Haverstraw. Rural. That’s where Claytonville Prison was located.
Uncle Henry.
“I have to see them,” I murmured. “Get answers.”
“‘Them?’”
I glanced at Rachael. “Him. We’ve got a good start here. But what was Richard Drake like before he started hopscotching the state, running from his Dark Man? What did he do in the Soviet Union? I need more. Maybe his son can deliver.”
Rachael closed the laptop, gazing at me over her glasses again. “More what? Zach, you’re supposed to find out if Drake’s fit to stand trial, that’s it. You’re not supposed to cure him.”
“I’m not trying to…”
My voice trailed off. That was a lie. I was trying to, or hoping to. The blind man was broken. I’m a fixer. To shoot for anything less would be… wrong. And was there even more to it? Didn’t I want to prove something? Didn’t I want to prove the world wrong about Drake? About me?
“It’s what I’m wired to do,” I said quietly.
She leaned over and kissed my lips. Her blue eyes met mine.
“I know. Take my car tomorrow, head up there. I’ll work from home and see what I can dig up on this Alexandrov guy.”
She yawned. It was contagious.
“Aww, night-night time for the oldsters,” Lucas said. He walked to the front door. Lucas always knew when he was welcome, and when it was time to go. He’d been that way that since we were kids.
“Yo, take the blind dude’s keys when you go,” he said, opening the door. “If his kid’s phone number’s in the cell, maybe he’s got a key to the place, too.”
“I do not want a repeat performance of this afternoon, thanks,” I said.
Lucas eyed me. “Can’t hurt to have ’em. I know you can’t argue with that.”
I sighed and nodded, and looked on the steamer trunk for Drake’s key ring. It wasn’t there. I rummaged in my canvas satchel —I’d slipped his keys inside when we broke into his home, I remember that—but they weren’t there, either. What the hell?
I heard the smug voice of Monopoly Cop, the bastard who’d grilled me in the halls of the 67th Precinct police station: You won’t be getting everything back.
“Fuck,” I said. “The keys are gone.”
“Want me to help you look?” he asked.
I shook my head. Either they’d spilled out of my bag as Lucas had escaped, or they were spinning on some cop’s finger right now. Either way, I wasn’t going to go hunting for them.
“Splitsville for me, then. Hey, Hochrot, if you want help with this spy stuff, let me know. I’ll swing by after morning class.”
Rachael snickered. “You just wanna frag the Bloodwire noobs on the widescreen.”
“In surround sound,” he agreed. “Martini shot, everybody.”
He closed the door. I heard him bounding down the hallway, and then the wall-trembling clomp-clomp-clomp as he took the stairs, likely two at a time, to the street.
“One thing before,” Rachael said. I turned to her. Her face was worried now. I reached for her hand.
“I’ll be careful tomorrow,” I said. “I will.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s about us. We don’t lie, you and me. We don’t hide anything from each other.”
I thought of Uncle Henry. My stomach tightened.
“I’m the reason why the cops crashed Drake’s apartment,” she said. “It was me. I called you today. You were on the train, said you were in trouble. Said to tell your dad.”
I began to breathe again. “The connection was bad. I said to not tell my dad.”
She gave a half-chuckle. “Yeah, I gathered that later. He called after we were disconnected, said you’d turned off your phone. Asked after you. I was worried; I told him.”
I raised her hand to my lips, kissed it. “Hey, it’s okay. You did what you thought was right. It worked out.”
“Bad communication,” she said, “sucks.”
She brought our hands to her cheek. She kissed my finger. “I ’dore you, ya know.”
I smiled at the Lucasism, but my heart ached. I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t.
“‘Dore you back.”
“You’re worried about the keys,” she said, looking at me.
“I’m worried about a lot of things. The keys. The case. The job. Mostly the job.”
“All will be well.” She leaned in now. “Let’s get you to bed, 007.”
She kissed me. Her tongue slid inside, swirled around mine. She stood. Her smile was sly, delicious. “I’ll be your Bond girl, if you have the energy.”
I watched her hips as she slinked into the kitchen, toward our bedroom.
I had the energy.
We’d never done this on stairs before.
We moaned as our bodies moved together, arms and legs slipping against each other, slick with sweat. We faced each other, gasping, now kissing. Her fingernails dug into my shoulders, leaving red crescents on my flesh. My tongue rushed to her neck, trailed up to her ear. I told her to keep doing what she was doing, God yes, and she commanded me to go harder, deeper, that’s it, fuck, that’s it, right there.
Her legs, lickable inked skin, wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. I gripped the wood behind her, my knees digging, rubbing, burning, against the carpet beneath me. My toes slid on the hardwood floor. Her hands raced down my chest, then hers. My lips found her breasts, and I nipped and sucked to our rhythm.
She cried out, fingers tearing through my hair. We rocked, building up, edging closer, growing hotter and brighter together. I heard music now: faint, delicate notes, like leaves scattering in the wind.
And then the world went dark. Cold.
I looked at my lover. Rachael’s face was covered in electrician’s tape, two black Xs where eyes should be. Tar-like oil began to spew from her nose, her mouth. It rushed down her chest, pumping out of her as I pumped inside.
I shrieked, bolted backward, nearly falling on the slick floor. Before me, my anchor, my darling, my love… liquified. She lost form and mass, bursting into a black mess, splashing against the wall and stairs.
I looked down. The floor was gone, replaced by more liquid. Blood. A face emerged from the shin-deep pool, smiling up at me.
Would you be mine? Mom said. Crimson bubbles—dozens, tiny things—rose from her lips. Could you be mine?
A hiss, from atop the stairway. My skin was awash in wave after wave of gooseflesh, every hair electrified. My vision blurred as I wept, as I looked. Looked up.
It was there in the shadows, holding Lucas in its snake arms, and Lucas was a baby again, Lookie-Luke, he giggles when I tickle him. My brother wailed.
I went to climb the stairs. My mother’s hands clutched at my legs.
Mine, she gurbled.
Mine, the dark man affirmed… and Lucas slipped into its inky chest, black quicksand, filling my brother’s tiny nostrils as his arms flailed. And then, he was gone.
The music grew louder. Thunder.
The dark man did not descend this time, not like before.
He screeched… and then pounced.
15
The nightmare haunted me long after it woke me, a little after four; I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I paced the living room, fretting about its meaning and obsessing about my state of employment. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in more than six years, but Jesus, I wanted one that dark morning.
It was seven o’clock—time to call. My fate and the fate of Richard Drake hinged on the next five minutes. I’d been reckless yesterday, leaving work early. And there was the embarrassing matter of Dad calling Dr. Peterson, trying to yank me off the case. If I was done at Brinkvale, Drake was, too.