At the City's Edge (9 page)

Jason remembered the morning, cleaning the Beretta. The strange trance he’d felt as he spun it around and pointed its lethal
eye at his forehead. The siren call of gleaming metal, his thumb on the trigger, the urge to squeeze it. He was tired of failing
people, tired of infecting them. Tired of moving weightless through the world.

And inside, the greasy twisting of the Worm.

Jason leaned forward, his hands clenched on his stomach, fighting the urge to wretch. Gulped deep breaths, then took the bottle
by its neck, wrapped his lips around it like he was sucking redemption through the rim. Tilted it and opened his throat, the
liquid splashing hard and hot. He breathed through his nose
as he swallowed and swallowed, picturing the Worm drowning in it, writhing and screeching, its sick flesh slapping waves
of amber.

He swallowed until the bottle was empty, and then he let it fall numb from his fingers. CNN had switched to talking heads,
Rumsfeld spinning vagaries into rhetoric. Jason remembered years ago, shortly after he’d first arrived in country, hearing
Rumsfeld’s famous line about known-knowns and known-unknowns and unknown-unknowns and thinking that crazy as it sounded, he
knew exactly what the guy meant, only it wasn’t the war he was talking about, it was life, at least life the way Jason had
always seen and never understood it, and for a while he sat and stared at the television, let the light wash over him without
touching him, trying to see a way to make sense of things, to knit the world together.

By the time he gave up, his mouth was dry and he had the beginnings of a head-splitter. The clock on the cable box read two
twelve. He reached for the clicker and fumbled around until the television snapped off. Dropped the remote to the table with
a thud. Unlaced his tennis shoes, pulled off his socks. Rack time. For a moment, he thought of going upstairs to his brother’s
bedroom.

No. No way.

Jason pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, curled his legs under, and put his head down. A long, terrible day. A
day with no sense to be found. Maybe sunlight would make things clearer.

He was almost asleep when he heard glass breaking.

Billy’s tongue is between his lips. He’s gripping the hammer wrong, little fingers clenched too far up, and though he whacks
the nail again and again, it never goes in. On the ground beside him lay five mismatched two-by-fours and a tangle of rope.

He’s building a tree house, he explained to Jason earlier, and his uncle laughed, and ruffled his hair, and went back to the
house for a fifth beer. That one is gone, and his mouth is dry for a sixth, but Jason lingers on the screened porch, watching
his nephew. Billy winds up and swings wildly. The nail pings free and leaps away. He drops the hammer and kicks the tree,
then hops around on one foot.

Instead of going to the kitchen, Jason opens the screen door and steps out.

He shows Billy how to grip the hammer, hand at the base. Drives one ten-penny to demonstrate: two taps to set, three blows
to finish. Then he holds the board and hands his nephew the hammer.

When Michael gets home, he finds them in the tree, each to a branch, legs dangling. An uneven ladder runs up the side of the
trunk. He takes it in silently.

‘We’re out of wood,’ Billy explains.

Michael sighs and walks away.

‘What’s wrong?’ Billy looks suddenly nervous.

Jason shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

A moment later Michael returns carrying two pine deck chairs. He sets one upside down, reaches for the hammer, and snaps the
leg off.

‘Can’t stop now. Look how much higher you could go.’

He winks as he hands up the plank.

Jason’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, shadow-boxing the boogeyman. Raw adrenaline trampled his bourbon haze, fight-or-flight
pushing everything else aside.

The sound had been unmistakable, but a little muted. In this neighborhood, the breaking glass could easily have been a drunk
throwing his last bottle, or kids smashing a car window. There was no reason to panic yet. He tried to attune himself to the
house, to stretch his perception into every corner, to make the place an extension of himself, as personal as limbs.

Glass shattered again. Louder. Inside the house.

Then he was moving, bare toes tracing the grain of the hardwood floor. The room went wobbly for a second from a rush of blood.
He stepped past the armchair into the darker shadows, heart thumping against his ribs. Another crisp crack, like someone snapping
off the glass in a windowpane, followed a second later by a thump that could have been the piece hitting a rug.

His mind raced, assessing the battlefield. The living room where he stood was in the front of the house, next to a small foyer
and the front door. An open arch led to the kitchen and dining area. Off the back of the kitchen was the three-season room,
a screened
porch where they ate in the summer. That would be it. A lock snapped open.

His jacket was flung over the armchair. Moving lightly, he slid one hand into the front right pocket. The gun was gone.

Shit. The hospital. He’d taken the gun out of his jacket and stuck it in the glove box, betting correctly that the emergency
room would have metal detectors. Afterward, he’d been preoccupied, and forgotten it. From the other room he heard a sound
like someone banging into a table. ‘Quiet,’ a voice whispered. Not intruder, then; intruder
s
.

Jason inched along the wall, pulse racing and mouth dry. A shaft of yellow light cut through the air, veering crazily before
settling on the floor. A second beam came on, this one more careful. Jason flattened his back to the wall, the arch to the
kitchen a few inches to his right. Dust motes danced in the light as the beams pulled inward. He pictured the kitchen – breakfast
table near the arch, black-and-white linoleum tiles, counter and sink along one wall. The sudden illumination from the flashlights
would have cut their night vision. He had to know what he was facing. Fingers tingling, he peered around the arch.

Three men stood in the kitchen talking softly. Two had little Mag-Lites they pointed at their feet, minimizing the splash
of light. They wore loose dark clothing and tennis shoes so bright they had to be fresh out of the box. All three had pistols
in their hands. Why would thieves have pistols out?

Then the third man twisted on a flashlight of his own, pointing it at his chest as he tightened the beam, the light spilling
up to reveal his face. For a moment Jason thought his heart had stopped, then realized he was just holding his breath.

It was Soul Patch.

His first reaction was pure energy. He thought of the ruined bar, the wood twisted and bubbled with heat. Thought of his brother’s
body, lying in some morgue somewhere, still to be dealt with. His heart pumped rage and his veins carried murder. Soul Patch
wanted to dance? Bring him on.

Then he remembered Billy.

Jason eased back from the door into shadow. He had to find a way out of this that didn’t risk Billy. Maybe he wasn’t much
of an uncle. Maybe he wasn’t ready to play Daddy. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone hurt his nephew.

There wasn’t much time. He scanned for weapons, eyes falling on the fireplace pokers, then the coffee table with the television
remote and empty Jim Beam bottle, on to his brother’s desk, a box cutter sticking out of a jar of pens. Nothing he saw was
a match for one pistol, much less three.

Then he looked at the coffee table again.

Move.

Staying on the balls of his feet, he quick-stepped over, grabbed the remote, then crept to the front door. From the other
room he heard the faint sounds of footfalls, the men splitting up. He had a few
seconds at most. He grasped the deadbolt key and began turning, body screaming for speed, mind fighting for stealth. He eased
it open one slow degree at a time, and when he felt it seat, reached for the handle. He said a quick prayer that the hinges
wouldn’t squeak.

The door swung open silent as a ghost.

Jason stepped outside, the August humidity cotton-thick after the air-conditioning. He turned and pulled the door shut, closing
it just as a dark shape stepped into the living room, swinging a flashlight beam across the floor. Jason spun, ducked down,
and hurried across the front of the house.

The neighborhood was quiet, the small slumbering houses leaning against one another. Most of the street-lights were broken,
but the remaining few lit the yard more than he’d have liked. He kept low as he moved. When he reached the living room window,
he eased himself against the wall next to it, his feet moving from grass to the sharp wood chips lining the empty flower bed.
Something jammed into the soft portion of his foot, but energy was slaloming so hard and fast through his body that the pain
seemed muted as distant thunder. Rocking his head sideways, he looked in the window of his brother’s house.

A man stood in the center of the room, holding the flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other. Six-foot-plus, with heavy-lidded
eyes and cornrows. He had the gun loose and low, not tracking with the beam the way he should have.

Jason raised the remote, pointed it through the
window at the television six feet away and pressed the button. The set sprang to life, screen brightening. The gangbanger
whirled. His gun flew level as he gave a short little yelp.

Jason pressed the volume button, turning the TV louder. CNN still on, the sounds of a Blackhawk rotor beating through the
glass. Inside, the banger moved toward the TV, then spun again, the flashlight beam dancing crazily across the room. Jason
smiled, dropped the clicker, and sprinted.

The Caddy was parked down the street, and he thought of going for his gun. But as diversions went, this one wouldn’t keep
them occupied for long. He had to get Billy out. He raced across the yard, sucking hot air into his lungs. Between Michael’s
house and its neighbor was a thin walkway, and he dodged down it, feet slapping splintered concrete. The house next door was
in lousy shape, chunks of siding missing, the holes like sunken eyes watching his progress.

Fifteen steps took him to the backyard, and he paused in the darkness, peering at the three-season room. As he’d expected,
one of the panes of glass in the door had been broken. The door swung open at his touch. Thin traces of light coming in the
windows highlighted the sparkling edges of broken glass on the floor, and he stepped carefully.

He paused, heart racing, blood thrumming through his system. The television in the other room was still blaring, Arabic with
a translator overdubbed, talking about an ambush that left three Marines dead. The
insurgents had come out of the alleys with RPGs and Kalashnikovs, a man was saying. Jason stepped through the kitchen door
on the balls of his feet. The room was dark, the air-conditioning cold and stale. A bead of sweat made the long slow run down
his side. His hands were shaking. He ignored them, taking one cautious step after another, moving toward the stairs.

‘Man, shut that thing off.’ The voice was loud, way too loud for an ambush, and Jason recognized it. It had once told him
about a DVD in the dash of his imaginary Cadillac XLR. Under other circumstances, if his life were the only thing at stake,
he might have smiled to think of Soul Patch coming back for another try.

The TV snapped off, silence dropping like an echoing curtain. Damn. The audio had provided good cover for his movement.

‘What you doing, dog?’ Soul Patch sounded irate.

‘Shit came on by itself.’

‘Maybe Trey-Ball stepped on the remote.’

Three men, three voices. That meant the stairs were clear. He kept his pace steady, lifting a foot, moving it careful, setting
it down fully before picking up the other. He reached the counter, noticed the telephone on it. Why not. Picked up the receiver,
dialed 911, then gently placed the handset on the counter and moved on.

‘Man, I didn’t step on shit.’

‘Well, somethin’ happened.’

Soul Patch’s voice cut off the bickering. ‘Shut your
damn mouths. Find this kid and let’s take care of business.’

The words yanked Jason’s head sideways. His hands trembled as he processed the meaning behind the words. He’d assumed that
Soul Patch had held a grudge from the other morning, had come back to try and finish him off. But that wasn’t it at all. They
weren’t after him. They were after Billy. For some reason, they wanted to kill his nephew.

Not on Jason’s watch.

He started up the stairs, moving along the outer edge, never putting his full weight down. Like all the houses in the neighborhood,
Michael’s was old, but where half the owners let them crumble, Michael had cared for his. The stairs were covered in new carpet,
and the heavy weave muffled sound. If all went well, he could get Billy, head back down and out the way he’d come before the
gangbangers realized they were gone.

Then a light went on in the hallway above him. ‘Dad?’ Billy’s voice was sleepy, confused, heartbreaking – and loud.

So much for stealth. Jason’s heart jumped through his chest and he lunged forward, pounding up the steps, hearing the pursuit
focus behind him, the squeak of sneakers on hardwood, something falling over with a crash.

At the end of the hallway, Billy stood in the crack of the doorway, framed in yellow light, tiny in his tighty-whiteys. Jason
sprinted down the hall, passing the doors to Michael’s room and the bathroom, then
scooped his nephew under one arm, stepped into the boy’s room, and kicked the door closed. His eyes danced fast: posters,
NASCAR clock, pile of dirty clothes, writing desk with a ladder-back chair. It would do. He set Billy down, grabbed the chair
and jammed it under the door handle, then flipped off the light.

He knew better than to think they were safe, strode across the room to the window. The roof of the three-season room was a
few feet below them. He tugged at the window. Nothing happened. Footsteps slammed up the stairs. Jason cursed, wrenched the
lock open, then threw the window up. ‘Come here!’