The Spire

by Richard North Patterson

  Steve passed him a wad of bills. “Got a second?” he asked.

  Carl glanced mistrustfully at Mark. “Let’s grab a table.”

  Steve put a hand on Mark’s shoulder, excusing himself. Mark nodded his understanding: in Carl’s mind, Mark was a potential witness, a needless risk to a business built on subterfuge and discretion. When Angela brought back two beers, Mark was sitting alone. The dislike she clearly felt for her twin brother had left her silent.

  Awkwardly, Mark said, “I’m Mark Darrow, by the way.”

  Angela laughed at this. “The whole damn campus knows who you are. Even the people you never talk to—in college or in high school.”

  Embarrassed, Mark said, “So let’s talk now.”

  Angela put her hands on her hips, a mocking gesture. “Concerning what?”

  “How about what you’re studying so hard for. Seems like you’ve got a plan besides running Mom’s bar.”

  She paused to look at him, and then her expression became serious. “My plan—if you really want to know—is to put this whole period of my life in the rearview mirror. Right along with Wayne, Ohio.”

  “And go where?”

  “Same place you are, I guess. The best law school that’ll pay me to show up. Which narrows the field a little.” Picking up a cloth, she began wiping the bar. “So what kind of law are you thinking about?”

  Mark shrugged. “Not sure yet. Maybe criminal, I guess. And you?”

  Still wiping, Angela said, “Not that—I’ve seen enough criminals to last a lifetime. Corporate law, I’m thinking. Or maybe teach if I do well enough.”

  Though quiet, her voice held a determination close to longing, the sense—or hope—that she was bigger than the life she had been given. At once Mark intuited how alone she must feel. “I’ll be rooting for you,” he said. “Maybe Yale has scholarships for both of us.”

  Glancing up, Angela gave him a wry smile. “Aren’t you worried that being white is a competitive disadvantage?”

  “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’ll get by.” Her smile softened a little. “Good luck to us both.”

  Steve came back, glancing from Mark to Angela. “Thanks for keeping my buddy company,” he told her.

  Mark wondered if he imagined something proprietary in Steve’s tone, or at least familiar, suggesting more than a barroom friendship. Angela shrugged, briefly meeting Mark’s eyes. “He’s really not so bad,” she told Steve, and went back to tending bar.

  NOW SHE SMILED at Mark again. “Congratulations,” she said above the din of the party. “Big day for you, seems like.”

  She was holding a drink and her voice seemed thick, her balance compromised. Though Mark did not really know her, this surprised him. Gesturing at the crowd, he said, “In fifteen minutes, they’ll forget me.”

  She took a deep swallow of liquor. “In fifteen minutes,” she countered, “they’ll probably forget everything. Like I mean to.”

  Troubled, Mark sensed that she had come here to lose herself. “You with anyone?” he asked.

  Blinking, she looked at him more closely. “Steve invited me, whatever that means. Other than that, I’m with no one in particular.”

  Mark hesitated. “Neither am I. If you need someone to get you home, I’m here.”

  “Tonight? You’re supposed to be celebrating.”

  “True. You’d be saving me a hangover.”

  The look she gave him combined a question and a challenge. Defensively, she said, “Are you saying I should leave now?”

  Mark shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m wondering, that’s all.”

  She shook her head, moving close to him. Softly, she said, “Gonna be a long night for me, I think.” She gave him a quick, darting kiss on the lips. “You’re kind of sweet, Mark Darrow.”

  Surprised, Mark thought he saw tears in her eyes. Then she turned, wandering aimlessly into the crowd, alone.

  MARK WENT TO the makeshift bar in the corner, pouring himself a Jack Daniel’s on ice. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Turning, he expected to see a friend, perhaps to hear a few drunken words of praise. Instead Carl Hall demanded in a hostile tone, “You get off on fucking around with black girls like Tillman does?”

  Mark felt a flash of temper. Removing Carl’s hand from his shoulder, he said, “If you mean your sister, that’s not what’s going on.”

  “Looked like that. In fact, looks like you want to fuck her.”

  Mark stared at him. “This can’t be some sort of principle for you. You’ve never had any.”

  Hall’s eyes flashed. “Look,” Mark said more evenly, “Angela’s already over the line. If you care about her at all, take her home. Might be a good idea for both of you.”

  Hall stood taller. “Don’t like me at your house, white boy?”

  “That’s not it,” Mark answered. “I don’t like you anywhere. So you’d better back off right now.”

  Carl gave him a measured look, as though assessing the difference in their strength and will. Then he turned abruptly, vanishing as his sister had.

  3

  F

  OR AN HOUR OR SO, MARK DRANK AND DANCED WITH whoever came along.

  In the dark he felt an odd detachment, the numb whiskey glow spreading through his limbs as the forms and faces in front of him kept changing. Then the newest face became Joe Betts’s girlfriend. “Hey, Laurie,” he said with foolish surprise. “It’s you.”

  He waited for the smile he could expect from Laurie Shilts. Instead, she shook her head, speaking quietly beneath the cacophony of the party. “This isn’t any good.”

  “The party?”

  “Everything.”

  With fraternal affection, Mark pulled her closer. Her small, pretty face looked pained; the cheek beneath her right eye looked bruised and puffy. Silent, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “Maybe we should talk,” Mark suggested.

  Laurie’s laugh was mirthless. “Here?”

  Without speaking, Mark took her hand, leading her to the back of the room. He pushed open the stainless steel doors to the kitchen, where, six nights a week, their cook prepared meals for sixty brothers. As the doors closed behind them, partially sealing off the sound, Mark switched on the lights.

  Laurie winced at the new brightness. She looked small, diminished, her blond shag straggly. The bruise beneath her eye was a faint blue-purple.

  Disturbed, Mark motioned her to one of the stools in front of the oversized sink where, for most of his sophomore year, he had earned money by peeling potatoes or washing iron pots. They sat next to each other, quiet for a time.

  “I came looking for him,” she said in a monotone. “So stupid—he was already drunk. I was stupid for staying with him so long.”

  Her blue-green eyes looked at once miserable and angry. Uncertain of how to respond, Mark said, “Joe’s okay when he’s not drinking.”

  Laurie crossed her arms. “So which Joe’s the real one?” she asked bitterly. “Both of them, actually—they’re the same fucking guy. Drinking just rips the surface off his anger.” Her voice faltered. “You don’t really know him, Mark. Deep down, Joe hates women.”

  Despite his own haziness, a memory came to Mark. It had been late Saturday night exactly a year ago, the end of a long evening during which he had gone with Steve to the hospital, spent time at the party with his date, and then, devastated by Steve’s injury, wound up drinking with Joe on the front lawn of the DBE house, their backs against an oak tree. Sipping from his silver flask, Joe had said, “Keeps the cold away, doesn’t it.”

  “Yup.”

  “Only problem is, it makes me think about dear old Dad.”

  His tone wavered between sardonic and sentimental. Two months before, Joe’s father had dropped dead from a massive heart attack. Mark assumed that the sentiment was for his father, its acrid undertone a drunken attempt at emotional distance. “Yeah,” Mark commiserated. “That must be hard.”

  “You�
��ve got no idea, Mark.” Joe’s voice softened. “I loved him, and I hated him.”

  Mark turned his head, face against the rough bark of the oak. “How’s that?”

  Joe took a deeper swallow. “Jekyll-Hyde, man—Jekyll and fucking Hyde. Used to get drunk and beat the shit out of my mother. Next day he’d sit around all quiet and ashamed. You never heard a house so filled with silence.”

  Surprised, Mark thought of his own parents—that one got drunk had inspired the other to follow. “Maybe she should’ve gotten him to stop.”

  Joe’s bark of laughter held disdain. “Too weak. Her father was just like mine, a red-faced drunk who no doubt beat up Grandma. Deep down I think Mom wanted that—my old man was what she thought a man should be. At least that’s what all the textbooks say.” He took a deep swallow of bourbon. “Who gives a shit now, right? The bastard’s dead, and Mom can blubber over his memory in peace. It’s done . . .”

  Now, facing Laurie, Mark believed that it was not. “Did you ever ask Joe not to drink?”

  Briefly, Laurie’s crescent eyes shut. “Try ‘beg.’ ”

  “What happened?”

  “I picked the wrong time. More and more with him, there’s no right time. I found that out again tonight.” Her voice, though soft, had new intensity and clarity. “Joe’s got bigger problems than drinking. Way bigger. This is about my own survival.”

  Mark hesitated. Glancing at her cheek, he asked, “Want to tell me about it?”

  Laurie looked slowly around the bright industrial kitchen, as though rediscovering her surroundings and herself. “No,” she said firmly. “I need to go back to the dorm, start respecting myself. My new plan is to forget Joe Betts and everything that’s happened.”

  Mark pondered his obligations. “Can I do anything?”

  Looking at the whiskey in his cup, Laurie’s laugh was free of rancor. “Tonight? Maybe we can find some better time.” Her voice softened. “But you’re a good listener, Mark. Drunk or sober.”

  “Seems like this is my night for it.” Looking at her, he saw a small, cute girl with a bruise beneath her cheek, carrying a memory not easily erased. “I’m sorry, Laurie.”

  Laurie grimaced. “I’ll be fine. It’s Joe’s next girl you should worry about.”

  Touching his arm, she left. Alone on the stool, Mark watched the metal doors swing in her wake.

  He supposed the only cure for how depressed he felt was whiskey.

  ANOTHER HOUR LATER, taking his own advice, Mark sat in the living room drinking whiskey with Rusty Clark.

  A slight redhead with the countenance of a shrewd but amiable badger, Rusty was feeling valedictory. Gazing at his gin and tonic, Rusty gestured at the couples by the fireplace. “Tonight it hit me that we’re leaving in six months. We may never see these people again.”

  Mark laughed thickly. “I’m not sure we’re seeing them now.”

  Rusty gave him a faux-sententious look. “Aren’t you feeling a little nostalgic?”

  Mark shrugged. “A few hours ago I was. Now I feel like it’s getting to be time to go.”

  Rusty nodded solemnly. “To law school, right?”

  “For sure. I can make a living defending drunks. They’re a recipe for trouble.”

  Rusty raised his cup. “Maybe I should go. Got a truckload of clients right here.”

  “They’re leaving, remember? You’ll never see them again.”

  “True.” Rusty thought for a moment. “There’s always the good citizens of Wayne.”

  Mark turned to him. “Don’t get stuck, Rusty. It’s time for us to bail.”

  On a nearby couch, Bobby Gardner took his date’s hand, pulling her upstairs. Watching, Rusty said, “I always thought I’d meet someone here. Maybe settle down.”

  Mark took a swallow of whiskey. “You sound like you’re about to die. We’re twenty-fucking-one.”

  Rusty looked offended. “Easy for you to say—you run through girls like potato chips.”

  “Mixed metaphor, Rusty. I can feel the crumbs between my toes.”

  “Come on, man. You know what I mean.”

  Mark reflected. What he could not say to Rusty was that, in great measure because of Lionel Farr, his idea of himself had changed. Whoever he would become, he knew he was not yet there; he should wait for the woman the future Mark Darrow would know was right. Nor was he inclined to reveal that his parents, who had married right out of high school, had poisoned the ideal of young love. Even drunk, Mark knew that he was better at listening than self-revelation. “Yeah,” he temporized for Rusty’s sake. “I know what you mean. I just haven’t found her yet.”

  Mollified, Rusty settled back on the couch. Mark realized that he had drunk too much already—the room was starting to expand and contract; voices beyond Rusty’s seemed to come from a great distance. “Well,” Rusty announced, “look at this.”

  Turning, Mark saw what this comment was about: Steve Tillman had emerged from the basement with Angela Hall, his arm around her waist. At the top of the stairs they paused, kissing. “True love strikes,” Rusty said. “Aren’t you sorry you’re such a cynic?”

  Mark found the sight jarring—not because of Steve or Angela but because of what he knew to be, at least until now, Steve’s small-town disdain for blacks. His face close to Angela’s, Steve whispered something. Then he turned, heading for the first-floor bathroom, his limp briefly becoming a stagger. In the tone of a TV color commentator, Rusty opined, “Looks pretty fucked up to me, sports fans.”

  Gazing at Angela, Mark did not answer. Alone, she faced the living room; spotting Mark, she gave him a small wave and a smile, fey and wistful and embarrassed. This is what the night had brought, her expression said; the idea that whatever might follow was a premeditated act of carelessness, somehow sad, penetrated Mark’s fog. It crossed his mind that this night might be—perhaps should be—the last epic drunk of his life. Then Joe Betts came reeling up the stairs.

  When Mark glanced over, Rusty was smiling to himself, gone to another place. But Mark was at once alert: Joe’s expression was purposeful and closed to reason, and his eyes were fixed on Angela.

  She stood with her back to him, gazing at the tile floor. When Joe put his arm around her, she started. Joe pulled her closer, his face flushed with alcohol and desire.

  Steadying himself, Mark rose.

  Joe turned Angela’s face to him. As Mark started forward, Steve emerged from the bathroom, stopping at the sight of Joe. “What the fuck you doing?” he demanded.

  Joe spun, eyes widening with surprise. Three feet separated them when Joe raised his fist at Steve. “No,” Angela cried out.

  Startled, Steve teetered back as Joe’s roundhouse swing struck him on the arm. Swiftly Mark stepped between them, grabbing Joe by the shirt collar and staring into his eyes. Joe’s breath was rank with whiskey, his gaze wild and opaque. “Stop,” Mark told him in a low, savage voice. “You’ve seen this movie before, remember?”

  Joe stiffened, his body taut with fury. Heart racing, Mark snapped to Steve, “Get out of here. Angela, too.”

  Steve hesitated, then stepped forward, grasping Angela’s hand. Struggling, Joe grabbed Mark’s wrists. “Look at me,” Mark ordered.

  Joe did. Mark heard the door open, felt the cool night air before Steve slammed the door behind them. Feeling Joe’s fingers tighten, Mark jerked him upright. “Stay right here, Joe,” he said more softly. “I’ve got the next dance.”

  For a few precious seconds more, Joe froze, forehead shining with sweat. Then he wrenched himself away and hurried toward the door.

  Mark went after him. As Joe ran toward the parking lot, Mark saw the red taillights of Steve’s Camaro careen into the night. He felt himself expel a breath. When he looked for Joe again, he saw no one.

  Coming from behind him, Carl Hall’s voice was etched with anger. “Guess your buddy wins the prize. Maybe you two can share her.”

  Mark turned and stared at Carl. “Too bad she’s not an only child, Carl. Just the
only one smart enough to leave.”

  Without awaiting an answer, Mark brushed past him. Rusty was standing in the doorway. “Night like this,” he said, “no one should be driving.” His face clouded. “Never seen Joe that bad before.”

  Mark thought of Laurie Shilts. “Maybe we haven’t been looking.”

  They went back to the living room. Already the couples remaining, dulled by drink, seemed to have forgotten the incident. His face brightening, Rusty saw Tim Fedak and Skip Ellis, coinventors of the DBE catapult.

  Turning to Mark, Rusty announced, “I’ve got a plan. Hang here.”

  Rusty hurried over to Tim and Skip. As their heads came together, Tim’s eyes widened with delight, and Skip began laughing and nodding. “You got to hear this,” Rusty called to Mark.

  When Mark came over, Rusty convened them in a mock huddle, their faces nearly touching. “Here’s the play,” Rusty said. “Joe’s car is still here. He shouldn’t touch the wheel tonight, okay? So we go to the parking lot, lift his Miata, and carry it back up here. He’s way too drunk to drive back down the steps.”

  “You’re putting it where?” Mark asked.

  Rusty pointed toward the library. “There.”

  Mark felt the beginning of awe, the germination of another piece of DBE lore. “You’re serious.”

  “We all are,” Tim replied. “You the quarterback, or not?”

  Mark laughed. “For one last play.”

  With purposeful strides, the four friends went outside, threw open the double doors leading to the living room, and took the steps down to the parking lot. Joe’s Miata awaited them, conveniently parked at the foot of the steps.

  The cool night air brushed Mark’s face. “Think we can carry it?” Skip asked.

  Rusty smiled. “C’mon, man. It’s fucking tinfoil.”

  The strongest of the quartet, Mark and Tim took the front bumper, preparing to back up the steps. Knees bent, Skip and Rusty put their hands beneath the rear. As if calling signals, Mark barked, “Hut one . . . hut two . . . hut three.”

  Muscles straining, the brothers slowly lifted the car. Elated, they started up the steps, their effort punctuated by grunts and muttered encouragement. As they reached the porch, onlookers gathered in the doorway. “Make way,” Rusty called out in martial tones. “We bring you the spoils of victory.”