“It was all a big mistake. You helped me see that, kid. Seven years old, and already smarter than me.”
“You promise?” she finally asked, the vague beginnings of a tremulous smile on her lips. “You’re not just saying that?”
I jiggled the dishes. “Once I unload this stuff we can pinkie swear.”
T he living room looked like an exploded Santa’s workshop. Tattered wrapping paper blanketed the carpet, popcorn chains hung loose from the Christmas tree, hastily-opened toy boxes flung as far as the eye could see. The adults had chosen to congregate in the kitchen, their loud bursts of intermittent laughter wafting over on air heavily perfumed with pot roast and cinnamon.
I cleared a space on the coffee table, dragged it closer to the couch, and helped Kylie unpack the gingerbread house kit she’d been itching to open.
“Are you gonna help me build it?” She fought to tear into a bag of gumdrops, lost the battle, then held it out to me.
It popped like a gunshot when I broke it open. “I was thinking I’d read The Art of War to you while you worked.”
“I thought you said Mommy shouldn’t find out?” Kylie chanced a glance at Alanna, who stood by the stove, stirring something in a saucepan as she talked to my mother, gesticulating wildly with her free hand. Color rose high on both their cheeks. I got the impression they’d already started on the eggnog.
“You think Mommy’s going to hear a thing in this place?” Between the blaring TV the twins were fused to, the carols to which Frank was loudly singing along (botching the lyrics and inventing some of his own) and the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen, I was betting we were safe. But just to cover my ass, I stuffed the battered paperback into an ancient Babysitter’s Club for camouflage. “We’ll keep our voices down, too. Do you remember where we left off?”
She arranged her gumdrops in neat rows, separating the colors. “Part Two, I think.”
“Yep. Waging War.” I settled back into the scarred leather couch Alanna had inherited from her late mother. “Okay, this part’s in brackets right under the title. ‘Ts’ao Kung has the note: He who wishes to fight must first count the cost.’”
Kylie massaged a packet of icing between her hands. “Like, how much money it costs?”
“That’s probably partly what it means. Sometimes stuff doesn’t always cost money, though. I’m guessing it costs other stuff. Health, probably mental and physical strength. Shall we move on?”
She carefully cut the tip off the icing packet. “Yeah.”
“Okay. ‘When you engage in actual fighting, if victory is long in coming, then men’s weapons will grow dull and their ardor will be dampened—'”
“Ardor?”
“Um, their will to keep carrying on, I think. ‘If you lay siege to a town, you will exhaust your strength. Again, if the campaign is protracted’—that means if it goes on for a long time—‘the resources of the State will not be equal to the strain. Now, when your weapons are dulled, your ardor dampened, your strength exhausted and your treasure spent, other chieftains will spring up to take advantage of your extremity. Then no man, however wise, will be able to avert the consequences that must ensue.’” I flicked a gaze at her, watching her squeeze a careful line of icing onto the border of one of the gingerbread walls. “Want me to translate?”
“Does the other chieftains thing mean other soldiers on the same side? Like the chief’s friends will try to steal his job?” Her eyes were disapproving as she glued two gingerbread walls together, her lips mashed into a thin pink line.
“That might be a pretty accurate summation. When everyone starts to get tired and hungry they usually start fighting amongst themselves. Nobody feels good, so they blame their leader for getting them into the mess, and that’s probably when other soldiers try to steal the top position.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Nope. Of course, it could mean the other side will spring up when you’re weak, try to take advantage of all the grumpy soldiers and lack of supplies. It’d be an easy win that way, wouldn’t it? ‘Thus, though we have heard of stupid haste in war, cleverness has never been associated with long delays. There is no instance of a country having benefitted from prolonged warfare. It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on.’” Hold on, more brackets—‘That is, with rapidity. Only one who knows the disastrous effects of a long war can realize the supreme importance of rapidity in bringing it to a close.’”
Sun Tzu was onto something. Get in, get out. No final calls, no need for long discussions and excuses once I went back to Nick’s office to tell them I was through with the entire charade. Rapidity was key. I could be rapid. I could rapidly tell Nick and Jess to find some other stooge.
But next week, I decided. I could be rapid next week. After the holidays. Hell, they were probably closed this week anyway.
And because I didn’t trust myself, I deleted all evidence of Carissa’s calls, as well as her contact information from my phone. I’d never memorized her phone number. I’d only memorized the way her profile looked as she programmed it into my phone the first night I met her. How lithe her fingers were, tapping against the keys, how I wanted to reach over and tuck the hair swinging over her shoulder back behind her ear.
“That’s enough Sun Tzu for now, don’t you think?” I closed the book, blinked away the image of that smile Carissa had tried to bite back as she returned my phone that first night in the bar, and reached for the packet of icing. “Need a flunky to help you build?”
I’d carry Kylie’s bright answering smile with me like a talisman when I finally made it back into Nick’s workshop of horrors.
T hey never let me play,” Kylie announced, a cross little wrinkle etched between her skinny eyebrows as she huffed and puffed back up the basement staircase.
Alanna had sweet-talked me into watching all three of her kids on New Year’s Eve so that she and Frank could have a night out for a change. It hadn’t been hard to convince me. The only plans I’d made were with Joe, and consisted of nothing more exciting than hanging out at my place. The twins were set up in the basement, plied with soda and chips and the Xbox, and predictably, they hadn’t been following my lone ground rule.
I muted the news and dropped the remote on the couch. “They’re not giving you the controller when one of them dies?”
“They ran around collecting reviving potions before the mission so neither of them are dying at all.”
“Sneaky little shits.”
“That’s a swear.”
I sighed and propped my feet on the ottoman, linking my fingers behind my head. “You know what Sun Tzu would do?”
“What?”
“He’d distract them every time they went into battle. How many reviving potions could they possibly have found? Force them off their game, make them use all the potions during a fight with a boss. One of them will die eventually.”
She remained unconvinced, chewing the inside of her cheek sullenly. I ran through my mental Rolodex of activities to do with her, but I wanted no further part of painting nails, I didn’t have the ingredients for making cookies, and if I had to see Frozen one more time I’d bake my head in the oven.
Thankfully a knock on the side door came right then, and I lurched upright, Kylie hot on my heels like a needy puppy.
“Is it the pizza?”
“I think it’s the Joe. Pizza’s coming later.” I peeled back the drapes, found Joe’s face staring back at me, and opened the door. “Hey. You remember Kylie, right?”
“How could I forget?” Joe dug inside the paper bag he carried, unearthing a cellophane package. “I heard you liked these. I saw them in the store and thought of you.”
It was like he’d presented her with real diamonds, not just a packet of Ring Pops, the way that smile broke over her face.
I rubbed Kylie’s shoulder and looked over at Joe. “You’re a lifesaver. Almost had a meltdown.”
<
br /> “Did not.” She popped open the bag and rummaged inside it.
“What do you say, kid?”
She jammed a grape Ring Pop on her finger and smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
“Wanna stay here tonight?” I helped Joe unload his bag, longing to break into that bottle he’d brought, but the kids were around, and we’d decided not to drink anything until eight p.m. “I know we’re not planning on overdoing it, but you don’t want to get caught up in any DUI checkpoints. Might be a safer bet to spend the night.”
“If that’s all right with you.”
“Pizza’s almost on the way,” I called, gesturing for Joe to follow me into the living room. “Kylie has no taste at all. She said pineapple on pizza was weird and gross.”
Her lips made a loud pop as she wrenched the purple diamond out of her mouth. “Because it is.” She plopped beside me on the couch.
Joe fell onto the other cushion next to me. “What about barbeque sauce? Is that gross on pizza?”
Her lip curled back in disgust, as much as it could when suctioned around a lollipop.
I laughed, but Joe didn’t. I felt his limbs stiffen a half second before his elbow lodged into my rib cage, knocking the breath out of me.
I threw him a bewildered look, but he was staring quite deliberately at the muted news on the television. “Put the captions on,” he muttered, rising to move past me and stand in front of Kylie, blocking her view of the TV. “Hey Kylie, how ’bout you show me what other snacks you guys got?”
I didn’t watch them shuffle away because I physically couldn’t. Not when a high-def image of Carissa was splattered on the screen. It must have been captured at her work or something, because I didn’t recognize any of the surroundings. I recognized that pose, though, but it was clearly a candid picture. She had her chin in her hand, her icy eyes smiling at something off camera. I fumbled with the remote and brought up the captions as her picture disappeared, replaced by one of Arlene Fuller. Arlene’s picture made my heart hurt almost as much as my dead fiancée’s had; she was sitting cross-legged on the floor with an extremely grumpy cat in her lap, though that had to be because it was wearing a Santa hat.
Arlene melted away and another face cropped up, one with piggy eyes and a swath of blue stubble. The sandwich I’d had for lunch crawled back up my throat. Neon yellow words unfurled on the screen.
…this man may be a possible witness in the murder case of Arlene Fuller, and police believe the same perpetrator killed Carissa Kloss just sixteen months later. If you’ve seen this witness or have any information on these cases, please contact the Boston Police Department at the number on your screen.
Matthews had finally released the touched-up composite to the media. I wanted to be happy, but all I could think was it’s about fucking time. Blood pounded in my ears so loudly that I couldn’t hear Kylie’s high voice coming from the kitchen.
But possible witness?
I forced myself to breathe normally.
Soft pattering footsteps echoed down the hallway. I powered off the TV, knowing Kylie would burst into the living room any second, and tried to arrange my face into some type of casual expression.
“We found Twinkies!” she crowed.
Joe cleared his throat and crossed his arms, appearing in the doorway. He gave me a look as if to say, “well?”
I shrugged, doing a palms-up, and headed into the kitchen.
“Well?” he asked aloud once we were alone.
I leaned against the counter and spoke in an undertone. “They released that composite, but they just called him a possible witness, not the possible killer.”
“Probably better that way, right? Anyone who knows him or who’s seen him will think they’re just helping the police solve the case, giving them a “witness.” People who know him won’t feel like they’re being a rat, informing on him. It's probably just some cop ploy.” He puffed out a short sigh. “But this is better than nothing, right?”
I nodded. What was left to say? A part of me pulsed numbly; probably the grief I’d been trying to ignore that had holed up somewhere inside my body like a stowaway.
“We might get lucky, Ben. Someone’s bound to recognize that ugly mug from somewhere.”
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. The sight of her picture had been enough to make me ache to try to call Carissa once more.
J oe saw me off on New Year’s morning with a shoulder clap. “Be strong, okay? And let me know what happens,” he said, eyes ablaze with emotion, as though I were heading off to war.
I dumped the kids off with a hungover Frank and made the nerve-wracking drive to that moldering old mill, leaving my car in the park’s deserted lot as Jess had instructed weeks ago.
The sign stating the buzzer was out of order had been removed. I punched it in, keeping my thumb pressed against the button longer than was necessary, and this time I only had to wait a few minutes before a dark shape appeared, swelling steadily larger behind the glass door.
Rapidity, that was the key.
“Well hey there, Ben.” Nick flashed his usual smirk/smile, head cocked to the side, filling the threshold.
“Why the hell are you wearing an apron?” I asked, feeling my brow wrinkle. “Are you cooking?”
“Something like that. Did you have an appointment?”
I brushed past him and tried to ignore the four red lights in the corners of the foyer. “I didn’t make one.”
He rubbed the dusky shadows beneath his eyes, shutting the heavy front door. “Jess doesn’t make it in until after ten.”
“I’d have never pegged you for the earlier riser.”
“I’ve been here all night.”
“Nobody invited you to any New Year’s parties?”
His genuine smiles were far from disarming, the way they transformed his whole face, turned him into a sandy werewolf with sharp canines and slitty eyes. “Oh, Ben,” he said grandly, heading into the heart of the building. “I had a lot of work to do. Parties will have to go on the backburner for a while. Something I can help you with?”
“Probably. I’m done with this gaslighting. I want Carissa’s phone back, and I want this over with. Delete all her files and information or whatever, because I’m done.”
He stopped in his tracks, jamming his hands inside the pocket of his apron. “Done?”
“Yeah.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Well sure, if that’s what you want.”
“It is. Can we just get this over with?”
His gaze traveled over the planes of my face and finally settled on my eyes. “Do you mind if I show you something first?”
I tore a hand through my hair. That didn’t sound very rapid. “Is it going to take long? I don’t have the time or the patience for theatrics.”
“I’d be hurt if you didn’t find it just a little theatrical.”
“You know, I’ve got a lot of work to do myself, so if you don’t mind speeding this up just a bit.”
“Guess we’d better get on with it, then.”
I followed him through the corridors, but instead of stopping at Jess’s cubicle, he hooked the same right I’d watched him take the last time I’d been in the office, down the hallway I’d never been through.
The light grew dimmer, the darkness denser, the deeper into the building we walked. Nick threw on the light switch and galloped down a flight of stairs, and somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a sharp intake of breath and an invisible audience shout, “Don’t follow him down the stairs!”
But this wasn’t a horror movie, and I wasn’t afraid of this idiot, so I ignored their pleas and followed Nick. His hair shone shimmery and gold beneath the harsh florescent glare of the lights as he passed closed door after closed door. I almost stomped on his heels when he stopped abruptly, fumbling in his pocket, at a door like all the others, though this one had a keypad with one stern red light blinking from it.
He pulled out what looked like an access card, slid it through the side sl
ot of the keypad, and punched in a set of numbers. I couldn’t tell if he’d blocked my view accidentally or on purpose, but I was betting it was the latter.
The light turned green. Nick paused with his hand on the door. Probably for dramatic effect.
“You ready?”
“I’ve been ready. Let’s just get this over with.”
The first thing I registered when stepping inside was the smell. Harsh and antiseptic, a combination of Lysol and bleach, it permeated my pores, stung my nostrils and eyes like an acid wash, and I knew the stench would cling to me all day, no matter how many showers I might take.
The second was the pile of body parts on a stainless-steel lab table.
Nick raised his voice to be heard over the air filtration unit vibrating in the corner of the cleanroom. “I should have cleaned up before I invited you in, but I didn’t think you’d decide to up and quit on me.”
“What the fuck?” I said, for lack of anything better.
“I know, right?”
Halogen lights burned above us like rows of tiny suns, blistering over the shiny cabinets set into the walls, bouncing off the slabs of silver steel, throwing the body parts into greater relief, but the blinding rays made the skin look incandescent, poreless and slightly synthetic.
“Please tell me those aren’t real. They’re not, right?” I waved a hand toward the macabre scene at center stage, unwilling to move closer. The room didn’t have that sweetly rotten smell of decay, but maybe that was what all the bleach was for.
“They fooled you? Good news.” He picked up a leg that ended just above the knee, turning it so I could see the thick cording within. “Robotic limbs. You thought I was down here hacking people up?” He tipped his head back and laughed, and I wondered how he could stare into those halogens for so long. How it didn’t hurt, feeling them blaze against his retinas.
“I never bothered to wonder what you were doing down here.” I pressed the pad of my index finger into the big toe of the leg he pointed at me, surprised to feel it give beneath the pressure. “What’s it made of? Silicone?”
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