Unraveling Eli

by Jake Irons

  “So he’s in the house?”

  Armand nods.

  “If he’s alive,” Borys says. Armand shrugs.

  “Peter!” Borys calls, one hand around his mouth. “Peter! Nick!”

  Borys waits a few beats before he squeezes my arm and pushes me forward a step. “Call for Eli.”

  I open my mouth, but no sound comes.

  “Call for him,” Borys commands. “Tell him to come out. Now.”

  “Eli…” My voice is so weak, even I can’t hear it. Borys’s fingers crush my arm. “Eli! It’s Tara! I…I’m out here with two men!”

  The barrel of Borys’s gun pushes painfully against my back. “You must think you’re clever.”

  “N-No.”

  “Tell him to come out.”

  “Eli!” I call, half-sobbed. “Come out!”

  I’m so scared I’m panting. Any second now, he’ll come out and they’ll shoot him. Or he won’t and they’ll shoot me. I hear my ragged breaths and clamp my teeth down on my inner cheek. Hold it together. Pay attention. Try to find a way out.

  We’re near Eli’s huge shed, facing the house. We can see the front door and the doors to the deck. My gaze ping pongs back and forth as I wonder where Eli will appear. Will he appear?

  He could be dead—or gone. If he’s gone—

  Wait! I don’t hear Acer. Where is Acer? Does the fact that he’s not here mean—

  BLAM!

  I shriek and fall to my knees as a terrifyingly loud shot rips through the silence. It rings in my ears, and I—there’s blood on my shirt, on my arms. Am I shot?! Am I? I run my hands over my stomach, down my arms. I don’t think—

  BLAM BLAM BLAM!

  I fall to the ground and cover my head. I look up and see Borys shooting past the front of the house, toward where Eli and I made our snowman. I look left, and I realize where the blood came from. Armand is down beside me. There’s a big hole where his face should be.

  Borys roars, grabs me by my hair and jerks me to my feet. “Come out or I’m gonna blow her brains out through her ear!”

  I cry out in pain, and Borys yells, “Shut the fuck up!” He lets go of my hair and wraps his left arm around me. Then he smashes his gun against my ear so hard it rings. “You’ve got five seconds to come out!” he yells to the trees.

  “Oh God, oh please oh God—”

  “Shut up!” he yells at me.

  Oh God oh God oh God—

  “Five—”

  Oh God oh God oh God oh God—

  “Four—”

  Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God—

  “Three—”

  There’s someone behind us, and Borys spins around. I fall to the ground as he fires wildly over the truck. The shots stop, and I lift my head in time to see him drop his spent mag and pull another from his pocket.

  I frantically search for Eli among the trees. I see movement—but that’s not Eli; that’s Acer running away.

  “If that’s the way you want it!” Borys screams. He turns his gun to me, and another shot rings out. My whole body seizes in terror, but Borys didn’t fire his gun. I see his face freeze in a mask of shock. Red blooms near the center of his chest. For a split second I think it’s some kind of spill, then Borys crumples to the ground.

  Eli is standing behind him, his revolver in his hand. He gives Borys a kick in the legs. Then a kick in the side. Borys is not getting up.

  I watch Eli’s face as he kneels down beside me. How wide his eyes are. “Are you okay?” His voice is deep and sort of scratchy.

  “Yeah,” I rasp.

  Eli gives me a searching look, then stands and calls for Acer. Acer bounds up, barking, and Eli gives him a quick rub before turning to check on Armand, who is very obviously dead. There’s so much blood around him. Borys too. I don’t want to see, but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself from looking. Eli leaves Armand and walks to the Subaru.

  Chris…

  I rise, and take one shaky step, two, three, four more shaky steps, and I’m close enough that I can see in. I cover my mouth, and jump when Eli puts a hand on my shoulder. He walks me back a few steps before returning to the car to open the driver’s door. He checks Chris’s pulse. Pointless. I stare at his ruined face, trying to comprehend that I did this. Me.

  “No you didn’t,” Eli says.

  I blink at him, confused. Was I speaking out loud?

  “Yes. You might be in shock.”

  Oh.

  “You should sit down.”

  Okay.

  I’m not sure where to sit. I look helplessly at Eli, who shuts the car door, then comes and takes my hand. I like the feeling of his big fingers around mine as he leads me over to the back of his truck. He lowers the gate then lifts me up. I try to read the look on his face but it’s impossible.

  With my legs dangling off the tailgate, I feel like a kid. A stupid kid. Tears fill my eyes as I watch Eli walk back to the Subaru. He reaches around Chris for something. A moment later, the car begins to roll—slowly. Eli must have put it in neutral, and now he’s pushing it down the drive. He moves the wheel, and the Subaru, right, pushing it to a spot beside his truck.

  It occurs to me once he’s put the car back in park that I should have offered to help. All of this is my fault. I wipe my cheeks repeatedly as an empty coolness fills my insides. I can’t believe that this is real.

  Eli Murphy is dragging Borys and Armand to the Subaru, lifting them into the trunk. I think about how last night we were fucking on his couch and I just want to throw up. For a second, I think I might really throw up. I widen my legs so it won’t hit my knees, and then Acer trots to my side.

  He looks up at me, and I feel so awful, looking in his earnest doggy eyes—I start to cry. I fucked up so much. I’m so sorry, Chris. I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up.

  I wipe tears from my eyes and almost scream; Eli is standing right in front of me.

  “Can you walk?”

  Can I walk? That seems like a weird question for him to ask. I look at my legs—they look fine. “Yeah.”

  “Go into the house. Sit on the couch. Wait for me.”

  He helps me down, and his question makes more sense once my feet hit the ground; my legs feel like noodles. I somehow make it to the steps, through the front door, and onto the couch, where I sit on the front edge of the middle cushion, my knees together, my arms bunched over my knees.

  I’m shivering, and I’m rubbing my arms with my hands. I close my eyes, but all I see is blood and dead people. I’m a horrible person. I think I’m going to throw up.

  I fucked up so much. I’m so sorry, Chris. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know when I became such a selfish, bad person. It never dawned on me to think about why Eli might have chosen to disappear from public life. When I flew to Colorado I was only thinking about myself. Tara. I needed—my job, a story, a warm body. Eli Murphy—I wanted to get a piece of him, the mystery playboy. I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too.

  I wrap my arms around myself. Chris is dead because of that. Because of me. I killed him. I killed Chris.

  The door swings open, and Eli stomps in, Acer at his heels. The fluffy dog tries to follow Eli into the living space, but Eli orders him back to the kitchen. Eli sits in the recliner across from me, and like me, he stays on the edge of the seat. He latches his hands together and leans to rest his elbows on his knees. He looks tired. Worried. He won’t look at me. He looks at something on the floor between us. I notice his sleeves are rolled up, and his skin has been scrubbed clean of blood. There’s still some on his shirt, though.

  Eli takes a deep breath. Then his gaze rises to meet mine, and he looks so miserable, so doomed, so much like I feel right now, my throat stings again, and tears fill my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry! So sorry. This is all my fault. I was so thoughtless and—”

  “Who did you tell?” he asks. His voice is quiet. Measured.

  “My friend,” I say miserably. “At least, I thought she was my friend.”

  �
�The one you mentioned? The graphic artist?”

  I nod. “Frankie.”

  Eli grimaces. “Did you have any idea she was connected to Michal and his gang?”

  “I don’t even know who they are! Is, what’s his name, Michal? Is he the top guy?”

  Eli nods.

  “Do you think she’s okay? Frankie?” I know it’s probably the wrong thing to ask. And I know I should be furious at Frankie. But the last thing I want is for someone else to die. And I don’t know for sure she set me up. It still seems so hard to believe.

  Eli gives me a long look before saying, “I don’t know. If she’s someone to Michal, maybe. If she’s just someone looking for a bounty…” he trials off, but the tilt of his voice makes what he didn’t say obvious.

  “There’s—you have a bounty?”

  Eli nods grimly. “$500k dead. One million alive.”

  “But Borys and—?”

  “They’re Michal’s guys.” Eli holds up his hand. “Stop asking questions. Look at me. In the eye.” He holds my gaze for a moment. It feels like it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life not to look away. “Tell me everything you know about your friend,” he says. “And everything you ever remember her saying about me.”

  I do, as fast as I can, although Eli interrupts me with a dozen questions. When I’m finished, I sit on my hands, something I used to do when I was in trouble as a kid.

  “You had no idea about Michal? Or the bounty?” Eli asks. “None of it?”

  I nod, blinking through fresh tears. “I still don’t. Well, other than that you just told me there was a bounty. But I promise I had no idea about anything. I still don’t know who Michal is. Or why he wants…to get you.”

  Eli stares at me, solemn-faced, and then he stands. “I’ll explain it all when we’re on the road. But I got one more question, and it’s an important one: is there anyone else?

  I blink at him, not understanding his question. “What do you mean?”

  “Was Borys working with anyone else? Did Michal send anyone else, or just these four?”

  I shake my head. “I have no idea. I knew about Peter and the other guy, because Borys kept trying to contact him. I don’t think there was anyone else.”

  “Okay. We still need to leave as soon as possible. I’m going to pack. Quickly.”

  Eli moves toward the stairs, and I cry, “Wait! Don’t leave!” He turns fully to face me, one hand on the rail. “What if there are more of them?” I’m ashamed at the quiver in my voice, that I’m so scared, when all I have the right to be is sorry.

  “That’s why we need to hurry. I—shit. My phone. Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “My phone got fucked up. With Peter and the other guy earlier. Fuck!”

  “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  Eli massages his temples. “There’s a guy I called. A U.S. Marshal. He’s supposed to call me back.”

  I’m not sure if my hysterical laughter is appropriate. Maybe not. Eli seems to think I’ve lost it. “So you’re telling me—” I can’t stop giggling. “You’re telling me that a mob boss is out to kill us, and—and—and—” I’m laughing again.

  “Tara, are you having some kind of breakdown?”

  “Of course I am!” I cry. I take a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m—” I take another breath then let it out in a rush. So I have to take a third deep breath before saying, “It’s just, like, there’s more to the plan than wait for a call back, right?”

  “Well, not exactly. We’re going to leave.”

  “And do what?”

  Eli’s nostrils flare. “Get the fuck out of town, what do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, I just—can’t we go to the police?”

  Eli opens his mouth, then closes it. “Fuck. I don’t know. Maybe we should. It’s not how we planned.”

  “What? Who is we? The guy you were trying to call? Is he, like, with Witness Protection or something?”

  “Yes. It’s run out of the U.S. Marshals Office. But technically I’m not in the program.”

  “You’re not?”

  “It’s part of that explanation I said I would give you once we’re in the truck. Bottom line is I’m technically out here on my own. But I do have a contact in the Marshals Office. I left him a voicemail.”

  “A voicemail!”

  “Calm down, we’ll be fine,” Eli assures me. “We can go into town and I can buy a new phone.”

  “But what if there are more guys waiting for us?”

  “I’d be surprised if Michal sent anyone else. And even if he did, I don’t think they’ll be waiting for us at Target.”

  “What if you called this guy on my phone? Why wait?”

  “You’re phone…” Eli thinks about it for a second the nods. “All right. Just in case he’s tried to call me back. But lets be quick.”

  I follow Eli outside. Acer comes with us. “My bag is in the Subaru.”

  I stay by Eli’s truck while he retrieves the bag. I fish out my phone, unlock it, and hand it to him. He dials a number and after a few seconds, hisses, “Where are you mother fucker?” After a few more seconds, he says, “Harris. This is Eli Murphy. I’ve got four dead gangsters at my house and a civilian who you might want to debrief. I’ve lost my other number. We’re leaving this one behind too. I’m going to call you from a new number. One with a 303 or 720 area code. Answer it.”

  He hangs up the phone and hands it so me. “You got anything else in your bag that can be tracked?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A GPS, iPad. Another phone?”

  I shake my head. “I have an Apple Watch.”

  “Get it out.”

  I retrieve the watch. “Does it have to stay? I don’t think it works without the phone.”

  “You don’t know?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t you?”

  “No,” he says. “As a rule I avoid any ‘smart’ technology. I think we need to leave it here too.”

  Despite everything else that’s happened today, I still have room on my emotional rollercoaster for whatever shade of disappointment is felt when one has to leave behind a valued trinket while running for their life.

  “You need to leave it. And your phone. We can hide it somewhere. There’s a bookshelf downstairs with just enough space underneath it—”

  “Wait!” I jump up. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  My gaze flies to the end of the driveway. “Eli, there’s a car at the end of your drive.”

  It’s a gray car. Nondescript. Maybe a Taurus?

  Eli grabs my hand. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” he says.

  “Me neither. Fuck, what do we do?”

  Eli begins edging us toward the house, and I notice the front passenger window roll down.

  “Oh God,” I whisper. “What do we do?”

  Before Eli can answer, the front passenger does. He leans out the window and levels a gun at us.

  “Down!” Eli yells as shots are fired.

  Chapter 3

  Eli

  Three years ago

  The rapping on the door is loud, quick, demanding. I jump up from the couch, my heart pounding, a large, gourmet steak knife in my hand. I wish I had a gun.

  They’re not illegal in the city, but they’re more difficult to come by than where I’m from. And besides, having one would be akin to committing social suicide. At least it would be in my circle.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

  I glance around my apartment, like a back door is going to magically appear. Even if it did, I’m still four floors up. My apartment is spacious by New York standards. Two bedrooms, one and a half-baths, 500 square feet of open living/dining space. A kitchen big enough for a granite-topped peninsula. But no fire escape. Not even an outdoor space I can hang a bed-sheet from.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

  I creep to the door, sliding my socks over the hardwood floors to keep from making noise.
I stand just to the right of the hinges and wait. I’m going to look through the peephole, but not until I hear more knocking.

  One of the stories in my book, one of the terrifyingly true stories I included in my National Book Award-nominated modern crime novel, is that of Herman Muenster.

  Not his real name. In real life, he was a wine importer who worked out a money-laundering scheme with Michal, then tried to skim off the top. Stupid. Getting involved with organized crime is stupid enough, but trying to cheat them? You’re looking to die. And die Herman did.

  In my book, I made him a cheese importer, which at the time I thought was clever. It’s that cute shit that’s got me holed up in my apartment overlooking Washington Market Park.

  Herman holed up in his apartment, too, when Michal discovered his stupid scheme. He sent a few of his boys to flush Herman out, but Herman didn’t budge. So Michal had his guys sleep in their car, in view of Herman’s apartment, for three days. He told them to knock regularly, to make noise, to be seen. Then he had them back off, and for two days they watched from a distance, out of sight.

  On the third day, Michal sent Armand, his most experienced lieutenant. Armand posted a guy at either end of Herman’s hall, covered the peephole with his gun, and knocked. And knocked. And knocked and knocked and knocked. For nearly half an hour Armand knocked, a steady, continuous rhythm that eventually drove Herman out of his chill. Mr. Muenster crept to the door and peeped through the peephole, but it was covered. When Armand heard a hesitant “Who’s there?” from the other side of Herman’s door, he fired three rounds through the peephole. Two went through Herman’s eye.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

  I whip my eye to the peephole, and I’m relieved that it is not covered. I see someone outside the door. A woman. I’m so keyed up it takes me half a minute to recognize her. Nadia. She’s hidden her elfin face behind thick sunglasses, and she has a gray hoodie pulled over her head. But I recognize her pout, and the beauty mark just beneath her bitable bottom lip.

  I scramble to unlock the chain and deadbolt. I swing the door open, and Nadia startles. She stares at me like she didn’t actually expect me to be home.

  “What the hell?” I stick my head into the hall, just to make sure there isn’t anyone else out there. “Are you gonna come in?”