At The City's Edge

by Marcus Sakey

  Panic flashed through Jason, quick and hot as lightning. The thought had occurred to him a hundred times in the last few days, and every time he'd shoved it away, told himself he needed to focus on action, on finding out what was happening. But now it couldn't be denied any longer.

  He was the only family Billy had left, and like it or not, he was responsible for the boy.

  Jason felt his chest tighten. He wasn't ready. Not for anything like it. He could hardly take care of himself. To promise Billy anything would mean giving up everything. He'd have to make choices about his own life, stick to them. Pretend he was a sensible adult with his shit buttoned up, instead of a lost child nursing wounds only he could see, feeding the Worm he claimed to hate.

  He cast about for something to say. Looked at the wall, the window, the sun, his eyes dancing. Coming to rest on the drawing in front of Billy.

  "Can I see?" He reached for the paper bag, hoping for something to distract him, to distract them both.

  The drawing had started simply: A door with a four-panel window on either side, and in front, a lumpy, out-of-scale tree. The same house drawn by generations of children, the lines rough and hesitant, a kid's clumsy attempt to conjure something from his mind.

  But darker lines grew out of it. Horizontal and vertical slashes that framed boxes. Each connected, spouting from one another. Doors between them, and windows. A series of rooms, he realized, like a twisted mansion. Space piling on space, higher and further. An impossible, unwieldy labyrinth. A sorcerer's lair. And in the smallest room in a forgotten corner, lost in the maze, stood a stick figure with big hands and wide eyes.

  Jason stared at the drawing, his fingers trembling. Stared at the red world Billy saw himself in. Not just lost.

  Alone.

  "I'll tell you the truth, kiddo." He passed the drawing back, then swung his legs out to lay on his belly beside Billy. "I don't know yet. There will be a lot of things we have to figure out. But everything will be okay. I promise." Realizing, as he said the words, that he meant them. That he would do whatever it took to make them true.

  Billy wiped his nose with the back of one hand, unconvinced. "I was scared last night. You didn't come back."

  "I know. I'm sorry." He reached out and picked up the crayon Billy had abandoned, twiddled it idly between his fingertips. "I was… well, I was trying to get the bad guys. If I could have, I'd rather have stayed here with you."

  "You would?"

  "Definitely." He nudged Billy with his shoulder. "You're my man."

  They lay there in a silence a moment. The crayon's tip had been worn to a broad spade, and Jason sharpened it with the edge of his thumb. The red wax jammed under his nail like blood.

  "Uncle Jason?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

  "Huh?" He cocked his eyebrows. "Why do you say that, buddy?"

  "My dad said that you were sick."

  "Sick?"

  Billy nodded. "He said that when you went to war you were okay, but that you came back sick." His eyes were egg whites sizzling in a pan. "I don't want you to be sick. I don't want you to die, too."

  Jason stared at him. Opened his mouth, closed it. He could feel the Worm tensing inside of him, like it hoped to burst through his chest. When he spoke, his voice came out soft and measured. "Your dad's a smart man. I guess I did come back sick. But it's not the kind I can die from."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I'm not sure how to explain." He blew air through his mouth. "You know how sometimes you make a mistake and it's not a big deal? It's wrong, but nobody gets hurt. Like when you screw up a homework problem."

  Billy nodded.

  "Well, sometimes you can make a small mistake that is a very big deal. It can be something really simple," seeing the stranded ambulance, a target under skies of flame, "something that seems like the right thing to do. Except if things don't go the way you expect, something bad can happen. When it does, it's easy to feel like you're to blame."

  "Something went wrong?" Billy's voice was just a little louder than a whisper.

  Martinez clutching his throat, blood squeezing through clenched knuckles.

  "Yeah."

  "It was your fault?"

  "Well, what went wrong wasn't my fault."

  "I don't understand." Billy stared at him. "It wasn't your fault?"

  "Sort of. I made a mistake that let somebody else do something bad."

  Billy wrinkled his brow. "But you said you were doing the right thing."

  "I thought it was." Seeing the wounded Iraqi child in the back, his eyes wide and scared. "I was trying to save people's lives."

  "Did you?"

  You killed Martinez, the Worm hissed in his belly. You took a twenty-year-old kid off mission against explicit orders, in an area you knew was full of insurgents and snipers. You killed him.

  "I think we might have," he said. "But my friend died, too."

  "That's why you got sick?" Billy looked at Jason with the unblinking directness of a child.

  "I-" He hesitated. Was it? He'd walled this part of himself off for so long. Hadn't questioned his guilt, hadn't let himself even look at it. And now that he did, he found things weren't as black and white as he pictured. Yes, Martinez was dead. But soldiers died. It was part of the job description. And dying to save the life of a child, that made you a hero, didn't it?

  Jason pointed at the drawing. "Lemme see that again."

  Billy passed it to him, confused. Jason peered at, made a show of holding it close to his face. "Yup. I thought so. You're missing something."

  "What do you mean?"

  Jason bent over the paper. Drew a vertical line with four diagonals branching off, topped by a circle with a mop of squiggly lines. A smile and big hands. Passed it back. "There, see?"

  "You drew someone with me."

  "Look familiar?" He flipped his bangs.

  "Is that you?" Billy squinted at the stick figures, the tall one standing behind the smaller one, a hand on one stick shoulder.

  "That's me, buddy." He smiled. "That's me." Somehow.

  I swear to God, somehow that's going to be me.

  Billy stared at the drawing, then back at him. Then he rolled over and threw his thin arms around Jason, squeezing like that was all that kept him from being swept away.

  "Shhh." Jason whispered, little-boy smell strong in his nostrils, sunlight and sweat. A weird blend of emotions shivered through him: terror, sure, but also resolve. And something else, too. It'd been so long since he'd felt it that he almost didn't recognize it.

  Pride.

  "It's okay, buddy." Jason paused. "Everything is going to be okay." He stared at the ceiling, watched dust burn in a beam of light. Stroked his nephew's hair and made him promises, realizing that he had no idea how to keep them, knowing he'd give his life to.

  And then he saw something he never expected.

  CHAPTER 30

  Pale and Sticky

  The gun was made of purple plastic, and for a second, even before he remembered what it was and where it came from, Jason felt it tug at him like gravity.

  "What the…" He trailed off, looked down at Billy. "Where in the world did you get that?"

  Billy pulled away, looked up at Jason, then over to the nightstand. "Dad gave it to me. I lost it under the bush when I hid, but yesterday Ronald took me out to look for it." He looked suddenly guilty. "It's yours, though, right?"

  Jason realized his mouth was open, so he closed it. Stretched for the Transformer, the toy his brother had gotten for Christmas in 1983, a robot that could turn into a gun. The toy he had lusted after for months, playing with it when Mikey wasn't looking, until he'd accepted his brother's dare to sprint across the El tracks and won it for himself.

  It fit his hand so well he wondered if it was why real guns felt like home.

  "It's… yeah, it used to be mine." He found himself smiling. "I wonder where it's been all these years."

  "It was in the basement." B
illy wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Dad gave it to me. But you can have it back."

  Jason laughed. "No, kiddo, it's yours."

  Billy took the gun and began idly toying with it, folding and unfolding one component. "I wish…"

  The beginning of the question made Jason wince, imagining all the things his nephew might be wishing. All the things he had a right to but could no longer have. In truth, he was scared to even know what the boy had in mind, but if he was going to be the man in the picture, the one standing by Billy, he may as well start here. "What do you wish, buddy?"

  "I wish we'd never gone down there. To the basement." Billy spoke to the floor. "If we'd left instead, we wouldn't have been there. Everything would be okay."

  Jason cocked his head, wondering if he was missing something. Down to the basement, was that code? Then he realized what Billy was saying, Wham!, like a million volts rattling up his spine. Was it even possible? Could it be? "Your dad took you into the basement the day the men came?"

  Billy nodded. Jason straightened, put his hands on Billy's shoulders to stare him in the face. "I have to ask you a question. It's important. Can you think about it very carefully?"

  His nephew nodded.

  "Did he bring anything with him?" Jason remembering the last time he'd seen Michael, the guy fidgeting with that briefcase, moving it here and there. Never able to find a spot he seemed to feel comfortable leaving it.

  Billy looked up and to the left. His tongue wormed through his lips as he concentrated. A long moment passed. Then, "Yes." He brightened like he'd gotten the right answer to a quiz. "He brought a bag."

  "A briefcase?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Jesus. Could it be that simple? Could Billy have had the answer all along?

  Of course he could. All he'd needed was for Jason to be around to ask. Being an uncle had just walloped being a soldier. Umm, duh, he heard Michael saying. 'Bout time you pulled your head out of your ass.

  He smiled at his nephew. "Thanks, kiddo. You're a genius."

  "I am?"

  Jason nodded solemnly. "Oh yeah." He ruffled the kid's hair, then stood and started for the door. He had to talk to Cruz, let her know. And Washington. They had to start planning. Get the car out-

  He froze, one hand on the doorframe. Took a breath, turned around.

  Billy sat in the center of the room, right where he had been. His eyes were wide and one lip was trembling.

  Idiot.

  Jason walked back to his nephew, dropped to an easy squat. "I did it again, didn't I?"

  Billy nodded.

  "I'm sorry." He kept his head level with the boy's, trying not to be an authority figure. "I'll learn." He paused. "Will you help me?"

  Billy sniffed damply, regarded him with sober eyes, and said, "Okay."

  "Okay." Jason nodded. He hesitated, wondered how much to say. Then remembered how it had felt to do the right thing with Billy, how he'd felt the Worm loosen its grip. "That briefcase your father took to the basement? That's what the bad guys were looking for. That's why they came. Do you understand?"

  Billy nodded. "Like in the movies."

  "Yeah, pretty much. And before, I thought that they had gotten it. But now I bet your dad hid it. You with me?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Here's the thing." He took a breath, made himself speak calmly, like there was nothing to be afraid of. "The bad guys, they still want that case. And they want to catch us, because we've seen them. They're very – do you know what determined means?"

  Billy sighed.

  "Right. Right. Sorry. They're very determined. They'll keep coming back."

  "Why don't we go away? Somewhere they can't find us?"

  It wasn't a bad question. Hell, it was one Jason had asked himself. But where would they go? Moving to a new city wouldn't do it. They could never be sure that Galway or DiRisio wouldn't decide it was too big a risk to let them be. They'd end up living like criminals – running, dodging, hiding. "Well, we could. But they might keep coming after us."

  "How do we stop them?"

  Jason started to answer, stopped himself. "Well, what do you think?"

  Billy sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes moving down and around like the answer might be on the floor. Then, suddenly, he looked up. "The briefcase."

  A warmth spread through Jason's chest, a weird feeling he'd never known. Was this what parenting was? Had Michael felt this way watching Billy tie his shoes or do crossword puzzles? "That's right, buddy. There's only one problem." He paused. "I'd have to leave you to go get it."

  Billy's hand snatched his own, clung hard.

  "It's okay. Take it easy. I want to stay with you. But I don't want more men coming after us, and I think the briefcase could make sure of that." He paused. "I think I should go. I think it will keep you safe. But I won't if you don't want me to." Jason squeezed Billy's hand, looked him in the eye. "It's up to you, kiddo."

  He stared at the boy, this eight-year-old with his brother's face. Shoulders thin under the gray Army T-shirt. Skin pale and sticky with tears. Stared and wished for a magic wand, a bag of fairy dust, whatever it took to reverse time and give this poor boy his father back, his life back.

  And then Billy said, "Okay," and let go of his hand.

  CHAPTER 31

  Dirty Clothes

  Anthony DiRisio stood in front of the windows, arms at his side. Hell of a view. The skyline to the south, Lincoln Park spilling east, beyond that, the lake, blue-gray water dotted with colorful sails.

  Elena Cruz lived pretty good for a policewoman.

  The jerkwad cops that had searched the place earlier had closed up behind them, but the lock on the door was junk. He'd jamb-popped it with his knife and strolled in.

  The apartment was a sizable one-bedroom with curved brick ceilings and a Murphy bed that folded back into the wall. He pulled it out just for kicks and lay down, his shoes up on the covers, fingers behind his head. A faint girl smell lingered in her pillows. After a moment, he sat up, opened the night table drawer. An Ondaatje novel, The English Patient. He'd seen the movie, liked it all right. A tube of lip balm. A snapshot of a Hispanic woman with a moustache. A silver vibrator. He turned it on. The batteries were low, the thing barely humming. He smiled, turned it off, put it back.

  The cops had been after evidence, bundles of hundreds or sacks of weapons. They'd have checked the toilet tank and tapped for loose floorboards, felt the pockets of coats and the seams of the sofa. DiRisio was hoping for something more abstract, something that hinted where she might be.

  He worked steadily but swiftly. Skipped the bathroom, skipped the kitchen. There was a mound of dirty clothes on her closet floor. Her dresser contained folded shirts and jeans, a tangle of underwear. He held up soft thong-cut panties, Vickie's Secret, size small. A potpourri sachet made them smell like cinnamon. Nice. If Palmer was tapping her, he was in for a treat.

  No diary, no appointment book, no day planner.

  He moved to the living room where she kept her desk. Sifted through paper clips and pens. A silver half dollar. A small chunk of amber. A rabbit's foot. An abandoned network cable ran from the wall to the desk. Shit. The cops had her computer. He'd like to have gone through it.

  "Where are you, honey?" Looked around the room. Opened a cabinet. DVDs, a board game. "Come to daddy." Checked the fridge. A couple beers, some mismatched takeout containers, a bottle of Sriracha, a lime that had seen better days, a quarter-inch of milk in a gallon jug. Not a homebody, then.

  Something moved behind him.

  DiRisio spun fast, dropping as he went, right arm swinging out in an arc, pistol leading the way.

  An orange and white cat with green eyes stared at him over the SIG's dot-and-bars. The cat blinked. The cat yawned.

  Anthony DiRisio smiled.

  "Hi, kitty," he said. "Come here."

  CHAPTER 32

  Whiskey and Black Coffee

  The way the light from the window fell on him, Ronald could have been a
statue, an ebony sculpture of an old-time railroad worker. The sun carved his muscles in sharp relief, hard swells that strained his shirt sleeves. A five-pound sledge dangled from one hand, the heavy head stained a soft ocher with rust. He stared out the front window with quiet concentration.

  "Hey Ronald, you seen Cruz?"

  The big man tore his eyes away from the window, glanced at Jason. "That the girl you came with?"

  "Yeah."

  Ronald turned back to the window. "Upstairs. Said she wanted to freshen up."

  "Thanks." Curiosity pulled him over to stand beside Ronald. Out the window, on the sidewalk past the Lantern Bearers sign, Washington stood talking to a middle-aged white guy with salt-and-pepper hair and sweat marks on his crisp oxford. Beyond them afternoon sun glared off parked cars, and on the other side of the street lay the abandoned lot, tall grass swaying gently around the carousel he remembered from years ago.

  "Okay," he said. "I'll bite. What's so interesting?"

  Ronald gestured with his chin. "See that dude talking to Dr. Matthews? That's Adam Kent."

  The name sounded familiar. He squinted. Medium build, neat hair, nice clothes. But nothing notable about him. He didn't think he'd ever seen him before, but the name sounded familiar. Where had he heard… right. "The guy giving Washington half a million dollars at the party tonight."

  Ronald nodded slow, his eyes locked outside.

  "You curious what he looks like?"

  "Nah. Seen him before. He's here all the time."

  "So what?"

  "Look at him, man." Ronald spoke without turning. "Dude can write a check for five hundred thousand dollars, just give it away. Got enough money that half a million don't hurt none."

  "Nice of him."

  "Yeah. It's just…" Ronald hesitated.

  "What?"

  "I mean, I walk by him on the street, I wouldn't even notice. Looks like any other white guy. I always thought having that much money, you'd look different, you know? Like a glow or something." Ronald shook his head. "Hell, a brother with that kind of money, he's wearin' a platinum dollar sign covered with diamonds."