miles away from me, a phone is ringing.
‘Come on, you old coots,’ I mutter. ‘Pick up.’ The phone rings five more times and then goes dead. Cameron’s grandparents are still not home. I’ll have to try later.
Cameron’s father is named Philip Hall. At this point that’s all I know about him. I don’t have an age, an address or even a phone number. There’s nothing I can do until I’ve spoken to Annette Hall—and every passing second takes Robert Shea further away.
‘Thanks,’ I tell the receptionist, handing the phone back.
‘Any time, honey,’ she says. ‘You don’t want to try their cells?’
‘I don’t have—’ Wait. After Cameron’s kidnapping, the FBI would have bugged the landline at the Hall residence. That’s standard. If I can get a hold of the records—or, better yet, the recordings—I wouldn’t just find the grandparents’ cell numbers. I would get the numbers of everyone else who’s called them since. You never know where your next lead is going to come from.
