Collateral

by Callie Hart

  “It was.”

  She gives me the cautious look I assume she reserves for all victims of abuse. “And the man, what…does he actually try to kill you?”

  I nod. Seems as though my memories are intent on making themselves known—intent on making their displeasure known. I’m not supposed to share this dark, shitty piece of myself with anyone. I am supposed to hide it away and let it fester inside me. Let it rot me from the inside out. I’m hit with the stale smell of alcohol as I think about what I’m going to share with the woman sitting on the other side of the room. I’m hit with the sour tang of body odor and the taste of my own adolescent fear in my mouth. “He comes for me every time. He comes at me with his fists. His skin is slick with sweat, naked—”

  “And does he assault you sexually?”

  I told Sloane I was never assaulted sexually, and that is the truth. But it’s also true I probably would have been if I hadn’t have fought back so hard. “He was…he was always hard. I could feel his cock against me as he wrestled with me. But I never let him get close enough to do anything.”

  “He never touched you?”

  I close my eyes. “No.” I was never touched, because I bit, I kicked, I gouged, I fought with every last ounce of strength I had. I fought with the abandon of a person who would rather die than undergo such a humiliation. Young as I was, that was enough. But it didn’t stop the beatings.

  “How often did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. Every night. Every night for years.”

  “But when you dream, it’s always the first time it happened that you relive, correct?”

  “Yes.” I already know why that is: the first time was the worst. The first time it happened, I was the youngest I was ever going to be at the hands of the monster that crept into my room each night. And later on I expected it. I knew it was coming, and I was waiting. I was used to beatings, even at that age given my uncle’s proclivity for alcohol abuse and quick fists. But yeah, the first night was different. That first night, in the dark, when the shadowy, naked figure told me he was going to kill me, I heard the intention in his voice and I knew he meant it. I knew I was going to have to fight for my life.

  “These aren’t nightmares you suffer from, Zeth,” Newan says. “This is your mind begging for help. Your subconscious is pleading with you, demanding that you deal with the trauma you experienced as a child, because a part of you is still fighting that dark figure inside your head. Even though you’re an adult now and you’re physically strong, every night you’re still affected by this blow-by-blow account of what happened to you because you’ve never felt like you’ve stopped fighting for your life.”

  Newan’s words strike a chord somewhere deep down in the very core of me. The idea of it, though—the idea that I’m still a scrawny little fucker, fighting this same damn fight, after so long—is enough to make me feel sick. “So, what are you saying? I need to man up and face this thing head on? What is there to face? I never knew who the guy was. There were always at least twenty or thirty guys hanging around Charlie’s place at night. It could have been any one of them.”

  Newan shakes her head. “You know exactly who it was. When you’re ready, you’ll be able to come to that realization on your own. In the meantime, yes, I suppose your rather brief summation’s correct. You need to man up. And that means continued therapy. This isn’t a simple fix, Zeth. You’re pretty fucked up.”

  I laugh. “That your official diagnosis?”

  “I didn’t need to talk with you to know you were fucked up. But yes.”

  “So I have a lifetime of head-shrinking ahead of me? A lifetime of journaling and talking about my feelings? And then I might not try to murder anyone who happens to be in the same room as me while I sleep?” I say anyone, but it’s pretty clear who I mean—Sloane. Newan tips her head to one side, giving me a curious look.

  “You really care about her, huh? I knew you did, but this…this is totally against your archetypal behavior. I never thought you’d be able to get yourself here.”

  “Don’t be too fucking impressed, Newan. I’m still me.”

  She shrugs. I note with some amusement that the Taser, at some point during the last few minutes, has been abandoned on the arm of her chair. “Okay, then,” she says. “In answer to your question, yes. You have a lot of work ahead of you. I can help you, though.” She scowls, as though offering her assistance causes her physical pain. “To say I’m conflicted in this matter would be the understatement of the century, but if you’re willing to put in the hard yards for Sloane, then I’m the last person likely to talk you out of it. We can see each other twice a week. Get the ball rolling. In the meantime, if your violent outbursts are concerning you, I can give you some medication to help with that.”

  “Sleeping pills?”

  “Anti-psychotics.”

  I stand up. I’m halfway to the door before Newan realizes she’s fucked up. “I don’t mean you’re a psychopath, Zeth. I just mean that anti-psychotics have shown to help significantly when—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I spin around, focusing the full force of my anger on her. “I’m not taking any fucking pills, Newan. Nothing. Not sleeping pills. Not anti-fucking-psychotics. Nothing.”

  “Okay.” She holds up her hands—the Taser is once more firmly gripped in her right fist. “Forget the medication. I’ll still help you.”

  “And why the hell would you do that?” I growl.

  She looks miserable as she lowers her hands. “Because…despite what you may think, I love my friend, Zeth. And I know I’ve screwed up, but all I’ve ever wanted for her is for her to be safe. If I help you, if I make sure you’re healthy and handling your baggage, then I know there’s no way in hell you’ll ever hurt her.”

  I feel like puking onto her polished fucking tiles. Like no other, this woman has the ability to make me feel like a pile of shit. “Okay, fine. I’ll come to you, Newan. But I swear to god, if you try to pull anything with the cops—”

  “I won’t. I promise. But you have to try.” I glower at her, fighting the urge to ask what the fuck she thinks I’m doing right now. “Just being here isn’t going to cut it, Zeth,” she says, as though reading my mind. “You can’t keep calling me Newan. You use my surname against me as a weapon—something you did to other inmates when you were in prison? You saw them as your enemies. People to keep at arm’s length. You do the same thing to me. If you see me as your enemy, we’ll never be able to work together to get you where you so clearly want to be.”

  A part of me wants to run right now. I want to walk out of that door, slam it and never fucking look back. I can’t envision what she’s talking about—us working together to fix me. A team. But then I remember the pressure of Sloane’s head against my chest, the solid, reassuring weight, and I know I’ll do whatever it takes. I want to give her what she wants. Sex is all well and good, but I know her. She craves a level of intimacy from me that I’m terrified to give her right now, because the consequences are just too dire. And more than that, I never thought I’d see the day, but I want that level of intimacy, too.

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  “Good. I’m glad. I really am. But…you know this is going to be hard, right?”

  I open the door, pausing in the doorway. “So far nothing in my life has been easy, Pippa. I’d be really fucking surprised if the universe decided to give me a break now.”

  I wake up to the smell of eggs. The other side of the bed I find myself in is woefully empty. My heart sinks a little, which is stupid, I know, but sometimes a girl likes to be surprised. In a good way, and not by the barrel of a gun or something equally as horrific. As I’m thinking this, a small yelp breaks the silence of the room and my heart jumps into my throat. I sit upright to find a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at me. Ernie the Schnauzer, stretched out across my feet at the end of the bed. He makes a disgruntled sound—oww!—as he licks his chops, clearly unhappy at being disturbed by my waking, and then rests his head o
n his paws.

  “Oh. You,” I tell him. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his long grey whiskers twitching as he gives me a quiet uffff, which I’m assuming is only half a woof. He continues to grumble as I jimmy my feet out from underneath him and clamber out of bed. My body is sore in a way that makes me smile secretly to myself. Zeth-sore. I’m a fan of being Zeth-sore.

  I didn’t see much of the apartment last night. I peek my nose into rooms as I make my way toward the smell of cooking eggs—one, two, three bedrooms, what looks like an office, which seems a little weird, and what I can only describe as a wet room. A miniature pool sits in the center of the last room on the right-hand side before I reach the kitchen, perhaps only ten-foot square, but I can tell by the dark aqua hue to the water that the thing is deep.

  “Good morning,” a voice says behind me. Michael. I spin around and there he is in an exquisite black suit, complete with black shirt and black tie.

  “Good morning,” I reply. “Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Because we are going to a funeral. Zeth didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “The Duchess.” Michael gives me a sage nod. “Charlie posted an obituary in The Seattle Times. He’ll be there, which means—”

  “Lacey probably will, too.”

  Again, another nod. “I have a dress ready for you. It’s hanging in the kitchen.”

  Sure enough, when I make my way through to the kitchen, a white garment bag is hooked through a handle of one of the head-height cabinets, and Zeth Mayfair is standing at the cook top, stirring a pot of what can only be eggs. He glances over his shoulder, sees me, and stops what he’s doing. I can’t help but notice he looks tired. “Did that little shit wake you up?” he asks me.

  “Who? Michael?”

  “No. Ernie.” He points behind me—at the rumpled-looking Schnauzer standing right behind me. His fur is all curly and sticking up. Doggy bed head.

  “I woke him up, actually,” I tell Zeth. “He wasn’t too happy about it.”

  Zeth grunts, masking a small smile. “He could clearly give a shit about being away from Lowell. Poor bastard’s probably never gonna forgive us when we give him back.”

  Ernie cocks his head to one side, his strange little Schnauzer eyebrows seeming to pull together into a comical frown.

  “I think you may be right.”

  Zeth turns back to his half-forgotten task and takes the pan off the heat, serving up spoonfuls of scrambled eggs onto pre-buttered slices of toast. Three plates for the three of us. He hands one to Michael, one to me, and slides cutlery toward us across the kitchen countertop.

  I have to say I’m a little shocked when I eat some of the food and it actually tastes like scrambled egg. If anything, I would have expected it to taste faintly carcinogenic—a little burned, or at least way too salty. As it turns out, my man can at least cook the simple things. Michael salutes Zeth with his fork and carries his breakfast out of the kitchen to eat elsewhere.

  “You didn’t tell me about the funeral,” I say between mouthfuls. Zeth leans across the countertop, the bulk of his considerable frame suddenly very much up in my personal space.

  “I was a little too pleased to see you were still alive.”

  “Were you now?”

  He nods. “Plus…” an awkward grimace forms on his face, “this whole thing with Lace—”

  “I know. She might not want to come back with us.”

  Cold, sharp steel flashes in Zeth’s eyes. “I don’t plan on giving her a choice.”

  Honestly, taking Lacey might be for the best. Removing her from the situation altogether. But all I’m imagining right now is a showdown at a graveside and a handful of very scandalized people who are trying to grieve, and I can’t see it ending well. I can’t think of anything productive to say, so I keep my mouth shut. Zeth heads off to locate Michael, saying something about a plan of action.

  Once I’m done with my breakfast, I find both of them fussing over Ernie in the lounge area. They don’t see me for a moment, and watching them scrubbing their hands through the dog’s fur, scratching his belly and roughhousing with him, makes me break out into a smile. Neither of these men would have struck me as dog people, and yet the evidence is right there in front of me. They love that freaking dog.

  Zeth sees me first. He stands up, wiping his hands on jeans. He clears his throat, pointing at Ernie. “We were just checking him for…intestinal worms.”

  “Right. How did that go?”

  “All good.”

  I can barely keep a straight face. “That’s reassuring. I’m going to get ready now. It looks like we have a long day ahead of us.”

  ******

  St. Finnegan’s Catholic Church is a tall-spired, ancient-looking building on the outskirts of Hunt’s Point. The bells are tolling as we arrive, which means the Duchess’s casket has already been taken inside. Michael parks the car on the street outside the church—there’s plenty of space available—and Michael, Zeth and I head inside. The dress Michael bought for me is respectful yet clings to my figure at the same time, perhaps showing a few too many curves considering the setting. It’s not as though I ever met the Duchess, though. And despite the stressful nature of our reason for being here this morning, Zeth’s hands strategically brush those curves as he helps me out of the car, a gentle, burning reminder of our little cane game. We make our way up the pathway to the church entrance, and I do my best not to enjoy his touch a little too much.

  The interior of St. Finnegan’s is typical of any Catholic church. Lots of dark wooden pews, stained-glass windows, gold filigree, and a ten-foot-high depiction of Christ on the cross at the far end of the building in the apse. The smell hits me like a blast from the past. Dusty books, wood, wax, incense, shirt starch—these are the scents of my childhood.

  There aren’t many people sitting in the pews. Guess that explains the ample parking space outside. The front two rows are taken, perhaps twenty or so backs facing us as we walk down the aisle. My modest heels send echoing footsteps up to the high, vaulted ceiling as we try to sneak into the service unnoticed. No one turns around to see who the latecomers are. The priest at the front of the congregation pauses in his words and gives us a tight, inconvenienced smile as Zeth directs me to one of the empty pews on the left, halfway down the length of the church. He only continues once we’re seated.

  None of us pay any attention to the service. Of the three of us, I’m perhaps the least subtle as I crane my neck, looking for a flash of familiar blonde curls. I can’t see Lacey anywhere. Zeth’s knee starts to bounce up and down—he can’t see her either.

  “Fuck,” he says under his breath. Cursing in church? Even though my faith’s been absent for quite some time now, I still feel my cheeks reddening. “She’s not here.” He leans to whisper in Michael’s ear. Michael does his own job of scanning the paltry collection of people sitting at the front of the church. He shakes his head. Zeth looks like his blood has started to boil in his veins.

  “Fucking Charlie isn’t here. None of his boys. Not a single one of them,” he hisses. That doesn’t make any sense.

  “But Michael said Charlie posted the obituary? Why wouldn’t he come?”

  Zeth clenches his jaw, cracking his knuckles one after the other. “Because he knew we would.”

  Someone turns around and shushes us, holding their index finger to their lips—an old woman with her hair coiffed into a urine-yellow beehive. Zeth slips his hand under my arm and gently guides me to my feet. Michael doesn’t need any encouragement. He stands and the three of us slip back out the way we came. Less than a minute. We were at the funeral less than a minute, and it appears the whole thing was a massive waste of time. As soon as the church doors close behind us, Zeth pinches the bridge of his nose and swears. Loudly, this time.

  “What the fuck is his game? I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

  “We shouldn’t be hanging ar
ound out here,” Michael says. “He could have men ready to pick us off one by one or something.”

  Zeth’s sharp eyes flicker from left to right, as though searching out the mystery snipers. “You’re right.” He takes hold of my hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  My pulse is racing when we reach the car. Paranoia has kicked in, big time. There are no suspicious-looking cars idling on the curb. No dodgy men in suits hiding behind the headstones in the church’s leafy courtyard. But I can’t shake it…I feel like something bad is about to happen. Michael has the keys to the car ready. He’s about to open the car door when Zeth drops my hand and grabs him by the arm. “Wait. Wait a second.”

  Boom, boom, boom—my heart banging like a drum. Zeth stares at the car, eyebrows pulled together. Michael does the same thing. “What is it, boss? You see something?”

  Zeth shakes his head. “I don’t know. Check the wheel arches.”

  Michael drops to his knees and begins checking out the underside of the car, while Zeth forcefully prizes the hood of the car open. It’s Michael that finds the device. “Fuck, Zee.” That’s all he says. That’s all he has time to say. He jumps to his feet, and then Zeth’s grabbing hold of me around the waist and running. I lose my shoes. My ribcage and still-wounded shoulder are gripped with pain. Zeth shouts something, but I don’t hear what he says. My jackhammering pulse drowns everything out. And then it comes.

  Strangely, it’s not the sound of the actual explosion that sticks in my memory; it’s the sound of shattering glass. The beautiful stained-glass windows in St. Finnegan’s church splintering as the bomb that was hidden in the wheel arch of our car detonates.

  Sky.

  Concrete.

  Sky.

  Concrete.

  Sky…

  I see the concrete coming for me. I feel the weightlessness in my stomach. I feel a multitude of forces, like grabbing hands, pushing and pulling me in eight different directions. I feel the oxygen being sucked from my lungs.