Into the Fire

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Yes, he did.” Max took in a breath. “So you think it was a work thing?”

  “Of course it was work-related.” She snatched up a notepad, scribbled something else on her to-do list, and tossed it back onto the glass coffee table.

  “Why didn’t he go to the cops?”

  At this she gave a nasty little laugh. “The cops. Right. You’d think they’d be some help. I mean, you’d imagine that they could swing in and … and … But it’s amazing how helpless we actually are. When there’s a real threat? The police are useless. Can you imagine, what with who Grant was in the community? Think of everything he did over the years for their investigations, for their cases. But he said they only offered the usual bureaucratic nonsense. Fill out a report. A cruiser by the house twice a night.” She rubbed her eyes hard, smearing the lids in circles. “It’s not like I expected them to whisk him off into witness protection, but something. And then this. Jesus God. I mean, they said it was a professional hit. A professional hit. On Grant. Our Grant. And they don’t know.… They still don’t know anything.”

  She sobbed quietly for a time.

  Dread had taken up residence in Max’s belly, lead-heavy and dense. If the cops weren’t willing to help Grant Merriweather, what recourse would he have?

  He took an awkward step toward her. “Jill, listen, is there anything I can do?”

  Stifling a sob, she snatched up the notepad again. “There’s really not. I mean, who’s gonna know who to put on the guest list? And how many passed plates at the reception? And which suit … which suit of his…”

  She dipped her face again into her tissue-wielding fist, her chin wrinkled above her knuckles, freckles pronounced on her blanched face. From the kitchen Max heard one of the high-schoolers—Terel or Ross—crack a joke and then the sound of muffled laughter. He wondered who else was in there.

  He put his hand in his pocket, felt his fingertips brush against the folded DO NOT OPEN envelope. “Jill, I need to know if Grant … um, if he might have left any instructions for me.”

  She froze, her features hardening. When she looked up, her eyes held such intense disdain that he flinched. “You mean like in a will?”

  “No,” Max said. “No, that’s not what I mean at all.”

  But she kept on. “As in, did he leave you anything? Not a good time to ask for money, Maxwell. I mean, the body’s not even cold.”

  He wilted. “How could you think I’d…?”

  “Because everyone is, Max. You should see them crawling out of the woodwork already.”

  “I understand,” he said. “But I’m not.”

  Michelle rushed forward. “Mom,” she said. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  But Jill ignored her, her glare boring through Max. “Then what are you asking for, Max? Why would Grant leave instructions for you?” And then, abruptly, her brow furled and she snapped to her feet. “Wait a minute. Is this something you got him into?”

  “What?”

  “Of course, that’s why you’re here. You needed his help, dragged him into something shady. You were always the fuckup, Max. What did you do?”

  “No, Jill. Listen—” His voice had risen. Realizing he was arguing with a woman who’d been widowed for less than twenty-four hours, he clamped his mouth shut.

  But she drove toward him, her face a mask of aggression. “How dare you. How dare you come here.”

  Frustration rushed through his blood, congealing into anger. His next words were just taking shape when he caught sight of Michelle. She was standing behind her mother, eyes welling, the flanges of her nostrils red. Her sweater had come unclasped in the front, swaying open, revealing a soft gray T-shirt rounded over her belly. Her words came back to Max: Given everything, I know I’m super emotional.

  She saw him notice her pregnant bulge, gave a soft smile, and clipped her sweater again over it.

  “So tell me, Max,” Jill sneered. “Tell me the real story of why you’re here.”

  He heard Grant’s voice, edged with worry: My wife’s not exactly a safe distance removed from me. Or my family. The thing with you is, no one will ever know. I mean, no one would ever think of you.

  The minute Grant handed Max that envelope, he’d put a target on his head. And now Max had to choose whether he wanted to put Jill into the crosshairs with him. He looked at Michelle, still verging on tears, the slope of her stomach. He thought about the boys in the other room. This well-built house and all the life in it, such a contrast with his run-down apartment. There was so much more to wreck here.

  “Forget it,” Max said. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Sorry.”

  She studied him a moment, her features slack with disgust. Then she tensed.

  He couldn’t process what was happening in real time, not until she plowed into him, hammering at his chest with her fists, clawing at his face. “Get out! Right now! Get out of my house!”

  He wrangled her arms as best he could. Michelle was shouting. The kitchen door swung open, and a stream of people poured through, both boys, all four uncles, a slew of cousins, his grandmother, the chef and the cleaning lady, and an assortment of well-heeled neighbors clutching plastic hors d’oeuvre plates.

  Jill was twisting in Max’s grip now, cursing and sobbing, and he let her go and stepped back. Before she could launch herself at him again, Michelle wrapped her up from behind. “Stop it, Mom! Calm down. Max didn’t do anything. Just calm down.”

  Jill finally stopped struggling. She shook her daughter off, snatched up her notepad, and strode out of sight down the rear hall.

  All eyes shifted to Max. In the rear of the pack, he caught sight of his father, his rugged face flushed. He seemed to be caught off guard as much as Max was.

  Max felt a familiar gravity pulling him toward a familiar hope—that his dad might step up and say something in his defense.

  But Terry just looked ashamed. In his pained expression, Max saw a reflection of his own original sin. That he’d come into the world a disappointment and would be one so long as his father was alive to lay eyes on him. That had it not been for Max, his mother would be around, laughing and pretty, warming every room.

  That he wasn’t worth the terrible cost that had been paid to create him.

  Max was unable to find what words should come next. And unable to look away from his father. At last Terry broke off eye contact.

  “Omigod,” Michelle said, cutting in on the muddle of Max’s thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”

  His left cheek burned even over the heat that had risen beneath his face. He touched his fingertips to the spot, and they came away red. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  His grandmother edged forward. Dementia had made her fragmented and erratic, though she’d been none too pleasant before. She jabbed a crooked finger at him, her mottled face twisted. “It should’ve been you.”

  The words arrowed straight through him—clean entry, clean exit—leaving him winded. Once again his stare found his father, but Terry just took another swig of beer and looked away. Pouches had risen beneath his eyes, where emotion gathered for his dad and where it stopped.

  Michelle said, “Fuck you, Grandma.”

  A few gasps. The ring of keen silence. The boys glanced at each other, suppressing grins. Only Grandma looked unfazed, picking at the edge of an empanada on her plate.

  “It’s okay, Michelle,” Max said. “Show Nona respect.”

  Terry squeezed Ross’s and Terel’s necks, steering them toward the kitchen. “C’mon, boys. You don’t need to see this.”

  The door flapped, and then silence reasserted itself once more.

  One of the neighbors cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should go.”

  Max nodded. As he turned for the door, the envelope crinkled in his pocket. Feeling it dig into his thigh, he hesitated.

  The others were already drifting back into the kitchen, but he called after Michelle. “Do you mind if I just clean this up a little before I go?” He touched his cheek.
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  “Of course, Uncle Max.” She pointed to the hall opposite the one her mom had vanished down. “Third door on the left.”

  He started up the tile corridor for the powder room, glancing through the open doorways on either side as he passed. Guest room. Library. And then—as he vaguely remembered—Grant’s office.

  He ducked in, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet, and scanned the oak furnishings. A laptop was open on the leather blotter, family photos bouncing around on a screen saver. Max nudged the mouse pad, and the desktop came up.

  He hovered the cursor over Contacts and clicked.

  The “A” surnames sprang up first, important city officials and heads of industry, personal numbers and addresses listed alongside their work info. In the Notes section, Grant or his assistant had even typed in the names of spouses and children.

  Holding his breath, Max scrolled down the alphabet, searching for Lorraine Lennox. Sure enough, there was her card, featuring the phone number at the Los Angeles Times he’d been calling. Her office address was listed and there—bingo—a cell number and home address as well.

  Max had hoped for as much. That given whatever explosive information was at stake, Grant and Lennox had worked out unofficial channels of communication.

  The sound of movement deep in the house straightened Max’s spine. Several sets of footsteps tapped into the foyer, voices carrying up the hall.

  Max jotted down Lennox’s info on a pad featuring the Merriweather Accountancy logo, tore off the sheet, and crossed to the doorway. Peering out, he saw Michelle edge into view, seeing the neighbors out. Her gaze swept in his direction, and he jerked back out of sight.

  When he heard the front door close, he swung out into the hall and walked toward the foyer.

  Michelle turned as he neared. “I’m sorry. Like I said, she’s out of her head right now.”

  Max said, “How could she not be?”

  Michelle gave a sad smile. She caught him noticing her belly again, took his hand, and moved to rest it on her bump. He pulled his hand back more sharply than he intended, an instinctive recoil he instantly regretted. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “I get it,” she said. “Just … don’t be a stranger. You’re the only one in this family I actually like.”

  He felt his breath tangle in his throat. He blinked hard and turned quickly away.

  She shut the door behind him, ratcheting out the bright light of the foyer. He stepped off the porch, enfolded by the darkness, with an address in his pocket and little else.

  7

  Like Torn Rubber

  Lorraine Lennox lived in an Elysian Park bungalow at the lip of a canyon fold, a loud street in a neighborhood lively with music and front-yard barbecues. In the distance the stadium was uplit for a concert, the grandstand glowing Dodger blue.

  Standing on the cracked doorstep, Max double-checked the address. After calling Lennox’s cell a handful of times and getting dumped into voice mail, he’d worked up his courage and driven over.

  He rang the doorbell, waited, rang it again.

  A clacking drew his attention to the side of the house. A gate, loose in the breeze. He walked over to it.

  The latch slapped against the catch nervously. Through the fence he could hear people talking in the backyard.

  A shift in the wind sent the Boss’s gravelly voice rolling across Chavez Ravine, blasting from the stadium speakers: Everybody’s got a secret, Sonny …

  Max knuckled the gate open. “Hello?”

  He drifted up the alley, blading past recycling bins.

  “Hi, there! I’m not a robber! I’m just Grant Merriweather’s cousin.”

  He emerged onto the square of browning grass that passed for a backyard. A few lawn chairs with tattered straps were arrayed around a fire pit.

  Empty.

  Gas flames leapt through the lava rocks, a reverse waterfall of orange and pale blue. The rear sliding-glass door had been laid open, and he realized now that the voices he’d heard weren’t voices at all but a too-loud television blaring from the living room.

  As Max edged forward, he spotted the back of a woman’s head poking up over an armchair facing the flat-screen.

  The lights were off in the bungalow. The flicker of the screen and the strobing flames behind him had an unsettling effect, the walls fluid and alive, the foundation no longer fixed.

  “Hello? Lorraine?”

  Max stepped across the threshold into the chill of the house.

  “Lorraine? I’m sorry to barge in—” The words died in his throat.

  Her head was cocked at an odd angle. As he circled the chair, the noise of the television predominated—Pat Sajak smarmy in syndication, praying for that big money, big money. Max knew that something was terribly wrong, but his legs wouldn’t stop carrying him onward. The game show was wanting for reception, the contestants’ words fuzzed at the edges. Despite the chill, sweat trickled down his ribs.

  The sight of Lorraine Lennox inched into view, her throat bared, her head tilted back from the violence of the gunshot. Her tight black hair gave way to a thumb-size hole in her crown, the ebony skin jagged at the edges like torn rubber.

  It seemed to be pulsing, the hole, and then he realized that the TV reception wasn’t weak at all, that the buzzing he was hearing was flies.

  His stomach lurched. A few quick strides brought him to the kitchen sink barely in time. Gripping the Formica counter, he emptied his stomach.

  He didn’t remember backing out of the house, but his calves struck the fire pit and he felt the breath of the flames against his shoulder blades.

  Another blip of lost time and then the sound of the gate latch clacking behind him.

  Then he was driving out of the Ravine, making turn after turn, sweat running into his eyes. He skirted the edge of Chinatown, red lanterns bobbing on strings, diners pouring from restaurants. As he came up Alameda Street, his arms started shaking and his chest tightened up. His windpipe cinched until he was sure he’d die right there behind the wheel.

  He tugged the truck to the curb and got out, the fresh night air sweeping some of the fog from his brain. His fingertips were tingling, his mouth bone dry.

  Overhead a sign glowed in the night: PHILIPPE THE ORIGINAL, the words rendered in a baseball-pennant scroll. He staggered inside, sawdust kicking up around his shoes, the hum of conversation enveloping him. Along cafeteria-style tables, diners dug into French-dip sandwiches.

  His knees buckled, his vision spotting, and he went for the nearest empty seat. He collapsed into a chair and placed his palms on the tabletop, wanting to feel something solid. He couldn’t get the smell of the bungalow out of his nose.

  To his side, someone was ordering at the counter. “I want a slice of cheesecake please and thank you but no cherry drizzle on it ’cuz cherries are red and I don’t eat red stuff and a glass of orange juice but not with a blue straw just a clear one.”

  Max still couldn’t look up from his hands, but he sensed the man’s shadow beside him a moment later.

  “Excuse me, sir … um … um, it’s cafeteria-style here so the dining norms are different, and … um … um, it’s supposed to be okay to ask, so can I sit with you?”

  Max’s throat was still spasming, so he nodded a few times fiercely without raising his head.

  The man sat down and ate for a time, humming softly as he chewed. Max’s hands trembled, the pads of his fingers rasping against the surface of the tabletop. He thought about the hole in Lennox’s head, how it vibrated with movement. The buzzing. The stench.

  The man’s next words came at him as if from far away. “Are you upset, sir?”

  “No, no.” Max’s voice sounded scratchy and detached even to him. “I’m … fine.”

  “’Cuz your breathing went from thirty-two breaths per minute to forty per minute, and your … um … um, your face is red, and that’s a social cue that you’re upset.”

  “… not upset…’kay?”

  “Okay.” The man leaned t
o take another slurp through his clear straw. “’Cuz if you were,” he said, “I know who’d be able to help you.”

  8

  Complicated

  Making a floating bed was a pain in the ass.

  There were no wobbles—the electromagnetic-suspension technology was sufficiently powerful to fix the slab in place. But without a headboard or footboard to pin the sheets, addressing wrinkles became a challenge.

  Evan hated wrinkles.

  His Original S.W.A.T. boots added another variable. Given the protective steel shanks between the insoles and outsoles, he had to keep his feet well back from the bed’s magnetic field or risk getting sucked into the void.

  Leaning forward, he tugged down the top sheet only to see the faintest ridge lift on the far side, pronounced in the early-morning light. Grimacing, he circled the bed and smoothed the ridge with his palm. Now the faintest fan appeared in the fabric at the opposite corner.

  He told himself to let it go.

  He told himself that it wasn’t life-or-death.

  That it was just a fucking bedsheet.

  Then he rounded the slab once more and yanked the sheet flat.

  That caused the hem beneath the pillows to shift to a slight diagonal.

  He glared at it with enmity.

  Perfection had been ingrained in his bones, a mission-essential trait on which his survival depended. Knowing where it should stop was a challenge. That meant that his life hung in the balance of every last detail, that his very existence—

  Suddenly he was airborne, his boot ripped out from under him. He slammed down on his back next to the bed, his right foot twisted up, the boot magnetically adhered to the bottom of the slab.

  Embarrassing.

  He tried to yank his foot free. Aside from an ache that bloomed in his thigh, nothing happened.

  With a groan, he hunched forward awkwardly, untied his laces, and ripped his foot out.

  Standing, he tried to work the boot loose. It spun in a full rotation but would not pull off.