Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  Her gaze focused on the coffee table with the numerous ring stains. For some reason, he felt self-conscious. Exposed.

  Bracing himself, he stood up. “Why don’t you take a shower?” he asked, eager to get her into the only clean part of his apartment. “I’ll show you the bathroom.”

  Gingerly, she shifted. He saw the wince pass over her face and knew she probably hurt way more than he did. Physically, at least. She’d fallen on the hard track, after all. It was a miracle she didn’t break anything.

  Putting a hand on her arm, he helped her up and urged her along. He led her, jacket, heels, and all through the living room, his bedroom, and into the bathroom, where he flicked on the light switch. Relatively sparkling glass, sheening marble, mildew-free grout.

  He breathed easier, the clean environs loosening the noose around his conscience.

  Leaving her in there, he reentered his room, which wasn’t messy per se but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d vacuumed the carpet. Realizing he’d have to find something for her to wear, he yanked open dresser drawers, rifling through a disparate assortment of unorganized clothing. Underwear swimming with t-shirts and crumpled Henleys and a Giants jersey he’d never worn. But after some rummaging, he settled on an NYPD T-shirt and some drawstring, flannel pajama bottoms. He hoped these items would accommodate her hourglass body.

  The thought made him feverish, and he quickly unbuttoned the white Van Heusen she’d gotten him. Unblemished – somehow.

  He tossed it into a half-filled laundry basket anyway and pulled a navy blue, cotton tee over his head. Adjusting it over his aching torso, he took a breath, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders a few times as the cool material settled into his veins. There. Better.

  Returning to the bathroom, he found that she’d at least taken off her shoes. A good sign. He spared the Cinderella footwear a cursory glance. Nine hours of non-stop wear and trauma and they still looked ballroom-ready. “Your feet must hurt. A hot shower will help.” From the linen closet behind the door, he pulled out a worn albeit fresh towel and set it down with the clothes on the vanity. “They’re not gonna fit, but it’ll have to do.”

  She eyed them with surprise, blinking. “Thank you,” she said meekly.

  He could tell she was cold. Nevertheless, he helped her off with his suit jacket. She shivered and clutched at her bare arms. It was then he noticed her hair was matted and sticky against her upper back.

  Remaining calm, he slowly pulled aside her hair, watching her facial reaction in the mirror. She grimaced and her shoulders hunched. Something had superficially cut into her skin just above her left shoulder blade. It was bloody but not bleeding. Her coat might’ve saved her from the worst of it.

  “When you’re done, let me know,” he said, releasing her hair. “I’ll get this cleaned up.” Before she could frame a reply, he trekked out and started straightening his entire apartment.

  “This whole situation’s a huge, fucking mess,” Rick said, drawing his bow across a one-string violin. “Your dad and Hightower are giving us specifics: names, dates, fraudulent accounts, wire transfers dates. It’s incredible, which just makes me wonder what the hell Cervenka’s really trying to accomplish here. If he just wants to hang Kazanov and his crew, he’s already tied the knot pretty good. But he’s gotta be gaining something to spoon-feed you so much. Or else why–”

  “I don’t care what his ulterior motive is right now, Rick,” Zach cut in, shouldering his cell while furiously spreading new sheets upon his old king-sized bed. He was only vaguely aware of his physical actions – the dusting, the scrubbing, the compulsive straightening. His mind mostly focused on the unpleasant conversation. “I just want to know what the hell I’m supposed to do about the subway incident. I can’t come in right now.”

  “No, no. Chief says to lay low for now. Carter’s still dealing with the whole Plaza episode so he’s tied up. Meanwhile, I don’t know how we’re gonna explain this to the G’s. They showed up here not too long ago, asking for you. And I hate to spoil your fantastic day, but it’s Bennet… again.”

  Zach bared down, grinding his molars. Joe Bennet. The senior special agent likely couldn’t wait to stab Zach with the needle of the Empire State Building – the model, that is, he kept on his office desk at FBI headquarters.

  “You know he’s got it out for you, Zach. And I don’t know, man, after this train thing… That cop was a legit officer from 33rd.”

  Zach chucked the rag he was using. “And what was a cop from thirty-third doing in twenty-eighth?”

  “So what? You rarely stick to your block of Manhattan.”

  “Dammit!” Zach’s fist was quick to tighten despite his fatigue. He brought it down heavily upon the dresser. Glancing at the bathroom door and the sliver of light underneath, he checked his voice and reined in his temperature. “What would you have done, Rick? If you’re so damn smart, what would you do in my position?”

  “Which position? Kinda tough to keep ‘em all straight.”

  Zach’s brows drew tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  There was a moment before Rick said, “Agh, never mind. You did what you had to do, I’m sure.”

  Rick’s forced nonchalance sent mortified heat spiraling to the base of his stomach. Nausea piqued his throbbing head as the shower drummed in the background.

  “Look,” Rick continued. “If I see Carter, I’ll let him know what happened. Just, uh, try to take it easy. We’ll deal with whatever shit rains in the morning, okay?”

  Rick’s genuine concern pinched Zach’s conscience, and he muttered a half-baked response that wasn’t anywhere close to grateful.

  By the time he hung up, Zach felt threadbare to his marrow. One more thing tonight and Shelley wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from the worn fibers of the rug.

  Zach swallowed and went straight to the kitchen for a case of Dos Equis he had in the barren fridge and some Jack Daniels. He drained the first bottle of beer like it was nothing, attempting to salvage the remnants of his life. But it tasted wrong.

  Before he could start on his second, he thought he heard Shelley’s tentative summons. Barely. The overlapping ghosts jabbering in his head ceased, and grateful for the distraction, he set the bottle upon the counter and headed back to his dark room.

  He rapped lightly on the bathroom pane. “Shelley? Did you call?” He put his ear up to the door. She muttered something, but it was unintelligible over the rushing of the open faucet.

  So he entered. He found her standing over the sink, back to him, slightly bent, scrubbing at the stains from her fuchsia designer dress. He saw her reflection in the foggy mirror. Distressed. Coming apart.

  She’d wrapped the towel around herself demurely enough, but it left her tanned legs, neck, shoulders, and arms uncovered. Water darkened her richly-colored hair and plastered it to her skin and face, emphasizing her high cheekbones, haunting eyes, and moist lips. His body ached as his pulse began to double-time.

  After a short-lived debate, he opened the door fully and stepped inside, immersing himself in the aromatic, steamy environs. His soap, his shampoo, but it all smelled like her.

  Attempting to distract himself, he asked, “Feel better?”

  “It won’t come out.”

  Frowning, he approached her carefully. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I have to get the stains out now,” she said, sounding detached – vacant.

  “Why don’t you just wait ‘til morning? I’ll take it to a dry cleaners.”

  “No,” she replied with more fervor. He could almost feel her knuckles rubbing together abrasively as she continued washing the stains out of the dress. “I have to do this now!”

  “Okay,” he said, working to sound calm. “Do you want some help? I can fill up the garden tub for you. Let it soak in there.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I can do it.”

  He let her struggle and work through her feelings though she was not making any progress. Fi
nally, when he thought she’d wasted enough water and had done her dress enough damage, he shut off the faucet.

  “No! It’s not done!” she cried.

  Firmly, he took the dress from her and hung it over the shower curtain. It dripped steadily, a dark wet mess.

  “Zach, I’m not finished,” she protested. “I have to get them out now!”

  She was sounding like a broken record. He had to physically stop her from going after it. “Stop it,” he ordered, gripping her shoulders. “It’s just a dress.”

  Her face contorted, and she shook her head, dropping her watery gaze. “You don’t understand,” she said thickly. “You don’t understand at all.” She broke down, and he pulled her close, letting her cry into his chest. Her hands balled into fists which she kept tightly to herself as he rubbed her back over the towel.

  She calmed, and eventually he felt her post-cry, shaky breathing.

  “I need to check on that cut now,” he said and she gave a pathetic nod. Releasing her, he took out a few things from the cupboard beneath the sink. Gauze, a square bandage, some rubbing alcohol. She wouldn’t need much.

  Pouring some rubbing alcohol onto the gauze, he disinfected the area, which looked a lot better now without the smears of blood. Her wet strands brushed his forearm, and he drew it aside more than she already had. She smelled sweet and inviting, and her skin, even with the laceration, was the color of caramel and tempting in every way. It was too much to resist.

  But he was drowning in a pool of sickening guilt and even she couldn’t pull him out of it. Not tonight.

  “Does it ever get easier?” she whispered. “Thinking you’re going to die?”

  His eyes flickered, hand moving slowly over her wound. “It does, but it doesn’t make it easy.” Sensing her spirits dive, he added, “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Do you?”

  He didn’t reply right away. “Sometimes.” Finished, he let her damp, heavy curls fall naturally and saw that it covered up the injury quite well. No one would have to know.

  Finding her beautiful but shadowed reflection staring at him in the mirror, he fought the desire which had taken painful root in him and stepped back. “Get dressed. You can sleep in my bed.” When he saw her eyes widen in the mirror, he clarified, feeling heat sting his neck. “I’ll be on the couch.”

  49

  An hour later, Shelley was settled in his bed, head on his pillow, covered with his comforter, deeply asleep. Zach, showered as well, sat on the couch, ice pack on his knee, spare blanket half-draping him, and the whiskey bottle in his hand. The glow of the LED TV illuminated his drawn features as he stared dully. The ESPN program gave the highlights and reviews of the NCAAF games played that day, announcing college rankings for the week.

  He watched and drank until his muscles began to relax, and his mind began to slip into wakeful slumber. The monster inside quieted – docile to the point of innocuous. Touch it, and it wouldn’t even move.

  Now, he could reflect rationally, passively even, on the events of the day. As if he was on the outside watching it all happen to some other guy. None of it was real. Therefore, none of it could affect him.

  He took another swig, barely tasting the liquid as it swished around his mouth and glided down his throat. The TV flickered. The images of a football team running on a green field filled his drowning vision. The stats of the LSU Tigers, poised to head to the championship game, appeared. He stared, mind taking him away.

  [Flicker]

  “Your boy’s got skills, David. Tackles like a beast.”

  “Gonna let him go out for the team next year? We’re thinking you’ve got a starting QB on your hands.”

  [Flicker]

  “Grandpa? Do I have faulty wiring?”

  “False start…”

  “You? No, son. Your wiring’s rubber-insulated and just fine. Just fine.”

  “…on the offense.”

  [Flicker]

  “I’m sure you did what you had to do…”

  [Flicker]

  Zach’s head jerked like he’d been slapped. Breathing hard, he rubbed a hand over his face as he brought himself under control. Faces bled together in his mind’s eye.

  There was moisture on his forehead, upper lip, and neck. The beginning.

  His watering eyes landed on the glowing screen, pupils adjusting to the brightness. The ESPN commentator’s voice seeped into his consciousness. “… So really it all comes down to how LSU performs against the Crimson Tide next Saturday…”

  Purple and gold uniforms. Tigers. Right.

  His lids drooped again, hand relaxing around the nearly-empty bottle, the TV melding into his waking nightmares.

  [Flicker]

  “Ericson’s breaks out from the pocket. Crimson Tide defense is right on top of him. Oh my! What a move! He’s off! To the twenty-five… the twenty. They can’t catch him. Ten… five… TOUCHDOWN! TOUCHDOWN TEXAS! What a clutch play by Ericson to take the lead…”

  [Flicker]

  “So Zach, I’ve been getting a lot of offers for you… Have you given any thought to where you wanna go?”

  As far from here as possible.

  [Flicker]

  Zach fell forward and slammed his head on the beveled edge of the wooden coffee table. The bottles he’d gone through fell on top of him. “Shit!” He spewed several more incoherent curses, brain soaked with sleep and alcohol.

  Struggling off the floor, he hefted his large frame, which felt brick-laden, into a horizontal position on the couch. Somehow, his swimming head hit the pillow, and the pain drifted in and out of his consciousness.

  “The all-new Dodge Ram…”

  Zach groaned miserably.

  “…Grab life by the Horns.”

  Finding the remote, he hit the power button. Off.

  The apartment darkened, but the afterglow burned into his retinas; he could still make out that big red 4x4 grounding out the dirt, mountains in the backdrop.

  Silence deafened. The buzzing grew louder in his ears.

  His eyes closed, dreading the remaining hours of sleep. But he couldn’t stop it from coming. Night traffic lulled him, white noise for his red-stained affliction. He could’ve sworn he heard a stadium full of fans screaming. For him.

  His pulse slowed to a crawl.

  [Flicker]

  “Would you listen to that crowd roar? They’re thundering tonight. Texas is crushing on that field. Quarterback Zach Ericson has proved he’s got what it takes to make a lasting name for himself.”

  “Well, he’s got the fan base, for sure. We’re expecting great things from him…”

  [Flicker]

  “Final drive of the game here for the Longhorns. Score’s tied at 24. Thirty seconds on the clock. This crowd is on their feet.”

  “Hut… Hut...”

  “Trojan’s blitzing. Nobody’s open. Oh, my God! McNamara comes out of nowhere. And… Ericson is down! But hold on, we’ve gotta flag on the play.”

  “And it’s a fifteen-yard penalty on the Trojans! What a mistake. Texas now in field goal position. The kicker’s coming out. But Ericson still hasn’t moved…”

  [Flicker]

  If there was one thing life had taught him–

  (“In an unfortunate turn of events, Texas quarterback and this year’s Heisman Trophy winner, is out of the running for the NFL draft…”)

  – Nothing. Good. Lasts.

  50

  Sunday morning rays seeped through the window blinds and dappled the beige carpet with cheerful slivers.

  Eyes closed, Zach braced himself for the day habitually. No joy. No desire to get up except to escape the prison of his dreams. Ivan Kazanov was his first welcome distraction. Cervenka his second. The realization he’d have to face the FBI and Special Agent Bennet, however, made him reconsider facing the music altogether.

  But gradually he became aware of how he felt. Really felt in this moment. Behind the usual layers of grit, an ineffable warmth burgeoned. He quickly traced the
events of last night and remembered only that he was supposed to be on the couch. However–

  Zach’s lids sprang open. The first thing he saw was long dark hair. Lots of it. Not only that, but his head was atop the wavy chocolate strands. And where was his arm? Draped over a slender, evocative body, protectively.

  He was in his bed!

  Shit!

  He all but bolted, chest pounding him into delirium. Despite the way the world tipped as he sat up, he was careful not to wake her. She was out solid thankfully. He eased out of bed, grabbed some gym shorts and his keys, and left the apartment, deciding he needed a workout. Now.

  “You’ve been off-grid, what the hell?” Carter yelled the moment he found Zach breaking the back of his demons at the gym down at headquarters.

  Zach pushed two hundred pounds of metal straight up, concentrating, straining veins in his temples. Sweat dripped down like tears.

  “FBI’s digging their heels in and you’re probably going to be arrested for yesterday,” Carter bit off. “Bennet’s sure to request you get a randomly-assigned special prosecutor.”

  Zach didn’t even react. Bearing down, he lowered the bar onto its cradle and exhaled roughly, gut contracting.

  “What is this? Are you deaf now?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Then hear this: when I call you, answer me!”

  Zach winced, flexing his hands.

  Carter sighed, aggravated, and ran a hand over his tie. “Anyway, one of Hightower’s leads exposed a little side gig that’s been running for a couple decades. The Brother’s Circle has been selling naturalization which got me to thinking. I checked into Cervenka’s personal history. Do you know he went from a Green Card holder to a citizen, completely bypassing PR status?”

  Grabbing the bar again, Zach got ready to push up. “Are you sure?”

  “I called in a few favors over at Immigration and managed to obtain his citizenship number. It’s a duplicate. Belonged to a Jonah Wheeler who died of a heart attack in ‘92.”

  Frowning, Zach strained as he said, “Cervenka’s illegal?”