Fire in the Blood

  “They used to call this Hell Gate,” said Melody, pointing out at the narrow, rust-colored waterway below them. “Still about a hundred ships sunk down there, you believe that? Probably more dead sailors in the East River than there is mud.”

  The traffic pounded in Coop’s ears. He stared out the window, thinking of all the files from Presser’s office spread across his hotel floor ever since he got Kay’s phone working. He thought of two red X’s he’d scribbled on his map of the city.

  Melody took them up the Bronx River Parkway for a few miles, then pulled off, swerving down a side street where he halted the Altima in front of a small café with a green awning. He came back a few minutes later with two coffees.

  “You up for a little walk?” he said, handing one of the coffees to Coop. “Weather’s perfect and my leg gets funny, I stand around too long.”

  They crossed East Fordham Road on foot, Melody quick despite his limp, dragging one wingtip behind him. The sun sat low in the polluted canopy, a shadowless morning haze over the morning traffic. After a few blocks they came to a large public park, where the sprawl of the city collided against a wall of trees. Melody led them off the sidewalk and down a winding stone staircase to an isolated circle of stone benches.

  Melody used his gloves to swipe snow from a bench before lowering himself onto the seat. Coop stayed standing. He sipped his coffee but didn’t taste it, wondering how long this would take. Whatever this was.

  “You see over there?” said Melody. He pointed up over the park toward an orange glint of sun. No, not the sun. Looking through the branches Coop realized he was looking at a massive bronze dome rising above the trees.

  “Botanical Gardens,” said Melody. “Nice, huh?”

  They sat in silence for a while, watching the orange light reflecting off the dome and out across the frosted park. Coop was impatient; he wanted to go back to the hotel. Even though he knew he should be focused on the present situation, figure out what Melody was after, his mind kept going back to the files in his room. One in particular: Sean Hudson, age twenty.

  “You know,” said Melody, “when I was a kid, me and the guys would come out here with slingshots, try shooting for the glass. Later on, we’re older, sometimes if we were hard up for cash we’d come down here looking for tourists to roll.”

  “Roll?”

  “You know, mug, hijack. Robbing people, whatever.”

  Coop raised his eyebrows in obligatory surprise.

  “This old tour book, I guess they had this spot marked as a good view of the Gardens,” Melody continued. “So we’d just come up and say: ‘Good afternoon, where you folks coming from? Oh yeah, Milwaukee? Welcome to the neighborhood. Now give me your wallets, you dumb fucks.’ ”

  Melody chuckled to himself, making jabbing motions with an imaginary weapon. “Different neighborhood back then. Total fucking bedlam, you wouldn’t believe how bad.”

  “Huh,” said Coop, absently.

  Melody sipped his coffee. “Not like Maine, I guess.”

  Coop turned toward the detective. “You might be surprised,” he said.

  “That right?” said Melody. “What, you get in trouble for fishing lobster out of season?” He laughed to himself. “Maybe some nautical infraction? The incorrect placement of buoys?”

  “Larceny and aggravated assault,” said Coop, sipping his coffee.

  “Well hey, all right. That’s some respectable delinquency.”

  But you already knew about my record, didn’t you, Coop wanted to say. His instinct told him Melody had already pulled his juvenile rap sheet, and now he was using the information to build trust between them. Regaling Coop with his own stories of lawless youth.

  “One thing I thought was interesting,” Coop said, “when you get arrested, during booking, how they rate your vocabulary.”

  Melody nodded. “Yeah, they do that in some places. What score you get?”

  “Articulate,” said Coop. “I think it was the highest one.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Another thing I thought was strange,” Coop continued, “was how, when they brought me in for the interview, the cop just sat there for a while, looking me right in the eye. Not saying anything. Finally he asks a few questions, then takes a while, looking through his paperwork. It kept going like that. He’d ask a few questions, always followed by these long periods of silence.”

  “Wasn’t what you expected, huh?” said Melody.

  “Nope. I thought it would be like in the movies, you know? Two cops, both of them throwing questions at me. Instead I was wondering, is there something wrong with this guy? Like maybe he had autism or something.”

  “Lotta guys think that,” said Melody, chuckling. “They wait for the bright light in their face, the bad cop act.”

  “Right,” said Coop. “Then, two years ago, while I was at sapper school, I met a guy who used to be a cop. I don’t remember how it came up, but I was telling him this story, how I got arrested and interviewed by this weird, quiet detective. And my friend is laughing at me. He told me the silence, it’s a technique they teach you guys.”

  “Sure,” said Melody, shrugging it off. “We got all kinds of tricks.”

  “My friend said what probably happened was this: they tagged me as ‘articulate’ during in-processing, so this cop’s training tells him to let me sit there, waiting. The theory being I’d overthink the situation, being a smart guy, and start asking questions. Incriminate myself by showing him what I did or didn’t know.”

  “Huh,” said Melody. Coop thought he sensed a subtle tightening of the detective’s posture.

  “So here we are,” Coop continued. “You invite me for coffee, no explanation on why, or what we’re gonna talk about—and hey, it’s good coffee—but here we are, sitting. In silence. And I keep thinking, well this feels familiar.”

  Coop turned to face Melody and he saw the cop’s eyes searching over him, like Coop had just changed shape and Melody was looking for a trace of the familiar. The detective took a moment to recompose himself before replying, and when he did, it was with a resigned sigh.

  “To be honest, Specialist Cooper, you know what I’ve been doing?”

  Coop shook his head. “Tell me.”

  “Deliberating.”

  “Deliberating,” Coop repeated. He studied Melody, wondering what new line of bullshit this could be. “About what?”

  “Yeah, see—this is tricky. There’s been a development. And we see a possible linkage between this development and the investigation regarding your wife’s death.”

  “What development?” said Coop. He hadn’t expected this.

  “Well, it’s only a possibility, see? If it turns out to be a separate, unrelated crime, I can’t be sharing information with you—”

  “What development?” Coop repeated. He suddenly needed to know what Melody knew, and at the same time he couldn’t help thinking, I could share some information with you, Detective. Some shit you don’t know.

  Melody’s frown suggested he was being patient with someone who had disappointed him. “The manager of the clinic, Dr. Richard Presser? He’s gone missing.”

  The temperature seemed to drop, and in the distance Coop heard a sharp cracking noise. A tree branch splitting under the weight of ice. In his mind it was Presser’s head slammed sideways into the doorframe.

  “Like I said, we’re not sure if there’s a connection,” Melody was saying. “But the timing of this, it makes me think we need to expand the zone of inquiry.”

  “Zone of inquiry—what does that mean?”

  Melody scrunched up his face and leaned a little closer. “I know I brought this up at the funeral. And I understand why you wouldn’t want to go into it. But given this new information, which I’m sharing with you, I’m wondering if you can walk me through a few details.”

 
“What details?”

  “How things were between you and Katherine.”

  Coop blinked. How the fuck are those related? he wanted to yell, but before he could say anything they were both interrupted by a sudden electric ringing.

  “Ah, hang on,” said Melody, and he fumbled around his coat, producing a phone.

  “Shit, I gotta take this,” he said, checking the number, and got up to limp a few steps away.

  “Yeah?” he said, and Coop was close enough to hear a man’s urgent voice on the other line, but he couldn’t make out the words. Melody looked over his shoulder and took a few more steps away, mumbling into the receiver.

  Coop bunched up his fists and hid them inside his jacket. Behind his eyes he saw a red blooming. A lake of blood seeping across the floor of Presser’s office.

  “Listen, it’s Sean…”

  Inside Sean’s file Coop had found a page listing his contact information, including last known address. He consulted his foldout map and found the street, Briggs. He drew an X at the approximate cross streets. Then recognized a nearby intersection. Coop drew another X, barely two inches from the first mark he’d made. Stepped back from the map. What were the chances of that?

  Kay was killed three blocks from Sean’s apartment.

  Seeing those adjacent marks, Coop had felt a new heat come to life in his chest. He folded his hands on top of his head and paced around the room, keeping his eyes on the map. The longer he looked at the pair of red X’s, the more he felt the certainty of rage. He tore through Sean’s file until he found a phone number, and without waiting punched the numbers into the hotel phone. No ring but here was the voice again, unmistakable (“You got Sean, leave a message at the beep.”). Not knowing what else to do, Coop had left a message.

  Watching Melody hunched over his cellphone, Coop briefly considered sharing all this. But then the detective came back over with a sly, apologetic grin, holding the open phone against his chest like he was saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry about this,” said Melody. “Duty calls.”

  Coop narrowed his eyes and pointed at the phone. “This have anything to do with—”

  “No, no,” Melody said. “It’s another thing.” With his other hand Melody dug in his back pocket for his wallet.

  “Listen, I give you twenty bucks, you can take a cab back?”

  “No, keep your money,” said Coop. He felt conflicted; it was a relief to escape Melody’s scrutiny, but insulting to be so suddenly dismissed.

  “Hang on,” said Melody, covering the phone with a hand. He looked at Coop. “What’s up?”

  “You never told me how you knew where I was staying.”

  Melody grinned. “This is my jungle, I know all the little animals.” Using one gloved hand he made scurrying motions in the air. “Not a branch gets disturbed without me hearing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Coop returned to the Crotona in a trance, his mind crowded by new uncertainties. The hotel was quiet in the late winter morning, only a few cars in the parking lot. Upstairs he fumbled with his keys. When he got the door open he tried the light, but the room stayed dark. Coop stood for a few moments in the entryway, flipping the switch back and forth. Nothing. Peering into the shade Coop could see there was something wrong about his hotel room. His mattress was capsized, all of his gear had been dumped on the floor, and the whole mess was layered in a snowstorm of Kay’s files.

  Fucking cops, he thought. This must have been Melody’s ploy all along. Get him out of the room, keep him away just long enough to search the place. But what would they be looking for?

  Then a monster-faced man rose up from behind the bed, snarling from the shadows, and Coop understood, too late, that this situation was something else entirely.

  The man was dressed all in black, and he wore a savage expression, bearded and inhuman. Coop jumped back, putting distance between himself and the creature, only to have a paw land on his shoulder. He drove an elbow backward and tried to backpedal but found himself facing two more snarling faces. They had him blocked in. A leg flashed out and the wall hit Coop in the back. He coughed and fell forward with a whoof of stolen air. There was a hiss—like spray paint, a bright venomous snake—and his eyes exploded in orange fire. Coop fought against the bulk behind him. Someone punched his ear. Someone kicked him in the stomach. Coop doubled over, coughing in the cloud of what he realized was pepper spray, and smothering blows fell down all around him. He tried to call out for help but only managed to suck in more of the hot, bleeding air.

  I’m dying, he thought, they’re killing me, and as he fell sideways he thought for some reason of the chaplain.

  He yelled for them to stop. Begged them, but the monsters kept chipping pieces away from his body. Coop rolled into a ball and through bleeding lips found the words to a new and shameful prayer: Just let it stop. In answer, Coop felt his head tugged upward, and then it was over with three quick jabs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Among the shadows there were spots of light. Coop felt that the world was somehow out of reach, that he had been cast into a dark place where only the faintest remnants of sensation could reach him. His head was covered by some kind of shroud, he could feel the fabric sticking to his nose and mouth. The pain was everywhere, so widespread that Coop found it difficult to pinpoint the individual sources of his injury. There was a squelching in his ribs whenever he twisted in his bonds; he was tied to a chair, he realized. One of his eyes felt gooey, and with the tip of his tongue Coop located the jagged corner of a freshly broken tooth.

  He remembered hushed voices, people speaking in a language that sounded like Russian. Then police sirens, clattering doors…or was he hearing that now? Somewhere under the blanket of pain he’d lost the sense of time, everything converging into sound-fuzz. Then came a brushing across his face and the darkness was torn away, replaced by three trollish heads. Cavemen, Coop thought, they look like cavemen.

  * * *

  —

  “You gave him too much,” said Kosta, speaking in Albanian.

  He put two fingers under the stranger’s chin and lifted his head toward the light. The oozing face made contortions, one eye dilated and filled with blood.

  “It’s only the first shot,” said Zameer. “We did exactly what Luz—”

  “No names!” snapped Kosta.

  “We did exactly as we were told. She probably kicked him too hard,” Zameer said, pointing at Buqa. “But it’s fine, I have an idea.”

  Zameer went upstairs. For her part, Buqa was silent. She stood with arms folded, head bent slightly in the direction of the soldier, willows of fake hair trailing down from her rubber monster mask.

  Irritated, Kosta dug his fingernails under the seal of his own mask, sweating in the heat of the basement. It was another fuck-up of Zameer’s, and looking back, Kosta realized of course he should have specified: Fetch something simple, Zameer. Maybe ski masks from a hardware store. Whatever you do, don’t spend $60 on three elaborate silicon disguises, not like the “Bigfoot Costume” heads he had proudly presented. But this was a surface problem, Kosta reminded himself. Especially compared to the dilemma of what to do with their new prisoner.

  The contents of the man’s wallet were spread out on a folding metal tray table. Kosta picked up the U.S. Army ID card and studied it against the man’s face. He’d been hoping for some kind of dissimilarity, but the wide-eyed, uniformed teenager in the photograph was the same as the beat-up stranger. A soldier. Kosta shook his head. They had kidnapped a fucking soldier.

  Killing him was out of the question, of course. You never killed soldiers, not if you could avoid it, a lesson ground into Kosta’s head during the days following the Uprising, when their country was swarming with NATO troops. “Armies are just another clan without besa,” Luzhim had told him, “like the police, or the mixed gangs.
When people join for the advantages, there’s only one way to build loyalty: You have to protect your troops while they’re alive and avenge them if they die. So if you kill a soldier? There’s never bargaining. They’ll have to hunt you down, or their own men will lose faith.”

  So Kosta had decided to inject the soldier with the formula. He figured the drugs would get him to talk, they could determine how he was connected to Sean. Then abandon him somewhere. After all, soldiers were just like drug addicts, they went crazy all the time.

  But now they had a new problem. The first shot of the formula was working too quickly. Or maybe Zameer was right, the beating they’d given him had been too severe. Because the soldier was just sitting there, staring deeply into the walls, not answering any questions. Occasionally his eyes would go wide, like he was seeing something terrible. Or mutter through his bleeding lips and go back to staring.

  Zameer came back downstairs from the kitchen with a half-empty jug of vodka, sloshing it in the light.

  “This is your idea,” said Kosta. “To get drunk.”

  “No, no,” said Zameer. “You ever been tripping?”

  Kosta shook his head.

  “When you take LSD, they tell you never to mix with alcohol,” said Zameer, unscrewing the cap. “It kills your high.”

  * * *

  —

  As Coop’s eyes adjusted to the light, other details began to come clear. Puddles on the concrete floor. A light, to which his eyes kept returning. At first this bulb had seemed like a warm, glowing omen, a welcome alternative to the cavemen. But now the light had begun to mutate, and Coop shrank from the poisonous glow. The bulb oozed and became a squirming neon spider. The spider flexed its neon legs and released a droplet of light onto Coop’s bare forearm. The light hissed as it burned a pit into his skin. Coop tried to move but his hands and legs were still tied. The drops fell faster on his face and chest, each one landing with a white-hot brightness of pain.