by Craig Larsen
Nick was grasping something cold and metallic in his hand. He didn’t have to see it to know that it was the knife that had killed his brother. The handle and half its blade protruded unnaturally from his brother’s chest, wedged savagely into his body. The silvery steel blade was covered in gore, but Nick could see that its edge was rough and dinged. Sam’s last breath was gurgling from his lungs through a hole in his ribs. Nick looked down at his brother’s disfigured face, then stood up and, leaving the knife lodged in his brother’s chest, began to run.
Nick shook off the enveloping memory. As he came to, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He concentrated on the feeling of the sunlight on his face, warming his skin. He searched the parking lot for the two girls, but they were gone, swallowed into the crowd. He pushed himself off the light pole he had been leaning against, shaken by the vision, his legs weak beneath him. He was about to start home when, across the lot, something caught his eye.
In the midst of the throng, a lone vagrant was shambling toward the ferry landing.
The man had his back to Nick. All Nick was able to see at first was his ragged, greasy hair and the long, tattered coat he was wearing. An image of the killer’s face filled Nick’s mind. His watery blue eyes. The pocked, ravaged skin. Nick blinked, suppressing the memory, trying to focus his mind onto the homeless man in front of him instead. The man’s shoulders were hunched as he shuffled through the late afternoon crowd, cutting diagonally across Alaskan Way. When Nick banged into a passerby, a man turned and gestured at him. The man’s hands fluttered in the air in slow motion, and his mouth opened and closed in a curse, but Nick heard nothing he said. Except for the homeless man’s slow and deliberate footsteps, the day had gone completely silent. Nick raised his camera to his eye and snapped a picture of the man. Then, taking a deep breath, he followed him.
Nick was trying not to draw attention to himself. He had kept a good distance between the homeless man and himself. For over an hour the man had led him across town. The man had paused at any number of waste bins along the way, searching through them for scraps of food. In front of the Art Museum, he stopped to stuff some newspaper into his ragged shoes. When he stood back up, a pedestrian handed him a dollar, then hustled away, spooked by something the man said in return. The last three or four blocks, with daylight fading, Nick thought he might lose him.
Nick paused on the edge of the park on Occidental, downtown. Around him, homeless men and women were gathering with their grocery carts of possessions, shouting obscenities at one another, jockeying for places on the scattered benches. As yet, Nick hadn’t been able to get a good look at the man. He had him in the center of his telephoto lens now, though—a 400mm zoom that gave him 500 percent magnification. The sky was melting from a deep, purplish blue into a hazy gray twilight, and there wasn’t enough light for Nick to snap a good picture. He clicked the shutter down anyway, to give himself some identification to look at later. Perhaps, if it wasn’t too blurry, he would be able to enhance the image on his computer.
The man was talking to another homeless man sitting on a bench. The sky was getting darker, and it was becoming more difficult to see. Nick surveyed the area. The parking lots next to the long, narrow park were emptying out, and a few stragglers leaving their offices late were still on the streets. As night fell, the park was becoming a tent city. On the far side, next to a derelict building, several men had started a fire inside a rusted oil drum and were holding something over it, perhaps cooking themselves dinner. Their faces were lit orange, and plumes of black smoke billowed above them, undulating as they dissipated into the twilight, describing invisible currents in the air. Nick stifled a chill. Taking a step into the boundaries of the park, he had the sense that he was stepping into a jungle.
Nick stopped ten yards from the homeless man. Sidling up to the trunk of a tree, he could hear the man’s raspy voice. He had to listen carefully to the choppy, broken conversation to understand that the man was buying drugs from the bum seated on the bench. Once again, Nick raised his camera to his eye. There wasn’t enough light, though, to get a picture.
“You say you got Vicodin tonight?” the homeless man said.
“I din’ say that.”
“But you do.”
“I got six tabs. I got three Valium. I got a Xanax. I got me some generic hydrocodone. Some OxyContin, too.”
“No generics. The Vicodin ain’t generics, are they?”
“They’re Abbots, man. ’N the OxyContin’s Watsons.”
“Don’t want no generics. People are talking. There’s some strange shit going down.”
“Tell me about it.”
“How much for the Vicodin?”
“Always the same, man.”
“Six tabs you say?” The homeless man reached into the pocket of the long, ragged coat he was wearing and pulled out some crumpled bills. One of them, Nick reflected, must have belonged to the person who stopped to give him a dollar in front of the museum. “Gimme the Vicodin, and give me two of the Oxys.”
“You two dollas short, man.”
“Wait up, wait up.” The man reached into the pocket of his pants and brought out a handful of change. He counted through it, then, taking a quick glance around him over both his shoulders—as though he could feel Nick’s eyes on him—handed the coins to the other man. He took the pills in return, examining them in the dark light before shoving them into his shirt pocket.
“You got enough for a bed, man?”
The homeless man shook his head. “I’ll go inside and get me somepin’ to eat, but I’m outside tonight.”
The other man shrugged his shoulders and settled back onto the bench. He mumbled something that gave his friend pause. Nick waited for the homeless man to disappear into the shadows, then followed. He was aware of the second man’s eyes on him as he approached the bench where the exchange had taken place. As he walked past, the man let his breath out in a single shrill whistle. Nick hesitated in midstep, a chill crawling up his spine.
Nick paused in front of a tall brick building a few blocks east of the park. He had passed through Pioneer Square a thousand times, and while he had always known that homeless people gathered here, he had never once noticed this particular building. A large sign was taped in a ground-floor window, its words spelled out in marker on an aging piece of cardboard: SEATTLE EMERGENCY SHELTER. Nick looked up at the shabby building. From the number of ragged hobos lined up outside, he figured the building must house a shelter and a food program, as well as other services upstairs. It was dark now, and the street lamps in front didn’t cast much light. Nick could barely make out the words etched into the stone lintel above the front doors: HUDSON HOTEL.
Nick crossed the square just in time to see the doors close behind the homeless man. He had cut the line and let himself inside. Nick took a deep breath to steady himself. A number of people noticed him as he approached the building, and he was aware of the way they were eyeing his camera. Still, he had no alternative. He hadn’t yet gotten a good look at the man’s face; he needed to follow. He walked up the stairs to the entrance.
“Hey, Professor! You got a dolla’ fo’ me?”
“You got yo’self a fine camera, man.”
“You ken take my pitcher fo’ a dolla’, Professor.”
The handle of the door felt grimy in Nick’s hand. He yanked it open, then pushed his way through the crowd. The line stretched into the bowels of the building. He turned toward one of the men. “What are you waiting for?” Nick asked him.
“Clark Kent,” the man mouthed. “Are you Clark Kent?”
Nick took in the rags the man was wearing. The spectacles propped on his nose were missing a lens. He turned to the man next to him. “What are you in line for?”
“Dinner,” the man said, staring at Nick’s camera.
Nick pushed his way down the dim hallway. The walls were veneered with greasy green tiles, and the ceiling was gray with years of accumulated grime. Nick felt claustrophobic. He cra
ned his neck as he rounded the corner, able to see down to the end of the line, which terminated in front of a set of double doors leading into a steamy dining room. There was no sign of the homeless man. He had lost him somehow.
Nick scanned the line of ragged, hungry men. Their voices had dropped to whispers, and they shuffled out of his way as he moved down the corridor, gathering again at his back, cutting off his retreat.
The smell of the food cooking in the dining room grew stronger as he approached the double doors, until it became overpowering. The smell of cheap beef simmering in pungent vegetables, mixed with the steamy smell of spaghetti smothered in canned sauce. The air was becoming stuffy, stagnant, the walls close. The men in line reeked of the street, as though they were festering in their own urine and excrement. Nick was surrounded by hands wrapped in cloth, by toothless smiles and unshaven faces.
When he reached the double doors, he turned to a tall, gaunt man with short brown hair and a rat’s face. The man took a step back, as if Nick were going to ask him to move aside. “I’m looking for someone,” Nick said.
The man didn’t respond.
“He was just a few steps in front of me. Did you see him?”
The man’s eyes darted toward a door on the other side of the hallway that Nick hadn’t noticed before.
“He went in there,” someone else said.
“Like he was runnin’ from you.”
Nick took an awkward step to the large metal door and pushed on its handle. The door swept open in front of him, revealing a filthy, fluorescent-lit men’s room paneled in the same grungy tile as the hallway. Its floor was covered with a slick layer of oily mop water. The stench of human waste and ammonia revolted him, burning the insides of his nostrils. He steeled himself and stepped inside. The door swung closed behind him.
A man was standing next to a urinal, peeing. Another man was in one of the four stalls, sitting on a toilet. A fan was blowing overhead, its blades rattling and clanging metallically as it turned in its old tin housing. The fluorescent light overhead flickered. Nick noticed none of these things. The homeless man he had been following was standing in front of a sink to his left, the water running from a broken tap. His hands were resting on the basin. He was staring back at Nick in the mirror, waiting for him.
Their reflections were side by side in the glass—Nick’s face, tense with stress, still healing from the battering he had received the night of Sam’s murder, counterpoised with the homeless man’s street-ravaged countenance. Nick looked into the vagrant’s light brown eyes and realized that he had been chasing a ghost. This sinewy, tired man was not the blue-eyed man who had attacked and killed Sam.
Nick had come too far, though, to turn around. The door was clicking shut behind him, there was no retreat. He was inside the bathroom, two steps from the man he had followed across town from Pike Place Market.
The man at the urinal zipped up and turned to leave, pushing past Nick to get to the door. Too late, Nick caught sight of the homeless man’s eyes narrowing in the mirror. He leapt at Nick, grabbing him by his shirt and slamming him up against the hard tiles. In the mirror, Nick saw his camera swing backward from the force of the man’s attack and bang against the wall. The man’s dirty, scaly hands sank into his clothing. The man’s knee pinned his thigh. His breath was hot and sour in Nick’s nose. His eyes had become unfocused and wild.
“What you want, boy? You want somethin’ I got?”
Nick shook his head.
“You been followin’ me. You think I ken’t see?”
“I made a mistake,” Nick said. He wanted to resist, but the man clamped his fingers around Nick’s throat.
“You want my pills, that it?”
“No.” The pressure from the man’s hand was choking him. He couldn’t breathe, and the room became dim and blurry in front of him.
“You make yer mistake with someone else, got it, boy?” The man’s leg gouged into his thigh. His dry, crusty fingers cut into his throat. He was closing his hand around Nick’s windpipe.
Nick tried again to struggle free. An image of Sam attacking him on the snow-covered lawn in front of their house in Madison blinded him as his head slammed back into the hard wall. The whiteness had drained from the day as Sam had strangled him, until Nick had been engulfed in blackness. Then at last the man released him from his grip. He elbowed Nick in the ribs, took a quick step around him, and pulled the door open, letting himself back out into the hall. Nick was aware of the swell of voices in the hallway as the door opened and closed.
Gasping, Nick slid into a heap on the floor.
Nick wrapped his arms around his knees. His camera was on the floor next to him. As far as he could tell it hadn’t been damaged. Imagining that he was alone in the bathroom, he was breathing easier now, recovering. He was contemplating his retreat through the crowd of homeless men, about to push himself to his feet, when he heard a noise from the stall: the sharp echo of a hardened plastic toilet seat banging against the porcelain bowl, followed by the loud rustling of clothes. He looked up.
His blood froze in his veins.
Beneath the gray Formica partition of the stall, Nick caught sight of the shoes the man inside was wearing. His shoes. The pair of black and orange Nike running shoes that he had lost the night that Sam was killed.
The man hiked his pants and closed his belt, then shuffled around, moving to exit the stall.
PART 3
chapter 12
After Sam dropped Nick and Sara off at the ferry landing on the day of their first date, Nick didn’t see Sam again until they met for dinner several days later at an Italian restaurant off the steps below Pike Place Market. Nick hadn’t called Sam since that afternoon, and he knew that his brother would be worrying about him. Nick didn’t bother to dress for the occasion. He showed up twenty-five minutes late in jeans and a T-shirt: no sweater, no jacket, despite the fact that it was so cold that parked cars were covered in frost and puddles in the street were glazed with thin, glassy sheets of ice.
Sam stood up from the linen-topped table when Nick arrived, pulling it to one side to make room for his brother to sit down in the cramped restaurant. The silverware clinked on the table, and the red wine he had been drinking sloshed back and forth in his glass. Sam couldn’t disguise his concern. Nick didn’t give him a hug or even a touch on the shoulder. As Nick squeezed into his chair, he realized how disheveled he must have looked. His hair was uncombed, and his eyes were puffy and tired. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to come.
“What’s up, Nick?” Sam asked his brother. “You’re looking worse and worse.”
Sam’s wine spilled as he sat back down, and Nick watched it seep into the white tablecloth. “Am I? I’m feeling pretty good,” he said. He realized after the words were out of his mouth that he was lying. He was happy, but he wasn’t feeling good. Physically, he was feeling poorly. He wasn’t sleeping much, and he was waking up dizzy and disoriented. “I’m having fun—with Sara, you know?”
Sam’s smile spiked the corners of his mouth. His eyes, though, remained critical. “You’re seeing a lot of that girl, aren’t you, bro’?”
Nick nodded. He was thinking about the expression in his brother’s eyes, trying to understand what it meant. Sam wasn’t pleased.
“She’s spending nights with you, at your apartment?”
“Every night but one since we met,” Nick said. That’s it, he told himself. He’s not just jealous. He’s angry.
“Every night? That sounds pretty serious.”
“Yeah, well, keep in mind we only met a few days ago.” Angry with me for spending so much time with her.
“Still,” Sam said. “Even if it’s just a few days, the two of you are practically living together.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Look at you—I can see how serious this thing is. Anyone can.”
“It’s sexual,” Nick said.
Sam sat back in his chair. His hands were
on the table, and Nick noticed that he was crumpling the white tablecloth in his fingers. Following Nick’s stare, Sam relaxed his grip, then reached forward and picked up his wine.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Nick said.
“Why not? I think you should talk about it.”
Nick refused. “It’s making you uncomfortable.”
“Me?” Sam forced a laugh. “Why should it make me uncomfortable, Nick? It has nothing to do with me. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about.”
The waiter approached their table, interrupting them to inquire if Nick wanted something to drink. When Nick asked for a glass of water, his brother spoke over him. “Bring him a glass of the same wine,” he said, and then to Nick: “It’s a Merlot, and it’s a pretty good one.”
“I’ve been drinking too much,” Nick said when the waiter was gone.
“Yeah, well. One more glass of wine won’t hurt you then.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “So tell me, little bro’. If everything’s so goddamned great, why the hell do you look like shit?”
Nick had already been awake at five that same morning when Sara crept out of bed. She moved so stealthily that the covers barely rustled. Nick opened his eyes in slits, spying on her. She didn’t look back at him. She lifted herself off the uncomfortable mattress and walked naked across the room to the bathroom door. Nick was aroused by her slender silhouette, by the way her breasts lifted proudly from her chest and how muscled her long legs seemed as they disappeared into the cleavage of her small ass. He stilled himself, puzzled that she was up so early.