Pulse

by Michael Harvey

  Daniel appeared as a tiny black wedge. He looked like he was barely moving, but Harry knew that was a lie. He’d run with Daniel many times, but only once in a race—a three-miler in Watertown when Daniel was thirteen. They went out with the lead pack, college runners and older. Harry stayed with the group for the first mile then told Daniel he was going to dial it back. As he dropped off the pace, he stole a look at his kid brother. His face was a mask, no pain, no fatigue, no acknowledgment of Harry’s imminent demise. Daniel came in third that day. The next week he started running for Latin as an eighth grader. His times were good enough to qualify for the state cross-country finals, but Daniel never seemed interested in any of that. He’d show up for some meets. Skip others. It drove his coach crazy.

  He was closer now so Harry could make out some details. His little brother was wearing a Bruins jersey and a black watch cap with white socks covering his hands. He wore blue-and-white running shoes that flashed as he went, the only indication of how quickly he was moving. Daniel disappeared for a moment, then popped up again, slipping through an open gate and stopping just inside it. He pulled the socks off his hands as Harry approached.

  “How far did you go?” Harry said.

  “Five, six.”

  “Why don’t you wear gloves?”

  “Don’t like ’em.”

  “They make them now for running. Superlight.”

  Daniel shrugged. His cheeks were stained red and his hair was sopping with sweat when he took off his hat. Otherwise, you’d never know he’d gone for a run. And a hard one at that.

  “You work out?” Daniel said.

  “Yeah. One of my coaches invited us for Thanksgiving.” Harry waited but knew Daniel wouldn’t entertain the notion of going. “I told him we were gonna hang at the apartment.”

  “You can go if you want.”

  “Hell, no. Besides, we got football games to watch.” They began to walk. Harry had an old Saab he’d parked near Harvard’s field house. They’d drive back to the apartment. Harry would take a shower first. By the time Daniel got done, Harry would be working on dinner.

  “I found a place today,” Daniel said.

  “A place for what?”

  “My own place.”

  Harry stopped walking. “That’s not gonna happen, Daniel.”

  “Already done. Fifty a month in Kenmore Square.”

  “What is it? A cardboard box?”

  “This guy lives above the Rat. He’s got an extra room.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m sick of being a mooch.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am. Sleeping on the floor of your bedroom. You’re gonna have girls . . .”

  “I don’t have a girl. Besides, that doesn’t matter.”

  “I know it doesn’t matter to you, but what about me? I feel like a jerk.”

  “You’re sixteen. You can’t be living on your own.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Of course he could live on his own. Daniel could do whatever he wanted. He already had. And they both knew it.

  “Who is this guy?” Harry said.

  “Actually, he’s a professor right here.”

  “At Harvard? What’s his name?”

  “Lane. Simon Lane.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I think he’s on sabbatical or something. Teaches physics. Anyway, it’s all set. I’m moving my stuff tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sooner the better. If school finds out I live in Cambridge, it’s gonna be a problem.”

  Boston Latin School was part of the public school system and thus free—provided you lived in the city. Harry had gone to Latin before Daniel, but that didn’t really matter. If the school discovered Daniel was living in Cambridge, they could charge him thousands of dollars in tuition. Or maybe just throw him out altogether.

  “No one’s gonna find out,” Harry said.

  “You don’t know that. And don’t tell me you don’t get girls. If you’re a football player at Harvard and you’re breathing, you’re gonna get girls. Even a guy who looks like you.”

  Harry feinted a left. Daniel ducked away, smirking. They walked some more.

  “You hate all this, don’t you?” Harry said.

  “All what?”

  Harry raised his eyes toward the stadium, a black bowl outlined against a sky of hard silver. “Harvard, football. All the stuff that goes with all that.”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “No?”

  “I couldn’t be prouder of you, Harry. And I couldn’t love anyone more than I love you.” Daniel shrugged as if that was just as obvious as the breath that moved between them.

  “But it’s not for you?”

  “What’s not for me? Your life? Of course not. Your life’s yours and my life’s mine. But my brother’s special. And it’s not cuz he’s smart or plays football for Harvard. He was special long before that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The rest of it’s just stuff, Harry. Comes and goes, you know? So you’re okay with the apartment?”

  “I want to see it. And I still want to hear from you every day.”

  “Sure.”

  “How you gonna get over there?”

  “Red Line. Green Line. Fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “No, you won’t. I’m taking the T. Once I get moved in, you can come over and check it out. Okay?”

  “Let’s go home and eat.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, the older brother with his head down, younger watching the first, each frozen in the other’s echo on the muddy stain of grass. And then they stepped onto the hardtop of the parking lot and the slack tightened, time spinning forward again as Harry found his car and Daniel walked around to the passenger’s side. Inside, the windows fogged with their collected breath. Daniel wiped the glass with his sleeve while Harry worked the wipers and they both waited for the heater to kick in. At the apartment Harry made dinner—burgers and tater tots. In the other room his little brother packed his things.

  7

  IT WAS past nine before they finished on the dock, almost ten when they turned down Tommy’s block. There were still plenty of kids out. A handful leaned on their sticks and watched resentfully as the detectives cruised through the middle of their street hockey game. By the time they’d parked, the game had resumed. Pools of light illuminated the action, the frantic chatter of wood against blacktop filling the night.

  “Pricks out here twenty-four fucking seven,” Tommy said. “Think they’re all Bobby Orr or something.”

  “You were probably the same way.”

  “My ass.” Tommy lived on G Street, a block and a half from where he grew up. Southie bred and buttered. Like a lot of folks born here, the neighborhood was beginning and end. Cradle to coffin. Nothing better, nothing worse. And Tommy wouldn’t have it any other way. Not that he ever really had a choice.

  “I’ll get rolling on Juan Doe first thing tomorrow, B.”

  “Where you thinking of starting?”

  “Run Juan’s prints. Make some calls to a few guys I know down at the waterfront.”

  “You think someone seen him down there?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Could be.”

  Barkley watched a kid rip a wrist shot toward a goal marked out by a pair of Timberlands. The orange ball was blocked by the kid in the goal. There was a scramble for the rebound and someone scored, the ball scooting just inside one of the boots and halfway down the street. Cheers, yelling, one kid pushing another as a third chased the ball. The game rumbled on.

  “Sorry again about today,” Barkley said. “Must have been the knock on the head or something.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I told you, I believe in all that vision shit.”

  “You’re Irish. You got no choice.”

  Tommy skimmed him a look. “I ever tell you about the fairy rings they got over there? Don’t say nothing.”

&n
bsp; “I didn’t say shit.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  Barkley nodded toward Tommy’s three-decker, slumping peacefully at the corner. “Is Katie waiting for you?”

  “The fairy ring’s a pack of mushrooms growing in a circle in a field. Back in the old country, they think it’s enchanted.”

  “You’re fucking enchanted.”

  “Listen to me, B. If you walk into one of these things, these rings, you can’t ever get out. You’re in there forever, running in circles while the demons chase you.”

  “Demons?”

  “Your demons, the ones you make out of nothing, the ones that live inside your dreams, except now they’re flesh and blood and bone. Turned loose to drive you shithouse crazy.” Tommy’s eyes shone with the telling and Barkley thought about the booze and the cocaine and the gambling and figured it was all lit by the same quenchless fire.

  “Go on inside, Tommy. Katie’s waiting.”

  “Come in for a pop. She’d love to see you.”

  On cue the door to the apartment opened, and Katie Dillon appeared on the stoop. Tommy’s wife was tiny, maybe five three, and Southie tough. First team all-scholastic point guard in high school, she’d gotten a full ride to play hoops at B.C. The summer of her senior year she met Tommy and decided to defer for a year. That Christmas they got married. Eight months later, the twins arrived. One dream dead, another begun. She still looked young and college fresh, a beauty who’d maybe lost her way, wandering through Southie in her hip-hugger jeans, Converse sneaks, and hooded B.C. sweatshirt. One of the hockey players yelled at her as she crossed the street and Katie waved. Then she was there, leaning through the window with her brown hair in messy curls and hard-as-diamond smile.

  “Someone’s gonna call the cops on you two. Hey, Bark.”

  She pressed her cheek against his, letting him feel the flutter of her eyelashes as he smelled her life—Ivory soap and hot water, kids scrubbed fresh, the makings of dinner, all the small, warm moments that bubbled and beat in her blood. Tommy leaned over and touched a hand to the steering wheel.

  “Hey, babe. I was just trying to get him to come in.”

  “It’s late,” Barkley said. “And I’m beat.”

  Katie stepped back, cocking her hip and resting her eyes on her husband. “Let the man go home, Tommy. Besides, the girls just woke up and I need you to get them back down.”

  “How old are they now?” Barkley said.

  “Nearly seven. I know, can you believe it? Molly’s a terror. Maggie, of course, is an angel.”

  “Just a quick one, B,” Tommy said. “You can stick your head in and see the girls.”

  “How about we figure out a night for dinner?” Katie said. “Bark can come over and I’ll cook. Open up a bottle of wine and we can all catch up.”

  “Done,” Barkley said.

  “Awesome. And if you want to bring someone . . .” She smiled with her eyes and leaned in again to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Great seeing you, Bark.”

  “I’ll be there in five,” Tommy said.

  Katie made her way back across the street. The two men watched until she disappeared inside.

  “Best part of my life,” Tommy said.

  “You got that right. What about tomorrow? You driving?”

  “Supposed to pick up the car in the morning.”

  “Call me if it’s not ready. Now, go see your wife. And don’t forget to hug your kids.”

  Tommy bumped Barkley’s fist and climbed out of the car. Katie met him on the stoop, letting her husband go inside and then leaning against the doorframe, smiling at Barkley and lifting a lonely hand his way. He popped the horn and waited until she’d gone in before starting up the car. Fuck the Irish pricks with their hockey sticks and shaved heads, painter’s pants and shamrock tats. The real danger in South Boston was right here. Flesh and blood. Katie fucking Dillon. Shit.

  He pulled away from the curb, laying on the horn and watching all the wannabe Bobby Orrs scatter. It was too late for Carson so he’d sit up in his apartment and watch one of those detective movies. Hoped it was a Columbo. He wouldn’t think about today. Fucking lie. Of course he would. Think about today, then think about the fire escape outside his window. His own private fairy ring, whispering with his own personal pack of demons. Barkley pressed down on the gas, sparks flying as old thoughts ran ahead and were lost in the night.

  8

  DANIEL CLIMBED out of the Kenmore T station at a little after ten. A trio of girls was huddled by the front door to the Rat. Wrapped in leather and jingling rings on every finger, they smoked their cigarettes and chattered brightly, shaking out spikes of hair dyed in pastel swirls of color and flashing pale smiles at one another in the steam and the hard light. A bouncer checked their IDs and collected the cover, adding the bills to a fold of money he kept under his jacket. The girls descended into the ragged mouth of the Rat while Daniel negotiated the front steps to his new place, a garbage bag with everything he owned thrown over his shoulder and his brother’s sad smile floating just ahead. The good-byes had been hard, but Daniel would see Harry soon enough. He’d promised. And Harry always kept his promises.

  Daniel’s key turned easily in the outer lock. He walked up the interior set of stairs, thought about knocking, then let himself in. The apartment was dark and cold. Daniel dumped his bag by the door and fumbled along the wall until he found a light switch. He could have sworn the place was empty, but there was Simon, ghost again, sitting behind his desk, packing another pipe, this one small and flat with a perforated metal bowl.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Daniel said.

  Simon fired up the pipe and launched a gentle spiral of smoke. “I was watching you cross the street.” He gestured to the bag of clothes. “Is this all you have?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Must be nice to be that free. You want to take it back to your room?”

  “Sure.” Daniel took a seat on the couch and placed the bag between his knees. “What kind of tobacco is that?”

  “You trying to be funny?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s pot. If you’re not all right with that, I can go up to the roof.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good. It’s cold on the roof.”

  “How do you know I don’t smoke myself?”

  Simon didn’t bother to answer, reaching over with a long arm and cracking one of the windows. “Did you tell your brother you were moving out?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t want me to go.”

  “And already you miss him.”

  “I know, sounds stupid.”

  “Not at all.” Simon checked the bowl of his pipe and knocked the contents into an ashtray. He slipped the pipe into his desk along with a thick plastic bag that Daniel assumed held his weed.

  “I tried what you talked about,” Daniel said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The entanglement thing.”

  “It’s not a toy, you know.”

  Daniel thought about the hot-dog stand and the spaniel with the wagging tail. “Does it work with animals?”

  Simon smirked. “Is that what you really want to talk about?”

  “There’s a girl.”

  “Always is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll find out. Let me guess. You like her and tried to use what we spoke about to get her to like you back.”

  “I just wanted to see if there’d be any effect.”

  “But the effect you wanted was for her to like you back.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.” Simon shook his head. “Fine. So what happened?”

  “We talked. I concentrated like you talked about.”

  “Directed your thoughts. Focused them.”

  “Yes.”

  The cat appeared out of nowhere, a sliver blade flashing up onto a bookshelf as Simon’s voice sh
arpened and tightened. “Tell me, what did it feel like?”

  “I guess it felt like I was pushing something.”

  “And you felt resistance?”

  “Resistance?”

  “From the other side? Like you were actually pushing against a physical object?”

  Daniel tried to summon up the moment when he touched Grace’s mind. “Yes, I think so. For a second, anyway.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then she kissed me.”

  Simon leaned back, brushing the side of his desk with his fingers and magically producing another pipe, the Dunhill from this afternoon. Daniel watched as he packed it and lit a match, flames leaping across the pulled-down bones of his face. When he had it going, Simon plucked the pipe from between long, thin lips. “This is regular tobacco.”

  “I told you, it’s fine with me.”

  “Go put your clothes away. I’ll make some tea.”

  When Daniel returned, Simon was sitting in his chair by the fireplace. There was a fire in the grate and a pot set on a table.

  “Help yourself.”

  Daniel poured himself a cup of green tea and sat on the couch. The overhead light had been extinguished and the glow from the fire cast shadows that reached across the floor. Daniel took a sip and felt the warmth on his feet.

  “You’re happy about the girl,” Simon said.

  “Are you asking or telling me?”

  “It’s a responsibility, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Entanglement. I’m assuming you now believe what I told you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You felt something?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “Why do you think I’m sharing all this with you?”

  Daniel shrugged.

  “You think I’m boasting?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. Of course that would be the assumption. In this case, however, you’re wrong. I told you about entanglement for a very specific reason. I know a little bit about you.”

  The tea went cold in Daniel’s mouth, and he could feel the cup and saucer grow heavy in his hands.