Zero at the Bone

by Jane Seville

But it was not the bed that caught his attention; it was the note that had been left on it.

  He had no idea how long he stood there staring at it. He’s already been here. He intentionally came on a day he knew I wouldn’t be here so he could avoid me. He slept in the bed.

  He’s not coming.

  He picked up the note with numb fingers and sat down to read it.

  12/24

  Jack,

  Merry Christmas, bud. Sorry I can’t be there with you having some eggnog or whatever. I just can’t do it. I’m not strong like you. I couldn’t be there and see you and spend a day with you and then leave again. Leaving you on that warehouse floor felt like part of me tore off and stayed behind and I can’t just visit that part until I get to sew it back on for good.

  Nice of you to invite me, tho. Megan said you’re doing ok. Working at a bookstore. Kinda made me laugh a little to think of you there. She said you looked real good. All healed up, not so much as a limp. That was a load off my mind.

  I’m doing okay. Things are going about like I thought, except it’s taking longer, but don’t everything always? Damn frustrating, but I can’t rush it or it’s all gonna fall apart. I know you’re probably curious about what I’m doing, exactly, but I can’t tell you. Just one thing I want you to know is that I kept my promise. I haven’t killed anybody and if all goes like I plan, I won’t have to. Thought you’d want to know that.

  Damn, but I miss you awful. Seems like every dark-haired guy on the street turns into you. Not that I’m looking, ha ha. I don’t look at other guys. If I had any kind of way with words maybe I could tell you all kinds of nice things about how I feel and what I think and all that, but I don’t have to tell you I ain’t that guy. All I can say is you got no idea how tempting it was to stay in this house and wait for you, but I gotta be strong if we’re gonna have a chance later.

  Don’t be mad at me for ditching you. I know you’ll understand.

  Can’t believe I wrote this much, damn. Looks like something of you rubbed off on me, doc.

  There’s stuff I’m still waiting to say to you, Jack. Things I want you to know. But I’m damned if they’re going in a fucking note.

  See you soon (I hope),

  D

  Jack read it three times. Maybe there was some kind of code embedded in it that would lead to some secret location where D was waiting for him.

  Oh God, you really have drunk the Kool-Aid with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, haven’t you?

  If there was a code, which he doubted, he didn’t get it.

  He put the note aside and flopped backward onto the bed, kicked off his shoes and burrowed under the covers. He buried his head in the pillow and smiled; a faint smell of D remained.

  Jack got out of bed and stripped naked.

  This is weird, Jack.

  Fuck weird. He was here, he was right the hell here.

  He got back into the bed and shut his eyes, imagining D right where he was lying, just the day before. Possibly only hours before, depending on what time he’d left.

  He rarely allowed himself the luxury of remembering the sex he’d had with D. It was too depressing. He’d jerk off to gay porn instead, or imagine getting a blow job from Anderson Cooper. D was not willingly allowed into those fantasies, probably for much the same reason D had refused to meet him here.

  Now, he just went with it. He let it wash over him and wallowed, his mind sinking deep into a mudbath of erotic memories. Within seconds he was painfully hard.

  That slow blow job he gave me at the hotel in Baltimore. The first time I topped for him, that little look over the shoulder he gave me, his hips in my lap….

  He hadn’t even gotten to the really good stuff before he was going off.

  Shit. That was some kind of a record.

  Relax. You can do it again in a few minutes.

  He sighed.

  Merry Christmas, D.

  Interlude

  Valentine's Day. Just pour lemon juice in my eyes.

  Everybody was buying cards, and schmoopy books about lurve. This holiday wasn't exactly gangbusters for bookstores, but some guys had cottoned onto the fact that a good book or a DVD lasted a lot longer than flowers, so it was certainly busier than usual.

  Jack was putting in an hour at the register, being his usual charming self and chatting with the customers. Stay busy and don't think about it.

  Gloria came behind the registers during a lull. "Brought you a latte," she said, handing him a cup.

  "Thanks. I'm off in an hour anyway."

  "You wanna go out? We can do the Single People Anti-Valentine Fatwa thing." Her eyes were full of understanding behind all the black Goth eyeliner.

  Jack shrugged. "I don't think so. I just want to go home and stare at my cell phone."

  "You think he might call?"

  He sighed. "Not in a million years."

  She rubbed his arm. "I hate to see you looking so down in the mouth," she said, sticking out her lower lip. Jack had told Gloria a little more about his situation since first admitting it to her months before, just enough so she understood the situation but not enough to give anything away. She straightened up, putting on a smile. "You ever think maybe you ought to just get laid?"

  Jack snorted. "Frequently."

  "You could walk into a gay bar and take your pick, you know. He wouldn't hold it against you."

  "No, I don't think he would. I might, though."

  "Jack, it's unreasonable to expect you not to get any at all during an involuntary, open-ended separation."

  "I know. Maybe I'll get to that point. Just… it's too soon."

  "Okay, I get that." She patted his arm again. "And if you'd like to dip your toes in the other side of the pond, you know I'm available."

  He laughed. "Thanks for the offer."

  "I like to think of it as a public service."

  "Just doing your part for the good of gay America, is that right?"

  "Hey, a lot more of your people have taken the occasional poke at their hags than they'll admit, you know."

  "If you say so."

  "Just, don't be too sad tonight, okay? And call me if you find yourself doing anything remotely resembling drunk-dialing."

  "Who would I drunk-dial, Gloria? I don't even have his number."

  ~~~~~

  Jack trudged home, head down, eyes on the ground. Nothing in the mail but bills, that stranger's name shouting up at him from the address labels. Someday, someday it'll be Francisco again. He said so, and I believe him.

  That belief was becoming a mantra, a point of faith with about as much empirical evidence as intelligent design. The note D had left him in Redding had been re-read nearly to tatters, its contents long since memorized and examined until the words had started to lose meaning. Five months now, soon to be six, and although he'd imagined it would probably take at least this long, maintaining his equanimity was no small task. He hadn't even heard from Megan since Christmas.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs. There was a package on his welcome mat.

  Trying not to get too excited, Jack approached casually. Had he ordered something from Amazon? That was a distinct possibility. He was a slave to those damn daily Gold box deals. But this package was not from Amazon. It didn't have the smiley on the side.

  He bent and picked it up. It was hand-addressed, and he knew that writing, except there was no street address on it. It must have been hand-delivered, which meant either Churchill or Megan had brought it, since they were the only ones who knew where he was. "Shit," he muttered, fumbling for his keys and finally shoving his way into the apartment.

  He dropped his bag and coat, already tearing at the package. What on earth would D send him on Valentine's Day?

  When he saw the box, he just stared for a moment, and then choked out a laugh that was trying not to be a sob. "Jesus, D," he said. "For all you gave me shit about it you sure love giving me damn chocolate-covered cherries."

  There was no note. He hadn't really expecte
d one. It was enough to know D was thinking of him. Jack tore the wrapper off the box and opened it. A whole box this time, not just the tiny four-piece he'd left in his suitcase back in Baltimore. Several dozen. Plenty to stretch them out for weeks.

  Fuck that. Eat them all tonight, in one sitting. Eat them until you puke.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  April 2007

  ~~~~~

  Ruiz’s house smelled of laundry and machine oil, with a slight undertone of chile peppers. It was dusty; the man’s family had stirred things up quite a bit while they packed, their faces tight, their eyes darting to D every few moments. He could tell them he wasn’t going to hurt them a dozen times and they still had looked at him with that frightened-puppy look on their faces, waiting for a sudden kick, the strike of a snake they’d been tiptoeing around.

  This is the last one. Just this one more really oughta be enough. Then I can go to Raoul, and then… I can go to Jack and all this’ll be over. It better be enough, ’cause I don’t think I can fuckin’ take much more a bein’ away from him.

  He heard the front door open and Ruiz’s cheerful voice calling out in a mixture of half-English, half-Spanish. “Carida!” D heard him step further into the house. “Juanita?” he called, sounding a little uncertain now. There was a long pause. “Dios mio!” he exclaimed.

  No doubt he was seeing the mess. The family had thrown things around quite a bit while they packed. It must have looked like the place had been ransacked.

  “Juanita! Pedro!” Ruiz yelled, his voice full of alarm now. D heard his footsteps approaching the living room and braced himself. He’d done this six times now and it never got easier. Ruiz burst through the doorway and stopped short when he saw D, sitting in the recliner with his gun held not-casually across his knees.

  “Hello, Ruiz,” he said, calmly.

  Ruiz stared. “La sombra,” he murmured.

  D didn’t speak much Spanish but he knew what “la sombra” meant. He’d heard that’s what the boys were calling him now. “If you say so.”

  “Where is my family? My wife, my son?”

  “They’re just fine.”

  Ruiz advanced on him. “If you’ve done something to them—”

  “I ain’t hurt your family, Miguel, and I ain’t gonna. But I might hurt you if ya don’t back off,” D said, shifting his gun just a little. “Your family’s just got a head start on ya. You’ll see ’em soon.”

  Ruiz was nodding. “This is what happened to all the others, no? Esteban, and Casanas, all of them.”

  “You don’t know what happened yet, but you will.”

  He sat down in a chair opposite D. “If you kill me, okay. Just let me talk to my family first, so I know they’re all right.”

  “I’m not going to kill you. But you are going to do exactly as I say. And then I’ll take you to your family, and I’ll never trouble you again.”

  Ruiz was shaking his head. “I don’t understand. What is it you want?”

  “Information. That’s all. I want to know everything you know about the Dominguez operation. Any murders you participated in. The locations of any bodies you helped bury. Your personal knowledge of their criminal activities. You and I are going to spend a long time documenting everything you know.”

  “You’re crazy, amigo. You might as well kill me. I can’t go against the brothers.”

  “The others did. Esteban, Casanas, and all the rest.”

  Ruiz stared. “They… they did?”

  “They did. I have boxes full of the evidence they all gave me.”

  “And… none a them are dead?”

  “Nope. They’re all living comfortable lives with new identities in countries far from here. The brothers won’t find them, any of them, just like they won’t find you. I’ll see to that. Do you believe me?”

  “No,” Ruiz said, without hesitating.

  D nodded. “I didn’t think you would.” He pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text message. Thirty seconds later, the phone on the table next to him rang. Ruiz jumped. D pressed the speaker button, motioning for Ruiz to greet the caller.

  “H… hello?” Ruiz said.

  “Miguel?”

  Ruiz’s eyes bulged. “Tristan? Es que usted?”

  The man on the other end, Tristan Casanas, chuckled. “Soy yo, viejo amigo.”

  “Pensé que estaba muerto! Y ahora este hombre dice—”

  “Debemos hablar Inglés.”

  Ruiz glanced up at D. “All right. English. But, this is really you, no? Not some kind of trick.”

  “How many people know your home number, eh?”

  This seemed to give Ruiz pause. “Where are you?”

  “I made it to Espana, Miguel!”

  Ruiz was leaning forward now. “You are there? You are really there?”

  “Si! What did I always say, eh?”

  “That someday you would return to the mother country and open a cantina,” Ruiz recited in a sing-song voice, smiling wryly at the phone.

  “I have my cantina!”

  Ruiz looked gobsmacked. “That’s… I can’t believe it, Tristan!”

  “The man. La sombra. He is there, no?”

  Ruiz glanced up at D. “He is here.”

  “You can believe what he says. He sent us here.”

  Now Ruiz looked like he was waiting for the punch line. “He… he did?”

  “He gave us money enough to come here. New papers, new passports, new names so they can never find us. I know you want to be free of that hijo de puta,” Casanas said, his voice dropping as if he were afraid the brothers were listening in. “They want us to think there’s no way out. Have us trapped, like a rabbit in a snare. I didn’t believe it either, when I came home to find la sombra in my house, my wife and daughter gone…. Then I got this call too, except mine was from Esteban.”

  Ruiz straightened up. “Esteban? Where is he?”

  “I shouldn’t say, amigo. But he is safe and has a new life, like me. I agreed to make this call so you could escape too. You can, if you trust la sombra.”

  “How can I?” Ruiz said, shaking his head. “It sounds like… some kind of trap.”

  “I know. You must trust me that it is not. Miguel, have I said the word?”

  Ruiz glanced at D again. “No,” he said, quietly.

  “Believe me. I am sitting in my cantina now. We are washing the glasses for the evening. Soon the place will be full, and there’ll be music, and Estella will come and bring the baby and we will dance like we are free. I don’t look over my shoulder every day now, Miguel. I wish this for you. I got you into the business of blood, but I didn’t tell you that you’d be just as stuck there as I was. Now I can help get you out.”

  There was a long, pregnant pause. Ruiz stared at the phone, his hands gripping and squeezing each other. D knew that he was weighing the likelihood that Casanas was telling him the truth. The word he’d referred to was a danger code word. If any member of the brothers’ organization was being coerced into saying something untrue, or designed to trap another member, there was an innocuous but uncommon word they were to slip into the conversation. D didn’t know what it was, nor did he want to know. But the fact that Casanas had not used it when he could easily have done so had to be weighing heavy on Ruiz’s calculations.

  In fact, everything Tristan Casanas said was true. D had procured new passports and identification for him, his wife, and small daughter and paid for their passage to Barcelona, with a pretty substantial chunk of money in their pockets to get them started. In return, he had gotten two crates of meticulously documented and described evidence of criminal acts perpetuated or ordered by Raoul and Tommy Dominguez, acts of which Casanas had personal knowledge. The two crates had been added to the dozen or so D had gotten from the previous five Dominguez family members he’d relocated over the past six months.

  The first one had been the hardest, because he hadn’t had anybody the man would trust to vouch for him. There had been no one to make a call from a saf
e place, to verify that D had indeed given him a new identity and moved him overseas. So he’d had to carefully observe the men who worked for the brothers, looking for the just the right man to approach, and he’d had to enlist Megan’s help to give the whole thing an air of governmental security.

  After that, it had been cake. D had been, frankly, amazed at how willing these men were to give up the brothers lock, stock, and barrel in exchange for a chance to escape. Not just to avoid jail time, or for a lesser sentence, but for honest-to-God freedom someplace they could never be traced, where no revenge could be taken on them.

  After the first one vanished, there was barely a ripple in the organization. It wasn’t that unusual. He’d split, and no doubt he’d be found. Or he’d gotten on the wrong side of someone and ended up dumped by the side of the road. And the fact that he’d packed all his clothes and personal items? Waved off.

  The second one had caused some concern. The third one was like a bomb going off. Now men with families were vanishing. Wives, children, pets, the works. This was no accident. This was no coincidence.

  When he’d worked up Casanas, the man had laughed himself nearly into hysterics to learn what was really behind all the disappearances. He’d harbored deep hatred for the brothers, far more than any of the others. D hadn’t asked why; it didn’t matter. But Tristan Casanas had gleefully told D how little progress Raoul had made in locating any of his missing men, and how paranoid everyone was becoming over who was next.

  That was music to D’s ears. It meant his plan was working. Now, Ruiz was the last one. After him, there’d be enough.

  Ruiz took a deep breath. “Gracias, amigo,” he said to the phone. “I will see you around the bend, yes?”