The Survivor

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Now Jason stirred and rose, rubbing his black eye, his hair practically on end. Yawning, he regarded the furnishings. “Who knew MonkeyBiz12 came from serious dosh?”

  Nate elected to interpret the question as rhetorical. He closed his eyes, breathed, tested his muscles. Left hand weak. Right hand tingly but functional. He raised his left foot and rotated it, as if stretching his ankle. It seemed to be back online, another morning semirecovery. Padding across the kitchen, he set down the Beretta on the counter, found a glass of water, and swallowed his pills. Antibiotics for the mostly healed stab wound in his shoulder. Riluzole to slow the ALS symptoms. Fat lot of good the latter were doing of late—not so much as a charitable placebo bump. If his condition worsened, it would be too risky for him to break cover and go to a doctor. He was over the crest already, the brake lines snipped; there wasn’t much he could do now but buckle up.

  Cielle and Janie shuffled down the hall, hungover from stress. The four of them regarded one another, at a collective loss. Casper’s nails clacked against the floorboards next, a slight unevenness to the cadence as he favored one paw. Nate regarded him with empathy. Like father, like son. Given the fight in Cielle’s room, he considered what he owed this animal. Crouching, he scratched the dog’s underbelly, a hind leg springing into instinctive motion.

  Janie spoke first. “Let’s get everyone cleaned up.”

  They located towels and rotated through various showers, reconvening in the living room. With a nurse’s frank touch, Janie tended to the various injuries. A flashlight check of Jason’s eye for a corneal abrasion, then Advil for the swelling. Butterfly stitches from the Jeep’s first-aid kit for the gash at Nate’s hairline. She leaned over him, close, forehead furrowed with concentration, front teeth dimpling her puffy lower lip. The pinch of her fingers. Her soft breaths across his face. Those light freckles, stamping the bridge of her unimprovable nose.

  Finally she leaned back. “That should do you till you run into the next Ukrainian.” Despite the joke he could see the dread in her eyes, hiding just beneath the surface.

  “What now?” Jason asked, sounding an inappropriate note of adventuresomeness.

  “I’m starving,” Cielle said.

  Jason hugged her from the side. “You still freaked out?” he asked. “From last night?”

  “If we get scared, the terrorists win,” Cielle said. She was joking in a Fox News sort of way, but also not. Nate couldn’t help but note the quaver in her voice.

  “I checked the fridge already,” Janie said. “The cabinets. Looks like they cleared out most of the food before they left on vacation. Someone should go on a grocery run.”

  “I will,” Jason said. Before Nate could protest, he held up his hand. “C’mon, man, no one’s looking for me, really. At least as much. Plus, I can go stealth. I took tae kwon do.” He put more into the pronunciation than seemed necessary.

  “Yeah,” Cielle said. “A yellow belt.”

  “With a green stripe!”

  “Kids, enough.” Janie peeled a few bills from her wallet. “Be careful. To the store and home, Bruce Lee. Don’t stop anywhere.”

  “Except Nicky D’s,” Jason said.

  “What’s Nicky D’s?” she asked wearily.

  “What’s Nicky D’s?” Jason clutched for air. “Only the best pizza ever.”

  It struck Nate that Jason had the emotional maturity of Charles. Or vice versa. One frozen in time. The other painfully present. “I don’t know about this,” Nate said. “I think I should go.”

  “With your head all Frankensteined up?” Jason said.

  “He’s right, Dad,” Cielle said. “You should stay here.”

  “Chillax, man. It’ll be cool.” Jason started for the door, then turned. “I’m a strict vegetarian,” he declared.

  Janie now, through a tight smile: “Of course you are.”

  “I’m just saying, I hope that’s cool. With the pizza, I mean.”

  “Anything’s fine, Jason.”

  “Jay,” he pleaded. Then: “Can Cielle come with me?”

  “No,” Nate and Janie said at the same time.

  “Okay, okay.” With a cheery shrug, he headed for the front door. “And by the way, Mrs. Overbay. Bruce Lee practiced Jeet Kune Do, not—”

  “Back door, Jason,” Janie said.

  He reversed course and headed out. Cielle thumped herself down on the couch, and a moment later a reality show blinked to life, strident women dripping with jewels and makeup, debating over Beverly Hills sushi restaurants. She called the dog over and hugged him, her savior, twirling his ears and baby-talking to him. His eyes closed in languid pleasure as he basked in her affection. He looked ridiculous, a dragon getting a pedicure.

  Janie walked across to the wall of glass and stared out at the reservoir. Nate came up quietly beside her. With the midday heat wavering through, warming them, they watched the scene below, a painting come to life. The sun slanted down on the water, turning it to a sheet of hammered copper. Cyclists circled the path around the perimeter, blurring by beneath them. Couples strolled and held hands. Dogs strained on leashes. Life in motion, everyone oblivious to the troubles of the three people on the near side of the glass—the depleted, tentative family doing their private best. Knowing that the world continued on with its quotidian pleasures and challenges was an unexpected comfort.

  Nate sensed a burn in his left hand, as if he were clenching it, but when he looked down, it was hanging loose. He considered the traitorous muscle beneath the skin.

  “I wish I could call my parents,” Janie said softly. “My friends. But Shevchenko’s men found out about the flight, didn’t they? We don’t know what or who’s being monitored. So we’re just here. In a bubble. Cut off from the world.”

  He couldn’t think of what to say, so he said nothing.

  “I’ll withdraw more money,” she said. “Stop at different ATMs in no particular pattern, hit the daily max. All that Law & Order stuff.”

  Below her words he could make out the faintest suggestion of her extinguished lisp, one of those imperfections that seemed to catch and distill the light of her.

  She placed a hand on the pane, as if testing the heat. “We’re safe here. For the moment. Then what?”

  “I’ll touch base with Abara,” he said, “see if he can give us a time frame for his answer about Witness Security.”

  “And if he can’t get us into the program?”

  “Then you and Cielle should hit the road,” Nate said.

  “I won’t leave,” Janie said. “I feel safer with you. She does, too.”

  “Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Her throat jerked in a strained swallow. Then she was back in control. He risked a direct glance across at her. The sun turned her irises translucent, a postcard shade of blue, and he forced his gaze back to the reservoir before she could read his expression.

  Behind them, from the TV: “Bitch, you wouldn’t know good hamachi if it bit you in the—”

  “Call Abara,” she said.

  He moved to open his cell phone, both arms giving off a dull ache, as if sore from lifting weights. He added the new symptom to his mental list and did his best to move on. There was no time for foreboding just now.

  His fingers clawed weakly around the edge of the clamshell phone, finally prying it open, and he turned it on with a jab of his thumb. A voice mail waited from his boss. He knew that something was amiss when she used her title in the salutation.

  “Nate, Sergeant Jen Brown here. It’s been brought to our attention that you were detained as a person of interest in an ongoing terrorism investigation and that there are charges pending. Needless to say, you are suspended until the matter resolves. I need you to come in, clean out your desk, submit final paperwork on the last few notifications you served, and sign some papers from Legal.”

  The last one being, of course, the real reason she wanted him there.

  He shook off the call and dialed Abara, who answered in a hu
shed tone. “Hang on.” Some rustling as he moved around, and then Nate could hear wind whipping across the receiver. “You can’t just call me, Overbay.”

  “When will you have an answer about Witness Security?”

  “Soon. Look, sit tight. The DA is less than thrilled with me for releasing you before arraignment. I can’t talk right now, and not over the phone.”

  “We barely got out of the house,” Nate said. “We’re twisting in the wind here, Abara.”

  A sigh blew across the receiver. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “How will we—”

  “I’ll text you a meet time, and we can talk through our next move.”

  The connection clicked off. Nate used his chin to flick the cell phone closed. He looked across at Janie and said, “Tomorrow,” and she nodded solemnly and turned back to the view.

  For a few moments, they stood quietly, the stillness gnawing at them—the first relative calm they’d had since fleeing the house. Cielle’s face cracked, and then, unprovoked, she started weeping on the couch. Janie went to her and held her while Nate watched impotently from the kitchen, consumed by visions of bloody vengeance. They passed another hour or so in silence, Cielle zoned out on the sofa, Janie and Nate lost in various imagined scenarios.

  Cielle was crossing to the kitchen with her water glass when the rear door flew open and a hooded form leaped in at her. “Bleeeh!”

  Janie shrieked, and Nate all but levitated from the floor, grabbing for the gun before spotting the pizza box in the attacker’s hand.

  Shithead Jason pulled his hood down and grinned broadly. “Did I scare you?”

  Cielle rolled her gaze to the ceiling, an exaggerated gesture that showed off swaths of maroon eye shadow. “That was so unscary it was comfortable.”

  Jason looked disappointed.

  “In fact,” Cielle continued, “it gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.”

  Janie was sagging against the wall, pale, twisting a clawful of shirt fabric at her chest. “If you do that again,” she told Jason, “I will shoot you myself.”

  Jason looked across at Nate, breathing steam, holding the gun, and he reached over and let the pizza drop gently onto the counter. “Roger that.” He licked his lips nervously. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean anything. You don’t have to get all pissed off. I’m sick of being treated at like an asshole by you guys.”

  “Then quit acting like one,” Nate said.

  The blow registered immediately on Jason’s face.

  “Dad,” Cielle said. “Jesus.”

  “No,” Jason said. “It’s fine. Whatever.” He ambled out and returned with several bags of groceries—milk, orange juice, bread, a tub of Red Vines, cookies, dog food, spaghetti, ice cream, peanut butter, and Mountain Dew. Nate moved to pick up one of the white plastic bags, and the handles slipped right through his left hand. He tried again, focusing, but the weight tugged his fingers open, a carton of Ben & Jerry’s rolling onto the floor.

  Janie called across the counter, “Need a hand?”

  “No thanks.” He reached with his right hand but found it shaking. Clasp and lift, he told himself. But again his fingers pulled apart.

  Cielle and Jason were playing around, enacting a sword fight with Red Vines. Sweat dripped from Nate’s forehead. Nausea swept his stomach. He reached again.

  Janie, at the fridge now: “Everything cool?”

  “I got it,” he said. “No problem.”

  The bag came an inch or two off the tile and fell, the jar of peanut butter bouncing free. He stared at his fingers in chagrin, Cielle and Jason’s laughter washing over him from behind.

  He straightened up and said gruffly, “Cielle, come put this away.”

  “You’re right there, Dad.”

  “Just do it, please.” Angrier than he’d intended.

  Janie’s head swiveled in his direction, taking in his face and then the fallen groceries. He pretended not to notice.

  Crossing to the pizza, he flipped open the lid. Hawaiian style—pineapple and Canadian bacon. “Aren’t you a vegetarian?” he said flatly.

  “Oh,” Jason said. “Yeah. Except for bacon.”

  A round of looks was exchanged.

  “What?” Jason said. “Think about it. What makes everything good? Bacon. A BLT. Bacon. Salad? Bacon. A baked potato—”

  “Right. Bacon. I get it.”

  “I figure if I just eat bacon, I can be a good vegetarian. Oh—and gyros.”

  Somehow they got through the afternoon, keeping clear of the front windows despite the pulled blinds. Sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa back, Nate dozed off in the fall of sunshine near the wall of glass, Casper curling across his thighs the way he had as a puppy, his paws and rump spilling over the sides; it had never occurred to the dog that he’d ceased being lap size years ago.

  At some point between sleep and waking, Charles made a brief appearance, stroking Casper’s fur with a bloody hand missing two fingers at the knuckles. “A bacon-eating vegetarian,” he said. “If you don’t punch that douche, I’m gonna.”

  “Okay,” Nate mumbled. “Do it when I get up.”

  * * *

  When he came to, it was dark; they’d agreed to keep the lights mostly off in the house so as not to attract attention. He slid out from under the heap of warm fur, Casper emitting a rumble of irritation.

  With two spoons and one bucket of Cherry Garcia, Cielle and Jason were zoned out in front of the television. Nate paused by the doorway and took them in, the light flickering over their faces, turning the room into an aquarium, peaceful and blue. Their hands were intertwined on the cushion, and there was something about it so youthful and unconscious—chaste, even—that Nate skipped a breath. Cielle’s spoon scraped the bottom of the empty container, and she peered down and said, “Rats.”

  Jason’s spoon, en route to his mouth, paused. He moved it across to Cielle, and she took the last bite of ice cream. “Thanks,” she mumbled through a full mouth.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.

  Their eyes never left the screen.

  Nate felt the faintest softening of the verdict he’d been carrying around since Shithead Jason’s first appearance. Maybe, just maybe, these two weren’t a universe apart from a young couple playing house and serving each other Eggos in a tiny Westwood apartment.

  Nate drifted back down the dark hall in search of Janie. The light in the master bathroom was on, and he found her sitting on the lip of the tub, clutching tweezers, focused on her hand. A bottle of rubbing alcohol stood within reach on the sink.

  She looked up and smiled. “Glad you got some sleep.”

  He came closer and took in her knuckles, shiny from striking the door to the garage during Yuri’s assault. The diamond engagement ring had bitten into the flesh, bruising her finger. It struck him that she had spent the morning tending to everyone else’s wounds and no one had taken care of her.

  He took a knee before her. “Lemme see.”

  She put her hand in his, giving it a little southern-belle flair. He tilted it toward the harsh light of the vanity. Embedded in the pale white dermis, a scattering of splinters.

  He moved her ring around so he could take stock of all the splinters.

  She frowned down at Pete’s ring. “It’s in the way, isn’t it?” She tugged the ring off and threw it. It clanged off the sink and wall, then rattled around on the tile for what seemed an unnaturally long time.

  “They can consider it rental money for the house,” she said. “Now get on with it.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Tweezers.”

  “Tweezers.” She slapped them into his palm.

  He looked at her. “This is gonna hurt.”

  “I know.”

  His grasp was suddenly, inexplicable steady. He worked at the splinters, her delicate hand jerking in his. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  And then, “I’m sorry.” And, “I’m sorry.”

  He extracted the last one and reach
ed for the alcohol and a bag of cotton balls that had fallen into the sink basin. He doused one of the balls, which shrank with the moisture, and then he was dabbing gently at the tender underskin of her hand. Janie bit her lip; her eyes watered; her bare feet twisted this way and that.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  And then it was done, and he kept her hand and he stayed there on one knee before her, his eyes downcast, and he was still saying it, the words having migrated to another meaning: “I’m sorry. I’m—”

  She stilled his mouth with a kiss.

  Tender and soft. And then less tender, less soft.

  He rose awkwardly to a half crouch, and she leaned back on the tub, parting her legs to let him nearer. Their lips stayed attached as if they were afraid to break apart. Then they were standing, shuffling together toward the dark bedroom, knocking knees and half tripping, and she fell back on the mattress, one hand hooking the back of his neck to pull him closer, closer.

  Rolling. Twisting. Pants tangled on ankles. The warmth of her laid bare against him—thighs, stomach, arms matching flesh to flesh, zippering up into one body. She gripped him tight, ankles crossed at the small of his back, her nails breaking the skin of his shoulder blade. Her mouth at his collarbone, blurring the words: “Why’d you make me wait so long?”

  After, they lay, a cross section of legs and arms, breathing hard. Her blinks grew longer, and then she was asleep. Basking in the silent glow of her, he tried not to think of the seconds slipping away, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  Chapter 41

  As they ate cereal on the couch the next morning, a text arrived from Abara: 9PM. TRAVEL TOWN, GRIFFITH PARK. LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE NO 3025. The phone made its solemn rounds, from Nate to Janie to Cielle to Jason.