Finding Refuge

by J. P. Oliver

It was stupid. I should have just left it alone, but now the subject was cracked open on the counter between us, the elephant in the room very present and very visible.

  “I saw you and Jared the other night,” I murmured, keeping the conversation private. “At the Speakeasy.”

  “And? What does that have to do with—” Curtis paused, realizing all on his own. “Oh. No, we aren’t... we aren’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “We aren’t sleeping together or anything. It’s just friendly. Not like what happened last night.” Curtis quirked a brow. “Were you jealous?”

  “No,” I lied.

  Curtis laughed under his breath, bringing his mug to his lips. It was a sound that told me he didn’t quite believe me.

  10

  Curtis

  “Check it out,” Ashley said. “Martha’s journal.”

  I watched, relaxed at the long kitchen table, as she set down a very old, leather-bound book down on the table. Dinner had long since been cleared away, and I was feeling…good. I had just been in the Savage house a few days ago but being here tonight was different. Tonight, I was invited by Zach. I was his guest for dinner; Markus and Ashley seemed happy to see that we weren’t going at one another’s throats.

  All throughout the dinner shared with them and Beth and Robert, I kept wondering, Do they know? Did they suspect we were just being civil? Friendly? Or did they suspect more, knowing our history? Maybe they thought we were together again. Truth be told, I didn’t even really know the answer to that. All I knew was that the night prior, Zach kissed me. Zach was inside me. Zach slept with me in my bed.

  Personally, I felt better than I had in months knowing those not-so-simple facts.

  “Jesus, mom,” Beth gasped as Ashley was passing out dessert plates. “I didn’t even know y’all had this.”

  “Neat, isn’t it? Pass it down to your brother.”

  Beth pushed the journal of Martha Savage-Cross down to Zach, who took and leafed through it with a ridiculous amount of caution. Not that I blamed him. That thing was getting close to being one-hundred years old.

  “It’s a little piece of history,” I mused, leaning in to look at the old script handwriting.

  “Sure thing,” said Ashley. She gestured with the pie spatula in her hand for us to show her as she leaned over the back of Zach’s chair. “That there was her personal diary. Passed on down. I found it when I was going through a crate of her stuff in the attic.”

  “It’s crazy your family’s got this rich of a history,” Robert said, in awe. “My family’s just a bunch of accountants.”

  “Well, it goes back quite a while,” Markus said, nursing his mug of tea. “Stories passed down from my father and his and so on. Of course, it all really started with Martha and John.”

  “John?”

  “John Savage,” Zach said. “He was the oldest of the Savage brothers back then—the twenties.”

  “You’ve got some stories, then?” Robert asked Markus.

  Markus and Ashley exchanged a knowing look. “Boy, do we.”

  “Ask anything,” Ashley said, kissing Markus on the head before moving off to grab the pie. “We’ve got a story for just about everything.”

  “What was Martha like?”

  “She was a wild child,” Markus said. “Loved bad boys. That’s all in that book there. What she thought of all the toughest men in North Creek. She was their youngest and the only girl, but she was a handful, she was. She was from the Cross family, who were gangsters of sorts. Rich. She used to sneak out of the house to the speakeasy.”

  “The same one that’s downtown?” asked Robert.

  “That very same one.”

  Robert whistled. “That’s crazy.”

  “And then she met John Savage. Grandpa John,” Beth added.

  I thanked Ashley as she slipped me a piece of pie, happy to fatten me up. She went around the table like that, put a piece out for herself, and heaped on plenty of whipped cream.

  “So, what do you think, Markus?” I asked, grinning. “About the whole relationship between Martha and John. Who fell first?”

  “Well, it says so right in that book there. Of course, no one ever believed me,” Markus laughed, coughing a little. “Martha hated John’s guts at first.”

  Zach laughed. “What?”

  “Really?”

  reasons. Wasn’t interested. But when John met her at the speakeasy, he

  “Yup,” Markus said. “She didn’t want nothing to do with any of the Savage boys.”

  “But the families ran together, I thought,” Beth said.

  “They did,” Markus confirmed. “They were affiliated, but Martha didn’t want to shack up with any of them for her own wanted her first. Fell head-over-heels, especially since she didn’t make it easy for him.”

  “Neither did her brothers,” Ashley added, pointing with her fork. “Word had it that they’d go after whoever their baby sister was flirting with and break their legs.”

  “Just like you, Beth,” Zach said.

  When we all laughed, Robert did so just a bit nervously.

  “But John was a persistent fella.” Markus’s hand slipped gently into Ashley’s. “Eventually, they fell in love for real. Mutually.”

  “Why didn’t she want to date one of the Savages, though?” Beth asked. “I never really got that.”

  “In her journal, she says she was terrified of John’s father, Isaac Savage.”

  “Isaac?” I asked, looking at Zach.

  “That’s right. Zach’s namesake. He was apparently tough as nails. Mean as hell. Had a hot streak—”

  “Sounds like Zach,” Beth muttered teasingly.

  “Martha apparently saw him kill a man, point-blank, without even batting an eyelash. Didn’t bother him. She knew what he was capable of and that scared the shit out of her.”

  “He killed more than that, though. Mad Dog,” Ashley added. “Just found that out recently myself for sure that story is one-hundred percent bona fide. There’s an account of it from Martha in her journal.”

  “Wait, so that story is true?” Beth asked, eyes wide. “Like, legitimately true?”

  “So says Martha,” Ashley said.

  “And all my folks,” said Markus. “My dad and uncles confirmed it, but it was always hush-hush growing up. More myth than family fact. Don’t know what for, really.”

  “Mad Dog?” Robert asked.

  “He was a famous gangster around these parts,” I explained. “Rocco Carlino, better known as Mad Dog. There’s legend about him around these parts. We learn about him in middle school and everything. He went on a killing spree, crossed through multiple states and then—poof—vanished. Most people like to think that he came to North Creek to live the rest of his days.”

  “What little was left of them,” Zach murmured, flipping through the book.

  “Robbed ‘em blind too before killing them,” Ashley confirmed.

  “Sounds like a great guy,” Robert huffed.

  “So, what’s up?” Beth asked. “They ever find his body?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Yeah,” Zach added curiously. “Who did the police think Great-Grandpa Isaac killed?”

  Ashley laughed. “Why don’t y’all know this already?”

  Beth sat up straighter, gesturing wildly to herself and Zach. “Because you always said we were too little to know all the gory details!”

  “Oh, did I?” Ashley chuckled.

  In exasperated unison, Beth and Zach both signed, “Yes.”

  “When the police eventually raided the distillery,” Markus said, “because this was back in Prohibition times, you remember. When they raided his place, they found a body. But it wasn’t Carlino’s body.”

  “Whose was it?” asked Beth.

  “My uncle told me once, he’s pretty sure it was some poor soul who saw Isaac burying the body. A witness that planned on ratting him out. Of course, my uncle wasn’t around to know for sure, but…it’s most lik
ely. Those were nefarious times in North Creek. You had to watch what and who’s business you were stepping into.”

  As Robert, who was new to all of North Creek’s history, asked more questions about the family stories, Zach took out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I murmured.

  “Texting Wyatt.”

  Wyatt Cross, Zach’s cousin and a sheriff in North Creek. He was a muscular man, not outrageously big, but sturdy in the same worked-out way Zach was. He was my age, and in high school, he’d been famous for his intense gray eyes.

  “Wyatt?” Beth, the eavesdropper, asked.

  “Yeah,” said Zach. “I want to ask him to check in on Isaac’s case and see if he can find anything more on the disappearance of Rocco. They keep everything over at the station; there’s got to be something we’re missing with it, right?”

  About twenty minutes later, Zach got a phone call.

  “Hold on, Wyatt,” Zach said. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

  The cell phone was set in the middle of the kitchen table. “Y’all can hear me all right?”

  We all sounded off; affirmative.

  “I’ll read off what we’ve got down at the station, but beyond that….”

  The silence was indicative. I braced for little information.

  “That’s all right, Wyatt,” said Ashley. “Just tell us what you’ve got so far.”

  “The reports from the sheriff's office back in 1926 says that one Rocco “Mad Dog” Carlino was reportedly—and I quote— ‘missing from the speakeasy at the beginning of October,’ which was apparently strange because at the time, quote, ‘the deceased was known to frequent downtown and had plenty of dime to spend at the bar.’”

  “Wait, hold on,” Robert interjected. “They talk about the speakeasy in the report? I thought with the Prohibition—”

  “There were good cops and dirty cops all over,” Markus said. “North Creek was no exception. Hell, half the sheriff’s office were regulars there, according to my father.”

  “It says that little is known of the body’s history,” said Wyatt. “They know he was last seen in a rage while downtown, and was carrying a pistol with him that later identified the body as Mad Dog. The FBI did confirm this later on, but apparently most people in town didn’t even know he was that spree killer. Uh… says he was headed east towards some of the residences. I’m assuming it was Isaac’s, maybe, because no one saw him after that. Seems like that’s all she wrote, fellas.”

  “All right,” Zach said. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime, cous’.”

  As Wyatt hung up, the room felt sort of stagnant. This was where people often found their dead end when it came to Isaac and Mad Dog. He probably did it, sure, with his reputation, but the bigger question was why?

  “The report said he frequented the speakeasy?” Robert asked suddenly.

  I looked across the table at him, wheels turning behind his eyes.

  “Yeah,” Zach said. “I guess so.”

  “But y’all said he was always on the move, crossing state lines and all.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s your point, babe?” Beth asked.

  “My point,” Robert said, grinning, “is that North Creek’s a small town. It would have been even smaller back then. Everybody in a town like that knows everybody else and their business. So, he must have been hiding out—living in North Creek, if he was around enough for people to know he was a usual at the speakeasy.”

  “Right,” I said, grasping at the tail-end. “So there must be some account of him somewhere.”

  Ashely made a little gasping noise; a breakthrough.

  “It wouldn’t have been with his name, though,” Beth said. “So, we’re looking for an alias?”

  “It’s something to research,” Zach agreed.

  “That book might be of some help,” Ashley said, nodding to the journal. “There’s something in there about everybody in North Creek, and, far be it for me to know for sure, but there’s mention of a boy named Ricky in there. Someone she was dating before she and John got together. Might be worth looking into, if you can.”

  “This is great,” I huffed, grinning at Zach.

  The look was mirrored back, his dimples out. My eyes stuck to them like magnets, and I suppressed the sudden desire to kiss him.

  “It’s something,” Markus agrees. “If Rocco lived here, his connection to the town and his home might not be enough to get North Creek historical status, but it’d be a good story. Tourists would love it, that’s for sure.”

  “Might be nothing,” Ashley said.

  I smiled, feeling possible and light. “But it’s a start.”

  Zach and I drove back to my place after dinner.

  The air around us was comfortable. The was a sureness about us, even if it was all new again, that made me confident enough to reach over and let my fingers fit into Zach’s. His folded in, a quiet, giddy confirmation.

  “My house feels empty after being over at your parents’ place,” I laughed once we got inside, shrugging out of my coat.

  Zach hummed, flopping down onto the couch. “Tell me about it. Who knew Robert could be so chatty.”

  “Right? He was good, though. Never considered a city slicker like him would double as a detective.”

  “Some people are just good at puzzles and shit,” he said.

  I drifted over to the little cart I had in the corner of my living room. Mostly it was for decoration these days, but every once in a while—if I was up to it, or I had company—I would indulge in the spread of alcohol collected there.

  “Want a drink?” I asked.

  The pause was pregnant enough to make me turn away from the cart. Suddenly, Zach looked uncomfortable, arms crossing as he leaned into the couch back.

  “No,” he said. “No thanks, I’m… I haven’t really. Not since Joe….”

  Of course he hasn’t, I thought. He’s punished himself with everything else, so why not this?

  I took up two glasses and poured a little bit of gin into each. As I sat on the sofa next to him, I kept a glass for myself and set the other on the coffee table, just in case. Maybe he’d change his mind; maybe he might need it.

  “Zach,” I trailed.

  He said nothing back, tense as he looked at the drink.

  “I know you were driving that night.”

  I heard the small intake of his breath. Even after all this time, he still looked ashamed, and that broke my heart.

  “But I also know you only had one drink that night,” I told him, looking at him even though he wouldn’t look back at me. “And I know Joe was hammered. I was at the party with y’all and I saw everything. I saw you two leave, and—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Zach blurted.

  His leg was bouncing. He looked… pissed again. Panic fluttered in my chest, because with those seven words—that single sentence—I could feel the walls coming up between us again. I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want to lose him twice when we were just about to fall back into being “us” again.

  “You should,” I said. “You should talk about it.”

  “I don’t like to remember it—”

  “Why?”

  Zach looked away, silent.

  I huffed, setting the glass down. How to make him understand?

  “You weren’t the only one that loved him, Zach.”

  In high school, I thought I had everything with the two of them. Me, Zach, and Joe were lucky enough to have something some people never had once in their lives: a love that felt real and requited. Polyamory wasn’t the hottest thing in North Creek, but we made it work. We worked well together.

  Maybe it was cruel, maybe it would strike a nerve—but that was fine. I needed it to strike a nerve as much as I needed it to strike him open so he could talk to someone about it. It was a conversation we’d never had after ten years of resentment and silence. Of his guilt and my loneliness. I needed to make him und
erstand.

  “I never said that—” Zach snapped.

  “Well, then quit acting like it.”

  “I’m not fucking acting like anything,” he said, looking at me. His eyes were blue fire; the hottest kind. “And I said I don’t want to talk—”

  “God, you don’t even see it, do you?” I said, feeling desperate. “When everything happened, you left. You didn’t even stop to think that I was just as hurt as you—”

  “Don’t,” he cut. “You don’t get to say that to me.”

  “Why?” I asked, voice breaking. “Why don’t I get to tell you how this made me feel? Because it killed me to lose him, but it killed me to lose you, too. You’re still lost, Zach. You’re beating yourself up and—”

  “Because I made a mistake that night!” Zach stood, pacing away from me. “I’m the one who fucked up. You have no idea what it’s like—”

  I stood, too, hands balled into fists. “Then tell me.”

  Zach said nothing, looking away again.

  I took a careful step towards him. “Tell me. Because I don’t know. You never stopped to talk to me about it. We lost Joe, and you acted like you lost everyone, but I was there for you. I wanted to be there for you—”

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  When he looked up at me again, his eyes were glassy.

  “Please,” I said. I touched the side of his face as he leaned against the wall, and I felt him flinch. “Please.”

  “I didn’t deserve it,” he muttered, voice uneven.

  “No one deserves to have that happen—”

  “No,” he said, eyes closing. “I didn’t deserve you. I didn’t deserve to be happy with you or with anyone after what I did.”

  My chest felt like it was twisting. I wanted to cry, to let it out so badly, but this was for him as much as it was for me. We were both hurting, but his was a different type. The kind he couldn’t fix on his own.

  “You were the most sober one at the party, and—”

  “I—”

  “Don’t,” I said, firm but gentle. “Let me talk, please.”

  He nodded.

  “We can look at all the facts. You were the only one at that party who was able to drive. Myself included.”