Rust: Two

by Christopher Ruz

  "I know how to be sneaky. Don't need a lecture."

  "Maybe you do, Fitch. Maybe a lecture and a spanking's exactly what you need." Rosenfeld sighed. "I got angry before, and I apologise. But it's for your own good. If you take this slow, you do it my way, maybe you get this girl home. You do it alone like you usually do... Well, I guess I'll get my storage room back." Rosenfeld shuffled out the door, slippers whispering on the linoleum. "Time for my beauty sleep. Seeing into the blood, that takes a lot out of you. More blankets down the hall if you need them. And... don't do anything stupid."

  It wasn't until the door was closed and Rosenfeld's footsteps had faded down the hall that Fitch mumbled, "Don't know if I like this."

  "What, like how we're chasing some hallucination? Yeah, that's got me just a little concerned."

  "No. Something else. What she said about school desks. The lady in the photo." There was a light in Fitch's eyes that hadn't been there a moment before. "Goddamned if she wasn't talking about Principal Huang at Bourtet Primary. Twenty years, now."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Vanished places," Fitch said. "You ever walk past an empty lot downtown and you think, wasn't that a department store just a week ago? Whole places gone faster than you can track? In Rustwood, it happens like..." He snapped his fingers. "Same as happened to the public baths."

  "I'm sick of stories that don't go anywhere, Fitch. Is this really gonna get me home, or were we just fed a whole lot of esoteric BS?"

  "Oh, you best believe her," Fitch said. "I always knew that convent was bad news. Was on the way to throw a bomb through their window when that nurse grabbed you off the mountaintop. Thorn under the skin, that place." Fitch kneaded the edge of the mattress like dough, knuckles white, until Kimberly was sure he was about to tear fistfuls of stuffing and springs out of the mouldy old slab. "She's delaying us. You see that, don't you? Goddamned if I know why, but she's keeping us out of there."

  "Oh, come on. Why would she-"

  "Hiding something. You don't know her like I do. Police came knocking here once before, you know. Hell, the beast sent servants after me in the parking lot a while back. Maybe she's worried we'll bring down more attention. Something worse."

  "Rosenfeld doesn't seem the type to scare easy. I think you're reading too much into this."

  "And I think you're looking for an easy out. Come on! This isn't like you. You stabbed that clicker right in the guts! You're a warrior. You really want to play this softly-softly crap, or do you want that door?"

  Kimberly closed her eyes. New York, close enough to touch. Midnight taxis screeching on asphalt. Doves massing on the boughs of elms in Central Park, painting the pavement white. Thin-crust pizza.

  A man's arms around her waist. His teeth on her neck. The name on the tip of her tongue - yes, Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Waiting for her, sick with worry, always waiting.

  She nodded grimly. "More than anything."

  Chapter 5

  Even though it'd been a week now, even though every knock on the door had been a false alarm - Mrs Hinkermeier from two houses over checking on the baby, the gas man come to read the meter, a pizza delivery he'd forgotten he'd ordered less than five minutes after hanging up the phone - Peter Archer's heart still skipped when that rhythmic bang bang bang echoed through the house.

  Kimberly. It had to be her. Seven days missing, off with her boyfriend or drug partner or whoever he was, soothing the pain of her depression, and she'd finally come home to him. Come back to apologise, to fall into his arms, to beg forgiveness.

  Fat chance.

  He was in the middle of changing Curtis's diaper when the knock came, and for a moment he considered setting the baby down and running for the door. But the memory of finding the bedroom empty - that heavy, sick feeling in his gut as he noticed the missing jacket, the vanished back pack - still burned.

  She'd left him in silence. She'd abandoned her own child. Kimberly could wait a couple minutes.

  He bagged and binned the dirty diaper, wiped, powdered, and diapered the little squealer - Curtis would stay clean about thirty minutes, if Peter was lucky - and washed his hands in the upstairs bathroom. The knocking returned, louder this time, more urgent, but Peter wasn't going to be hurried. No damn way he'd jump to her tune. Not after she vanished without warning into the rain and left him with their son, left him to his sleepless nights, left him to his ulcers and ragged nails, his nightmares of phone calls where emotionless police constables blurted, "We need you to identify a body..."

  The banging wasn't stopping. If it was her... and he hoped it was, even through the fury and the fear he hoped it was her... then she was pissed. Pissed, or desperate. Maybe finally regretting what she'd put him through. Well, he knew just what to say to her. He'd spent days rehearsing the speech, whispering the lines as he fed Curtis formula from a yellowed bottle and showered him and sang to him and waited by the phone, whispering until he thought he almost had the guts to say them to her face.

  Almost.

  "Okay, okay!" He jumped the last few steps, checked his hair in the hall mirror, and cleared his throat. "Come inside," he whispered. "Sit down." No, no, more authoritative. "Come inside!" God, he sounded like a jerk. He'd have to wing it.

  The moment before he turned the knob he knew there was something wrong. It was like pushing through the heavy scrub up in the mountains and seeing, from the corner of his eye, a snake coiled in the grass in the instant before his foot came down. A terrible tight feeling in his guts, in his groin. Too late to stop: his hand was already on the knob.

  Hinges creaked. He peered through the gap. "Kimberly?"

  It wasn't Kimberly. It wasn't the police, either.

  The man waiting outside was dressed from head to toe in a black rain-slicker, the hood pulled up to hide his face. He was... tall? No, only Peter's height. Or was it a woman? He couldn't tell under that rain-soaked hood, and his gaze kept sliding sideways, as if to stare directly at the stranger's face caused him eyestrain.

  The figure said, "Peter Archer. I'm coming inside."

  It was like staring at a TV test pattern. The figure blurred, stretched along all axes, fuzzed at the edges like static. He rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, what did you say you were selling?"

  "I'm coming inside, Peter Archer. I have something to tell you about your wife."

  "You-"

  He wanted to slam the door closed in the stranger's face, but it was like a hot towel had just been thrown around his crown and yanked tight. Everything was suffocating, the air too hot in his lungs, the walls bending inward with every inhalation. He braced against the door as the floor flexed away. He was floating, weightless, stomach lifting up into his throat.

  His grip on the door failed and he stumbled back, slamming against the hallway side-table. The vase jumped, wilted roses shedding petals across the carpet.

  The figure shut the door and cocked its head. The lock snapped home. "Do you have a headache?"

  "I can't..." Peter tried to focus on the stranger but his world was a blur.

  "You have a migraine," the figure crooned. "You should sit down. Have some water. Clear your mind."

  "Why are you..."

  The pain stabbed him through the left eye, sending him reeling. He clutched his face, hissing between clenched teeth. Water. The stranger was right. Water and a handful of aspirin.

  "Here." The stranger was offering him a glass, already full to the brim. In his other hand, two small white pills. "You'll feel better."

  The pills tasted chalky. He'd swallowed them before he thought to check whether they were aspirin or something stronger. Should he have asked? No, that was ridiculous. The stranger in his hallway was a friend. Nobody else would be so thoughtful.

  The stranger took him by the arm, almost tenderly, and Peter let himself be led to the sofa. The pain was already fading. Those pills, whatever they were, had swept his migraine away and left his mind clean, unburdened by fear. Anger, yes, but not fear.

  The stranger sat across from hi
m, expression swaddled in shadow. Such a slight figure, but it seemed to take up half the room. The question of whether the stranger was a man or woman didn't seem so important any more. What was truly important was:

  "You're worried about your wife."

  The stranger had stolen the words from Peter's lips. He didn't look up from where he sat. His hands were knotted together like each was trying to strangle the life out of the other.

  "You suspect her of... wandering."

  "Suspect?" Peter whispered. "I know she wanders. I don't know what she does when she goes away but she sure as hell isn't here."

  "I understand your concern."

  "Do you? The police never gave two shits before."

  I am not police," the hooded figure said. "His name is Fitch. At least, we believe that's his name. It may be assumed, or stolen."

  "Is that normal?"

  "Everyone has something to hide, don't they? Unfortunately, this Fitch is hiding your wife." The stranger adjusted the lapels of its rainslicker with whisper-thin fingers. There was something odd about the button on that slicker. Whenever they caught the light it flashed directly into Peter's eyes. It made it impossible to hold a thought for more than a few moments. Everything was confused, fleeting. "You want her back."

  "I want her safe," Peter said. "Here, with her son, unharmed. That's all."

  "Do you love her?"

  "Of course I love her!"

  "Does it make you angry, to think of her with another man?"

  "No shit! You think I haven't thought about, well..."

  The stranger leaned in close. "Yes?"

  "The D word." Peter's face twisted. "Divorce. But that's a last resort. I... It's none of your business, anyway. I just want her back."

  The wink of light on buttons was a pin being driven into Peter's left eye. "You should be angrier."

  "No, no. We never went to bed on an argument. Not until her breakdown. I'm not gonna mess it all up now. Anything I can do to fix this relationship-"

  "Be angrier," the stranger said.

  "I'm not-"

  "Hate her."

  Peter scowled. "I don't hate her."

  "You should."

  "Why are you-"

  "Hate her."

  There was some part of Peter than wanted to jump to his feet and order the stranger out of his house. He'd been through too much bullshit already for one day - the baby had been crying for three straight hours, overflowing diapers, bills stacking up he couldn't bear to open, his boss demanding he get his ass back to work or take a permanent vacation, and worst of all - the yawning space in the bed beside him every morning when he woke. The woman that wasn't there.

  There was another part that wanted to take Kimberly, wrap his hands around her neck, throw her to the ground and stomp on her head.

  He didn't know where the fury had come from, but it burned white-hot behind his eyes. His hands had curled into fists, fingernails biting into the soft flesh of his palms.

  And still he said, "I don't hate her. What the hell are you playing at?"

  "You do," the stranger said. "I see it all the time. Men who suffer their shrieking, hateful wives every day for no reward. Good men, honest men who bear that anger like a millstone. But every man has a limit, and she's pushed you far enough. She lied to the police about you. She said you were a stranger, that you tried to rape her in her own bed."

  "She didn't-"

  "That woman wanted you arrested. She wanted you dragged away from your own child. You think she had a breakdown? She lied to the doctors, to the psychologist, to everyone. She played them for fools, and the biggest fool of all was you." The stranger jabbed one long finger at Peter's chest. "You would've ended up in jail if she'd had her way. Wasting, beaten, broken. She hates you, so why don't you hate her? Wouldn't that be easier?"

  "Because..."

  And yes, wouldn't it be so much easier if he hated her? If she'd told him she no longer loved him, he could've walked away without anger in his heart. If she'd said she needed space, needed time, needed the touch of another, he could've worked through the hurt. Maybe over months, maybe years, but he would've forged a path. He could still, in some small way, have loved her.

  But not after she abandoned Curtis. Not after she betrayed her own son.

  "Hate her," the stranger said, and Peter felt the anger creeping in around the edges. It was a tickling heat, an urge to grind his teeth, a need to scream until the windows shook. Hating her would be so easy. It would be so right.

  And yet, he said, "I won't."

  The figure sighed. Its knees creaked like gritty, unoiled hinges as it stood and moved to the stairs. "As they say, we're going to do this the hard way."

  "Get out of my house." Peter tried to follow but his legs were tingling, bloodless. "Don't go up there. Don't you dare!"

  The figure took the stairs slowly, one hand on the bannister, as if he or she or it were worried about tripping and falling. The squeaky third stair didn't squeak beneath its weight.

  "You can't-"

  The figure said nothing. Peter could only watch, sweat running down his forehead, as it reached the landing. The nursery door creaked, then clicked shut.

  He tried to scream but all he could manage was a whisper. "Please-" The tips of his fingers were pricked by pins and needles. He could just curl his index finger if he concentrated, but everything else was staked in place. A dream, then. It had to be a dream. If he could just pinch himself he could wake, protect Curtis, get the hell out of the house...

  But he couldn't pinch himself. All he could do was bite his lower lip.

  Upstairs, the baby was crying. The stranger in the rainslicker whispered, "Hush, hush, soon..."

  Peter bit down hard.

  The pain was sudden and blunt. He reeled, the taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. He'd sunk his teeth into the flesh so far they'd almost met in the middle.

  The sensation rushed back into his fingers. He clenched his fists. Curtis wailed upstairs.

  Peter forced his way to his feet and ran for the stairs. "Don't you touch her, you mother-"

  The figure was waiting at the top of the stairs with Curtis clutched in its arms, bright blue onesie harsh against the stranger's black rainslicker. The baby had stopped crying, but his face was bright red, tears already running down his cheeks, mouth open so wide that Peter could see his little pink tonsils.

  Peter gripped the bannister so hard the wood creaked in his fingers. "Give him to me."

  The stranger cocked its head.

  "Put him down or I'll-"

  "You made things difficult," the figure whispered. "I gave you a chance."

  Peter's mouth was dry as sand. He glanced to his left, at the phone on the hallway side table. Four quick steps, three little numbers, nine one one, and he'd have the cops at the door...

  And the figure in the rainslicker would snap Curtis's neck. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise and the rains would come.

  "What do you want?"

  Even with its face hidden in shadow, Peter could hear the smile in the figure's voice.

  "Obey."

  Chapter 6

  Fitch drummed on the dash, a rapid tap-tap-tap running from pinkie to thumb, like he was playing the piano. Kimberly tried to ignore it, but the strange rhythm nagged at her. It was all wrong. Not five little taps, but six. That damn extra finger.

  "Would you stop that?"

  Fitch paused, fingers frozen and outstretched. Then he stuffed his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. "Why're we here?"

  "Because."

  "Thought you put these people aside. They're not yours to worry about."

  "I know. But-"

  "But?"

  Kimberly grasped for an easy answer but nothing came. They'd been parked across the street from one-one-eight Rosewater Avenue since dawn, waiting for... what? The curtains to twitch? For Peter to step outside and give her a little wave, a sign of approval? For the familiar wail of baby Curtis to split the
quiet suburban morning?

  A sign that she was doing the right thing?

  She couldn't put it into words. Every time her thoughts turned to the house, she got the feeling she'd forgotten something inside. The sort of paranoid ache that said you left the gas on, or did you remember to lock the back door? Except this time, what she'd forgotten was people. Her so-called husband. Her so-called baby.

  She remembered standing above the crib in the moments before she'd grabbed her bags and split from the house, leaving that fake life behind. Watching the fat-faced baby gurgle and dribble and grasp at the air with its tiny, chubby hands. Its eyes...

  It had her eyes. He. He had her eyes.

  "You seen enough? Can we get on with business?"

  "In a minute." God, he was a real baby. Only fifty yards away, behind a deadbolt and a couple inches of wood, her baby.

  Her hand fell to the caesarean scar across her abdomen. She knew the contours of that line like she knew her own face in the mirror. Hours spent in St Jeremiah's Hospital tracing back and forth across the impossible cut. She could believe that Peter was a madman, that Curtis wasn't her real son. But that line was solid, impossible to deny.

  And what if she was wrong? What if everything-

  Fitch snapped her back to attention. "Don't tell me you're getting attached," he snorted. "They're not real. Not in any way you care about, at least. Walking around blind, not knowing the world's splittin' under their feet. Leave it alone. Nobody ever healed a scab by picking at it."

  "But what if," she whispered. "What if they are?"

  "Are what? What's it matter? You know things they don't. You know what it's gonna take to break this place apart."

  Kimberly shook her head. "No. I've got no idea-"

  "Listen!" Fitch jammed the car into first. "I know what you're thinking. You want to go knock on the door, don't you? Say hello, get a cup of coffee, pretend like you can play family. That's what they want you to do! Stay in one place, stay easy to find. Get lazy. Forget how to fight. Next time they send something after you, you'll be sleeping, or playing with that kid, and they'll twist your head right off." He made a popping sound, like a champagne cork exploding from the bottle. "That's what you want?"