Another Man's Treasure

by J. A. Rock

  “So what’s your plan?” Ilia asked.

  “Plan?”

  “You’re gonna keep me locked up here? For how long?”

  “For as long as you’re useful.”

  His body responded to the implications of those quiet words—his heart rate increased, his skin prickled, his muscles tensed—but he couldn’t get his mind on the same page. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t particularly want to be alive either.

  He got up and went to the bathroom. Nick didn’t try to stop him.

  In the bathroom he squeezed his eyes shut as memory washed over him. If he hadn’t gotten up that night, he could have been in bed with Mikhail when the police came. Could have died with Mikhail. Could have taken the bullet for him—and then wouldn’t his dad have felt like shit? Killing his own son.

  What if his dad didn’t mind? Was glad to have had the excuse?

  His stomach growled. He was fucking starving—not that he’d say anything to Nick.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Nick was back at the table. He was wearing Mikhail’s bracelet. The kettle was rattling. Any minute, it would start whistling. Mikhail had hated the whistle, always throwing his hands dramatically over his ears and yelling, “Shut that thing off!” while Ilia laughed and took his time removing the kettle from the heat.

  “I’m having tea,” Nick said without looking up. “Would you like some?”

  “No, I don’t want tea, you fucker,” Ilia muttered.

  Nick didn’t respond.

  A moment later, the whistle started. Nick didn’t get up. Didn’t even look away from the paper he was making notes on. Ilia tried to ignore the sound. But it got more and more insistent. Steam shot from the kettle’s spout, and the whistle became a scream.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Ilia demanded.

  Nick’s eyes tracked the page he was on, and he murmured something to himself as he made another note. He acted as if he couldn’t hear the kettle at all.

  Ilia rolled his eyes and started for the kitchen.

  “Leave it,” Nick said.

  “What the fuck?” He took another step.

  Nick’s gun was trained on him so fast Ilia nearly pissed himself. No. Fuck, all right, I am scared. I don’t fucking want this. I don’t want to go like this.

  “Sit.”

  Ilia wanted to challenge him. Or what, you’ll shoot me? Go a-fucking-head. But whatever kind of hero he’d hoped he could be was a joke. With a gun on him, Ilia could barely make his muscles work enough to obey, let alone resist. He sat on the floor.

  The kettle continued to shriek. Nick kept the pistol on Ilia a moment longer, then pocketed it and went back to his paperwork. Eventually the water boiled down to nothing, and the gas flame licked the bottom of the kettle until it was black. Smoke rose, and Ilia waited for the smoke detector to go off, but nothing happened. Finally, when the kettle was half-charred and the kitchen stank with the smell of burning and Ilia felt sure there’d be a fire, Nick got up and turned the burner off. Set the kettle aside.

  Returned to the table and sat.

  V

  In the afternoon, Nick went back to the locked closet and pulled out two plastic containers of chili. They’d been frozen, and they dripped condensation. Ilia’s chili was still a block of ice in the middle, but he ate it all anyway.

  “So if I help you figure out how to run the business,” Ilia said bitterly, licking his spoon. “Do I get to leave?”

  Nick finally looked at him, but only briefly. “Depends how helpful you are.”

  It felt stupidly satisfying to have Nick’s attention for a second.

  “I know who Dasha is,” Ilia said. “I was over at Mikhail’s once when he was there. I know he hid some shit for Mikhail a couple of months ago, but I don’t know if he’s still got it.”

  Nick nodded. “Dasha. He was Mikhail’s man. I know him too, but he doesn’t like me much.”

  Does anyone? Ilia wanted to demand.

  “Kysna,” Nick went on. “I think I’ll make Kysna my second in command. He has always taken my side. Told Mikhail not to treat me like dirt.”

  Ilia’s jaw trembled. If Mikhail treated you like dirt, it’s because you are. You’re worse than dirt.

  “Is that it?” Nick asked.

  A flash of anger. “I didn’t get mixed up in this. It was Mikhail’s business, not mine.”

  Nick rubbed his chin. “Who is Lawrence Upsiller?”

  Ilia hesitated.

  “Can’t trust that one, Ilie. I’ll have to get rid of him, before he throws me to the wolves.”

  Could Lawrence Upsiller have sold Mikhail out? Maybe it wasn’t stellar detective work that had led the police to the sanctuary. Maybe someone among Mikhail’s associates was a traitor.

  He stared at Nick.

  Maybe Mikhail’s brother was the fucking traitor.

  “I don’t know who he is,” Ilia said slowly.

  “Oh, bullshit. Bullshiiiiiit.” Nick tossed his fork across the kitchen. It landed in the sink. He looked at Ilia balefully. “Don’t bullshit me. Please. Out of respect, don’t bullshit me that way.”

  “I don’t fucking respect you.”

  Nick leaned forward. “I’ve had enough of your shitty attitude, you little bitch. I don’t know if Mikhail thought the princess act was cute or what, but I fuckin’ don’t.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Nick leaned back. Regarded Ilia, his expression unreadable. “You help me, we might just be able to figure out how it is that my brother’s dead.” He glanced at the papers on the table, then back at Ilia. “Mikhail would want to see you to cooperating with me.”

  “Mikhail hated you,” Ilia snapped.

  Nick grinned slowly, haltingly, like he didn’t quite know how to. “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know.”

  Nick flinched, but maintained his nervous, crooked grin.

  Pathetic. Just like Mikhail had always said. Nick was pathetic. A joke.

  Emboldened, Ilia went on, “Mikhail can’t see anything. He’s dead. But if he could, he’d hate you. He’d be even more ashamed of you now than he was already. If that’s even fucking possible.”

  Nick let his arms hang down until his fingers almost brushed the floor. Tilted his head. “You don’t think he can see?”

  Ilia’s stomach dropped sharply. “Of course not. He’s gone.”

  Ilia saw Nick realize he’d touched a nerve. Saw dark satisfaction infuse that lingering smile. “You don’t think there’s more?” Nick asked. “That once you’re dead, you get the best seat in the house?”

  Ilia didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about it. Maybe he believed in the afterlife in some vague way, but not the way Nick was talking about it. “No,” he said evenly. “I don’t think Mikhail’s sitting on a fucking cloud watching us.”

  “No.” Nick’s voice was soft. “He wouldn’t be up in the clouds, would he?”

  That hit Ilia hard, shame and anger winding through him. Don’t fucking respond. Just don’t.

  “You believe in God, though, at least?” Nick pressed.

  “I don’t know,” Ilia said coldly. “I don’t think about that.”

  “Oh, but you should.” Nick rubbed his nose then sniffed. “It is just like your generation, to assume there are no consequences to your actions. But God sees all.”

  “Then He sees what you’re doing too, right?”

  “Mm. God and I have an understanding.”

  That made Ilia angrier. “You act like a sick fuck, and He pretends not to see?”

  Nick turned from Ilia. “Ah, no.” He drummed the table. “I know God sees. The understanding is about redemption. God likes a good story as much as anyone. The weak ones who fawn over him—they are dull. You would not read a book about them. You know?” He placed two fingers on his thigh and ran them down to his knee. “You would read about me.”

  “If the story’s any good, you’d end up dead.”

  “Oh, I suppose. But not
before I asked for forgiveness. Not before I was redeemed.”

  “So you’re going to be a fucking lunatic because you think God will forgive you in the end?”

  Nick shrugged. “That’s His choice.”

  VI

  Another long night. Ilia couldn’t bring himself to try the boiling water plan. Afraid Nick would catch him, but even more afraid of what he’d have to do. Nick was a piece of shit, but Ilia couldn’t fucking pour boiling water on him while he slept. Couldn’t imagine doing that to another human being. The kettle was flimsy—wouldn’t work to knock him out. Nick had put the chair back in the closet, along with the forks they’d used at lunch, so there was nothing Ilia could use as a weapon.

  He’d rather find a way to escape. The balcony doors weren’t locked. And Nick couldn’t stay here with him forever. They’d need to eat, at least.

  Weak.

  He lay in bed and tried to imagine Mikhail’s arms around him.

  I’m sorry. Sorry, I’m weak. I was never like you.

  But Mikhail had liked that Ilia couldn’t kill.

  When Ilia was a kid, at the shooting range on Saturdays with his dad, he’d hated the noise of the guns. Had liked even less the grim line of his father’s mouth when Ilia begged not to have to shoot anymore.

  You are weak.

  He’d learned to fire three different kinds of guns.

  Mikhail had wanted him to have a gun only for protection. Had stroked Ilia’s hair and told him his father was cruel for making him shoot. Said he himself couldn’t shoot birds or squirrels. People, because he had to. But never anything defenseless.

  He wanted his face against Mikhail’s chest now. Wanted Mikhail’s hand on his hair. Wanted to be something defenseless that Mikhail would never hurt.

  Not weak. Just innocent.

  I want to be innocent.

  VII

  “What is your real name?” Nick asked.

  “Ilia.”

  Nick turned on a stove burner, and the blue gas flame flicked up. “What is the name your parents gave you?”

  “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Eli Porter.” Nick nodded at Ilia’s expression. “You think just because you won’t tell me something, I can’t find out?” He filled the blackened kettle. Placed it on the burner. “I’m going to call you Eli. You are not Chechen. And Eli is a perfectly good name.”

  “I won’t answer to it.”

  “I would answer,” he said slowly, “if I were you.” He flipped the lid over the kettle’s spout. “Eli.”

  Ilia clenched his hands.

  “Elijah Porter. Son of Captain Louis Porter.”

  Ilia kept still.

  “I do not care who your father is, Ilie,” Mikhail had said. “I trust you.”

  “The son of a cop,” Nick mused. “I have a question for you, Eli. An important one.” He stepped away from the stove and faced Ilia, dark eyes empty. He leaned forward, bracing himself on the counter. “How do I know you didn’t sell my brother out?”

  A red flood of rage. “I wouldn’t have, you fuck! Not for anything in this world! But I wouldn’t fucking be surprised if you did it!”

  Nick almost smiled. Toed a broken pretzel on the kitchen tile. “You think I did it? To inherit his money? His position? Because I am the least loved child and insane with jealousy? Very tragic.”

  “I’ll bet you fucking did it, you asshole! If I can prove it, I’ll kill you.”

  “How do I know it wasn’t you?” Nick said, so quietly Ilia almost couldn’t hear him over the rush of steam from the kettle. He snapped his fingers. “Because you didn’t run home to Daddy.” He drew his brows together in mock confusion. “Why didn’t you run home to Daddy? Scared we’d know where to find you?” A pause. “Or maybe…maybe you did care about my brother. Maybe you thought you were something more than his whore.”

  “I was!” Ilia snarled. “Much more.”

  Nick shrugged. “To hear him talk, that was not the case.”

  “Shut up, you lunatic! You don’t know anything about it, you fucking liar!” Ilia went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  VIII

  He woke staring at a spot on the wall. Just one spot, dark, near the baseboard, between the night table and the dresser.

  He couldn’t move at first.

  When he could, he turned the light on. The spot was a rusty color. It was Mikhail’s blood. Could only be Mikhail’s blood.

  How had Ilia not noticed it before?

  He started to shake.

  He wasn’t going to cry. But the ache was so deep, and he finally leaned over the bed and threw up.

  He tried not to look at the spot, but it was there. It wouldn’t stop being there, and he closed his eyes and let out a harsh cry.

  The bedroom door opened.

  Nick was silhouetted in the doorway. Just like he’d been years ago.

  “...while you’re fucking your whore.”

  Ilia sobbed.

  What a show.

  He gave a nervous laugh as Nick approached.

  Nick sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t sleep with your racket.”

  His hand was gentle on Ilia’s hair.

  Ilia pointed at the wall. “Not fuckin’ clean,” he whispered hoarsely. “You said it was clean.”

  Nick leaned forward and looked through the darkness at where Ilia was pointing. “Well. They must have missed a spot.”

  Ilia heaved. Nick stroked his neck. “Go to sleep, Eli.”

  Ilia wanted so badly to hit Nick. He tucked his arm underneath him so he wouldn’t. “Can’t.” He choked on another sob. “Not here.”

  “Take the couch.”

  Ilia didn’t move.

  Nick eventually hauled him out of bed. He struggled, but it didn’t do much good. Nick placed him on the couch and covered him, then disappeared into the bedroom.

  The bed creaked as Nick got on it.

  IX

  “This.” Nick dragged the drooping Brugmansia in from the balcony. His hand was wrapped around a thick cluster of stems, like he had the plant by the throat. “What is it?”

  Ilia stared at it. A flash of memory: Mikhail, struggling to carry the flowers in their dark green pot into the apartment. Ilia hurrying to help him, joking that a dozen roses would have been easier.

  “My plant,” Ilia said.

  “You like flowers?”

  “I like those flowers.”

  “Where did you get your plant?”

  Ilia hesitated. “I bought it.”

  Nick gazed at him. “It’s dying,” he said. “I’ll get rid of it.” He reached to pick up the pot.

  Something broke inside Ilia.

  “No!”

  The plant was his last living link to Mikhail. Except for Nick.

  Nick straightened, looking at Ilia.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Ilia said desperately. “Please? I don’t have…. There’s nothing else in here.” He glanced around the barren apartment.

  “Where did you get it?” Nick repeated.

  Ilia studied his feet. His nails needed trimming. A faint bruise at the base of his big toe. Then he looked up at Nick. “Mikhail. Gave it to me.”

  Nick nodded slowly. Left the plant where it was. “All right.”

  That simple? Can’t be.

  “I can keep it?” Ilia asked warily.

  “He was my brother,” Nick said, “even if we did have our differences. Perhaps we honor him by keeping this.”

  For an instant, Ilia almost thought Nick meant it. Then he saw the coldness in Nick’s gaze, the way he looked at the flowers without seeing them.

  Ilia wished Nick would eat a whole fistful of Brugmansia leaves and fall over dead. Wondered wildly if it would be possible to arrange that. If he could somehow poison Nick.

  How? Offer to make him a fucking cup of tea?

  Nick went into the kitchen. Ilia went to the bathroom to get water for the plant.

  X

  Nick was eating pretzels on the
couch. He’d asked Ilia to sit beside him. Kept offering Ilia the bag, but Ilia turned away.

  “So why didn’t you go back home after Mikhail was killed?” Nick asked, his tone conversational. Crunch. “Not welcome there?” Crunch crunch.

  Ilia shook his head.

  “They kick you out before or after you fucked Mikhail Kadyrov?”

  “My father and I don’t get along,” Ilia muttered.

  “Mm.” Nick looked at the blank TV screen. “Same here.”

  Crunch. Crunch crunch crunch crunch.

  Mikhail had never talked much about his father. Ilia was curious in spite of himself. “Your dad was an asshole?”

  “You could say that.” Nick reached into the bag again. Paused. Withdrew his hand. “You know what our father did?” Nick put down the pretzels. “He had a journal. Small, black. The pages—tobacco stains. Curled—you know, from the humidity? He wrote down everything I did wrong. Everything he did not like. Everything I fucked up. And then, when we fought—he’d pull out his little black book and read me my mistakes. The list went back years. Oh, he could hold a grudge. It was pathetic, you know? Pathetic, but it hurt. And he didn’t do it to Mikhail. Only to me.”

  Is this your ‘Why I became an asshole’ story?

  Nick drummed his fingers on the cushion. “He had a phrase, too. In Chechen.” Nick’s next words were a collection of syllables Ilia couldn’t make sense of. “It meant, ‘You’ll pay later.’ So if we were out in public, and I did something he didn’t like, he would say it. And I knew I’d be in trouble when we got home. He could be in mid conversation with a friend or client, and suddenly he’d look at me—” Nick barked out the Chechen words, and Ilia started. “And go right back to talking in English to the other guy. Scared the shit out of me.”

  Ilia stared out the balcony doors. “Yeah, so Mikhail was the favorite, and now you’ve got daddy issues, so you’re gonna take it out on me? Great plan.”

  Nick studied him. “You think it is that simple? Maybe.” He nodded. “Maybe. But I’m not taking anything out on you. I only want your help in claiming what is mine, now that Mikhail is gone.”

  Ilia thought about what he knew from TV or true crime stories or whatever the fuck. People tried to bond with their captors. Because sometimes the crazies could be talked down. Or sometimes the bond became their weakness. What was strange was that he maybe did feel a flash of sympathy for Nick—under the layers of hate. “My dad was an asshole too,” he volunteered finally.