by Cubed, Magen
“Mr. Doherty, please,” she said. “This has been a rough month, okay? I was in a train accident and I lost my job at the diner, just to name a couple of things. I’ll get you all of your money, I promise. Just give me a week.”
“Look, I’ve cut you slack every time you’ve asked. I rent to people who pay. You can’t pay? You don’t get to rent.”
“Please, I can do it. Just give me a few more days.”
“You said that the last time.”
“And I always pay. You know that.”
“No negotiations, Aroyan. You got three days to pack up.”
“I’ve got a kid, man. What am I supposed to do?”
“Not my problem.”
“This shit isn’t even legal. You actually expect me to find a new place to live in three days? In this neighborhood?”
“You got three days. I suggest you get started.”
Mr. Doherty closed the door and locked the chain. Norah pounded on the door, and when she received no response, spun around to storm back through the lobby. As she passed the mailboxes their locked hatches flew open, breaking the locks into fragments to spew across the floor. The wood of the staircase warped and moaned under invisible pressure to splinter, crack, and give. Fissures in the plaster followed in her wake like spiderwebs in the walls, deepening into valleys of wounds and punctures. She didn’t even notice them as she slammed her front door behind her, paying no mind to the sounds of the apartment groaning under pressure.
In an hour, Mr. Doherty would see the damage. He would scream at no one and make twenty calls to have the foundation and pipes checked. He’d file complaints for problems he didn’t have. Norah didn’t even think of it as she found the cardboard boxes in the back of her closet, pulled all of her clothes from the dresser, and cried until she had to pick Hannah up from school.
V.
The Percy Street Bridge was shut down by 1:00 and the southbound lanes were blocked by two police cruisers. Amanda sank into the driver’s seat with a sigh, stared at her phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes, and reread her e-mail. There was the usual junk, work memos, and messages from her mother. In the dashboard, her police scanner buzzed with squad car chatter about two shootings in the Hull, six bogus bomb scares, an assault in Merseyside, and a brawl outside a convenience store six blocks away. She scrolled through her messages and reread her exchanges with Kyle: the disastrous flirting and the passive-aggressive fondness Kyle would never admit to while sober. Smirking, she saved the thread for future reference.
The sudden crack of gunfire echoed through the corridors of parked vehicles. Amanda straightened up and went for her firearm, placing her gun in one hand and her radio in the other.
“Shots fired on Percy Bridge. Unknown assailant. Requesting immediate backup.”
She got out of her car, low to the ground, and onto the street. She made her way to the source of the gunshot. People slouched in their seats. Some held their children while others tried to quickly roll up their windows and lock their doors. Two uniformed officers from squad cars at the head of the bottleneck met and flanked her halfway.
Another shot. Amanda took a deep breath and peered over the hood of a gray sedan to spot her shooter between two cars. The shooter was a spindly, pink-faced redhead. Freckles scattered across his youthful face and under his black T-shirt. His fat, old revolver was an awkward weight in his bony fingers. It nearly slipped out of his grip as it rested at his side. A dark-skinned man lay on the ground at his feet. Blood soaked his shirt. His hands splayed to hold his guts in. She took another deep breath and stood to take point. She trained her aim on his center mass.
“Freeze,” she shouted. “Drop your gun and lie on the ground with your hands behind your head.”
The shooter looked dazed. He was smiling, maybe laughing, and never met her eye. “I saw him just sitting there, looking all smug. Just like on the tape. I got out my gun and slid out of my Jeep, and he tried to run but I got him. I got the bastard.”
“I said drop the gun and get down on the ground,” Amanda repeated. “I won’t tell you again.”
“What’re you gonna do, shoot me?” He laughed. “I’m a fucking hero, you dumb bitch. You oughta give me a medal. Try to blow something up now, fucking Arab.”
She sucked in a breath, steadied her aim and squeezed the trigger. A hot bullet sliced into the man’s calf. He screamed and dropped to the street, forgetting his gun. The uniformed officers surrounded him and hauled him over to his belly to cuff his hands. Amanda dropped to her knees to check the other man’s vitals. His pulse was threading into a weak twitch beneath his chin as he bled freely from the two massive holes in his belly.
Hauled up to his feet, his shooter continued to howl. “You stupid bitch, what’ve you done? I shot him! Don’t you recognize him from the tape? I’m a hero!”
Seated on the dirty pavement with a stranger’s blood on her hands, she didn’t hear any of it.
VI.
Caitlin Connor found herself at Bob’s Repair and Restoration at 3:00 with an envelope of cash in her clutch. She told her secretary, Denise, that she was going out to meet with a client for a late lunch. There was no reason to lie to her, but it felt more comfortable that way. It was far more manageable to pretend that all of this was on her terms. Caitlin liked for things to remain in her control after all. Bridger used to respect that about her.
The article that appeared in her inbox that morning was from her friend, Sloane, who lived in Los Angeles. Sloane, a transplant that hailed from the same Plymouth Beach block that Caitlin did, had been keeping up with the news from the EBC since the accident. This article from the online edition of the East Brighton Ledger was a fluff piece centered on the Camden Five. It featured photos sourced from family, classmates, employers, and anyone willing to talk when the survivors themselves refused to answer questions or give interviews. Caitlin didn’t think anything of it until Sloane’s message: “This sounds like the guy you mentioned on the phone, doesn’t it?”
Because Caitlin didn’t want to speak to Mother or Father about Bridger, she called Sloane the day that Adam Harlow appeared in her life. Sloane didn’t roll her eyes and complain about Bridger’s poor breeding or his grubby East Essex neighborhood, not like Mother and Father did. It made sense that Sloane would notice this and highlight the image of Adam from the article: young, blond, good-looking, and broad in the shoulders and jaw. The poor little mechanic was a survivor of three IEDs in Afghanistan and came home just in time to get on that fateful train. He’d been present when some man tried to finish the job that Bridger’s cancer started. Suddenly, Adam Harlow and his stupid, hopeful face made sense.
That afternoon, she appeared at the door of the garage in a sharp clicking of her stiletto heels. Adam was elbow deep in a Jaguar’s suspended chassis. Her knock startled him, and he bumped his head on the frame.
“Adam? Are you busy?”
“Yes? No, I mean. No, not at all.” He stepped out from under the car, wiping his hands off with a nearby rag. He looked like she just caught him stealing. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can, actually. Can I speak to you privately for a moment?”
“Um, sure.” He gestured to the door. “Let’s step inside, okay?”
In the back office, Adam closed the EMPLOYEES ONLY door behind them. Caitlin pulled the envelope out of her clutch and extended it.
He didn’t take it. “What is this?”
“I know you have a very unique relationship with my husband,” she explained. “At first, I thought you might have been sleeping with him, but I understand things between you are much more complicated than that.”
“What?” He flinched. “Look, ma’am, I’m not sleeping with your husband. I mean, I barely know him.”
“I know.”
“Whatever you think, I promise, it’s not what it looks like.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Adam. I know that you care about him, and I know he’s at your place right now.”
/> “What? No, I didn’t –”
“Because it was all over your face when you saw me.” She almost laughed. “That’s why I’m here.”
Looking at the envelope, he stepped away. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you care about him because you were in the same accident. I also know you’re a veteran and a trauma survivor. That means that you see something in my husband worth saving, and that makes you valuable to me. I need someone in Bridger’s corner. Someone he can trust. You’ve been down this road before, haven’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, I have. Not with cancer, but, yeah.”
“So, you know what he’s going through. You know what help he needs. He won’t listen to me, but he might listen to you.”
“Not to be rude, ma’am, but whatever’s going on between you and your husband is your business. I want to help him, I do, but he needs his wife more than he needs me.”
“My husband left me. He’s shut me out, and now he’s determined to die in a slum. You won’t let that happen, will you?”
He sighed. “No, of course not.”
“See? That’s why I need you.” She tapped the envelope to his chest until he took it. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. “This is one month’s compensation. Five thousand seems reasonable given the lifestyle my husband is accustomed to. It’ll cover any expenses you might incur and any trouble he might cause you, because Bridger has a habit of causing trouble. I’ll pay you at the beginning of every month.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I don’t want your money.”
“This is just a business transaction. I need to make sure he’s all right. You’re going to do that for me.”
After a moment, he handed the envelope back. “I won’t take your money.”
“You can leave your pride out of this, Adam. It isn’t charity; it’s reimbursement.”
“I don’t want it,” he repeated firmly. “I’ll take care of your husband because he’s my friend, okay? But you can’t buy me.”
“I don’t need to buy you. I just need you to do what you’re told.”
“Then keep your money.”
She canted her head and sighed. “I’ll be back.”
“And I’ll be here.”
With that, she turned to let herself out. In his pocket, Adam’s phone vibrated.
“The city’s gone crazy,” read Clara’s message. “We need to talk.”
VII.
At 6:30, the Moonlight Diner was nearly empty as the dinner rush trickled in one family at a time. Clara waited for the others at a long table in the back until Norah arrived. Adam and Bridger followed, finding them and pulling up a chair. Kyle was the last to show up. He didn’t sit down.
“Who invited Debbie Downer?” Clara asked.
“Norah texted me after you texted her,” Kyle explained.
Clara looked to Norah. Norah shrugged.
Kyle sighed. “Why am I here?”
Rolling her eyes, Clara handed him her phone, which showed a folder in her image gallery.
“What’s this?” He thumbed through a dozen snapshots of police milling around her dorm, opening doors, and pulling out residents. “Was this today?”
“From my campus,” she said. “Cops have us in lockdown while they respond to tips and bomb scares. They’ve been arresting students all day.”
“I heard. Police scanner’s been blowing up. Assaults, bomb scares, shootings.”
“That’s crazy,” said Norah, taking the phone. “Are you going to stay on campus?”
Clara shook her head. “I don’t know. My roommate’s going to stay with her parents, but my family’s back home in California.”
“You can stay with me,” Adam said. “Bridger’s on the couch at the moment, but you’re welcome to my floor if you want.”
Bridger looked apprehensively to Adam.
Norah passed the phone back to Clara. “And I’d let you stay with me, too, but I just got evicted.”
“What? No. What about your kid?”
“You can come over with us—” Adam offered, but Bridger cut him off.
“Adam, no, you’re running out of floor.”
“Look, it’s fine,” Norah said. “I’ve got to pack up and be out in three days. We’ll just stay at my parents’ until I figure something out.”
“I can help you move this weekend,” Adam said, to which Clara immediately nodded. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Not to rain on anybody’s parade here, but what’s the plan?” Bridger asked while looking at Kyle pointedly. “Nut job releases tape, city goes to shit, we keep our heads down—great, fine with me. But we’re not just going to sit around on our hands, are we?”
Clara looked to Adam. “Couldn’t we help?”
“No. Enough with this superhero shit.” Kyle shook his head. “I’ve gone back to the bank to try to figure out this guy’s pattern, and I’ve got a friend searching for the name Snow in every database he has access to. Once I find something, I’ll let you know.”
“And then what happens?” asked Norah.
“And then I go to the cops and let them handle it.”
“Yeah, because the cops have been doing such a great job so far.” Clara sneered.
“I’ve got contacts I can trust. Let the professionals do their jobs, all right?”
“So, what, we just wait until he blows something else up?” Norah asked. “You know, powers or not, I don’t like feeling helpless.”
“And I’m still plugged into this guy’s wavelength for better or worse,” said Bridger. “There’s no off switch that I can see, either.”
“So, what?” Kyle asked. “What do you propose we do?”
“We find this guy,” said Clara. “We make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
“That’s stupid and reckless, and you have no idea what you’re even talking about.”
“Hey.” Adam stood and put a hand between Kyle and Clara. “Everybody’s got a lot on their plates right now. There’s no need to take it out on each other, all right?”
“She just wants to help,” added Norah. “We all do.”
“You want to help?” Kyle asked. “Don’t get in the way.”
“You know you’re not the only one with a stake in this,” Bridger said. “He killed us. He has something coming to him.”
Kyle paused, then gave in. “Yeah, I know.”
“So, what can we do?” asked Clara.
“Nothing for now. Keep your heads down and stay out of trouble. If anybody contacts you about the bombings, call me. You see somebody following you, call me.”
“Following us?” Norah sat up. “Who would be following us?”
“Not sure yet, but I’m working on a few theories. Just stay in touch.” Turning to leave, Kyle shot them one last look. “Try not to get killed again.”
“Hilarious,” Bridger said.
“I think I’m starting to hate him,” admitted Adam.
Clara scoffed. “You think?”
Chapter Twelve
I.
Barton and Portacio from Internal Affairs sat on the other side of the conference table with pens and papers at their sides. The digital recorder waited between them. Amanda sat opposite in a creaky, metal chair with a rock in her gut, her spine straight, and her legs crossed. She told herself not to get mad, first in the bathroom mirror at home and again in the women’s room at the precinct. Barton started the recorder and began scribbling notes. Portacio spoke the time, date, and case number.
“All right, just start from the beginning, Detective Sidhari.”
She took a deep breath and recalled her report of gunfire on Percy Bridge. There were dozens of bystanders trapped in their vehicles. The victim, Sam Ganesan, laid on the ground with two close-range bullet wounds in his stomach. He was thirty-nine and of Indian descent. The assailant was Robbie Whitford. Whitford was twenty-five and white. She suspected it was a racially motivated crime.
“Did you feel at the time th
at your life was in danger?”
“At the time, Whitford posed an immediate threat to the safety of myself and the other officers.”
“Did you warn the assailant?”
“Yes, I warned him twice. He refused to surrender. I couldn’t reach Ganesan to render aid, so I fired my weapon.”
Barton wrote her answers down silently. Portacio stopped the recording. Amanda sat up straight.
“Well, your testimony corroborates with Roberts’s and Gonzalez’s statements. As far as we’re concerned, this is a clean shoot.”
She felt warm all over. “Thank you, sir.”
They stood to shake hands. Barton gathered his notes. Portacio handed the recorder to Barton, who dropped it into his jacket pocket.
“You’ll have to be cleared by the shrink’s office, but that won’t take long,” Barton said. “You should be fit to return in the next week. That said, I’m still urging Lieutenant O’Donnell and Captain Jones to consider removing you from this case.”
“What?” She shook her head. “Sir, I’m fit to work. I’ll be ready.”
“This was a racially motivated shooting in an already tense case. Given the circumstances, I just think it’s in your best interest to take a step back from this one.”
“Sir, you just told me this was a clean shoot. Why am I being benched?”
“It’s protocol. You’re too close to the situation.”
Her gut tightened. “Because I’m the same color as Sam Ganesan.”
Barton sighed. “It’s a loaded situation.”
“Yes, and I handled it to the best of my abilities.”
“And now it’s time to take a step back. I’m not trying to bust your balls here, Sidhari. I’m just trying to do my job.”
Just like that, she was off the case. Barton and Portacio would submit their findings to Lieutenant O’Donnell and Captain Jones, and they would reassign her. They excused themselves from the conference table and left. Amanda didn’t move from her spot at the table. She watched them disappear down the hallway, taking her case with them.
II.
Bridger never meant to move in with Adam. It happened slowly and over the course of the week since finding himself on Adam’s haggard, leather sofa. Waking to the light streaming in from Adam’s windows was surreal at first. In the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness, Bridger completely forgot about the last six months. He thought he was home in Camden and everything was right where he had left it. Then, he would remember that the creaky floor and the paper-thin walls belonged to a rickety building in Jonestown. Bridger never felt particularly obligated to return to his rented room, and Adam never asked him to leave. Soon, they fell into a routine, and that felt comfortable, too. Adam worked days at the repair shop and Bridger kept the house tidy by cleaning up the dishes and taking out the trash. In the afternoons, he went out for walks in the neighborhood just to pass the time until Adam came home to cook dinner. Some nights, they went out for beers afterwards, and others they stayed in. They talked about nothing because it was easy. Bridger craved easy. By midnight, Adam always went to bed in his room, and Bridger returned to the sofa.