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He remained frozen until a flicker of colour on the edge of his vision made him turn, and the flashing red and blue of an ambulance drew him forward.

The back door of the ambulance was open. Inside lay two large, zippered, white nylon bags. One was shorter than the other, but not by much. Sam walked to the bags and knew with heartbreaking certainty what they contained.

‘Where’s mine?’ he asked numbly.

The ambulance attendant just looked at him.

‘Where’s my white bag?’ Sam asked, louder this time.

And in that moment the bubble burst and time, noise and commotion rushed in to fill the vacuum. Sam felt the tugging pressure of a hundred pairs of hands. The hands were also screaming, a thousand sharp little mouths nipping at his skin and making incoherent noises that suddenly blended into one ear-piercing, agonized wail.

And just before he collapsed, Sam wished the hysterical fool making all the racket would shut the fuck up.

9

The world had stopped spinning.

Zack lay curled in a ball, his mind buzzing with a thousand radio stations all broadcasting at once.

‘Sir?’

Zack felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and give a firm shake. His eyelids fluttered open, and the morning light pierced straight into his brain. He squeezed his eyes closed again and groaned.

He didn’t want to be awake; he didn’t want to be alive. Most of all, he didn’t want to accept all he had lost.

‘Sir, are you injured?’

‘Fer Chrissake, Colin,’ said a woman’s voice, its smooth, sing-song centre edged with a faint Celtic burr. ‘He’s a bleedin’ drunk. Either forget it or take him to the cage.’

‘He’s wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, Mary. He probably owns the Merc.’

Zack lifted his hands to cover his eyes and slowly raised his eyelids again.

‘What happened here, sir?’

Zack opened his fingers slightly to see a poster boy for police recruitment. The officer, who he presumed was Colin, stood six foot four with broad shoulders, a lantern-shaped jaw and skin the rich, velvety colour of medium-roast coffee.

Zack shifted his gaze to the woman. Officer Mary was a pale, sharp-faced brunette with thick, wiry hair that defied styling.

‘Are you injured?’ Officer Colin repeated.

‘More than you know,’ Zack mumbled.

The words felt too large for his mouth. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was thick and woolly and far too dry.

The officer produced a small plastic bottle of water from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top and held it out.

The bottle was still cold and Zack rolled it across his forehead before tipping it forward and pouring a generous amount into his mouth.

He held the water for a few seconds before allowing it to trickle down his parched throat.

It hit like acid.

Zack tried to fight the sudden uprising, but his heart wasn’t in it. With a lurch, he rolled on to his side and vomited watery green bile.

‘Bloody hell.’ Officer Mary shook her head and looked away. ‘Nothing like a puking drunk to start the day off right.’

Zack continued to heave, his eyes bulging from the strain. Until finally, with watery eyes and
dripping nose, he sucked in a deep breath and managed to relax his muscles, sending his body the message that there was nothing left to expel.

When he felt strong enough, he lifted the bottle again and took a swallow. This time his stomach retracted its claws and accepted the fluid with only a mild gurgle of protest.

Water had never tasted so good, and soon the bottle was empty.

‘So what happened, sir?’ Colin asked.

‘Nothing.’ Zack’s tone was angrier than he intended. ‘Just leave me be.’

Mary leaned forward and sniffed. ‘You drink the booze or bathe in it?’

Zack rolled on to his back and stared at the sky. He wished he was dead. There were too many awful things to face and yet he had been unable to take the simplest first step. He felt the weight of the small gun in his pocket; it wasn’t too late.

‘You drive in that state?’ Colin asked.

Zack shrugged, but answered, ‘No.’ His first reflex was still honesty; lying took concentration.

‘Were you attacked? The car looks scorched and your clothes . . .’

Zack shrugged again. He didn’t want to be himself right now. He wanted to be James Cagney in
Angels with Dirty Faces:
tough, defiant, abusive to screws and priests alike. He wanted to sit up straight and cold-cock the handsome son of a bitch. Maybe then the cop’s partner would help him do what he couldn’t. Hell, her act of heroism
could get her on the fast path to the gold shield she coveted; maybe that would make her smile.

‘What you grinnin’ at?’ Mary snarled impatiently.

Zack hadn’t realized he was smiling. He turned to look at the woman. Her eyes were a rather remarkable shade of turquoise.

‘You have pretty eyes.’ The words flowed automatically from the one part of his brain he never needed to question, nor doubt. ‘But you need to stop squinting. The deep wrinkles are the hardest to remove.’

Mary’s face turned red. ‘Who asked for your opinion, asshole?’

Her partner began to laugh. ‘You know, I think he’s right. You do have nice eyes—’

Mary stopped him with a cold stare.

Colin rested his hands on his hips and turned back to Zack. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Zack Parker.’

‘This your car?’

Zack nodded.

‘You want to report the damage?’

Zack shook his head.

‘You hungry? There’s a great pancake place just a block away.’

Mary sighed heavily.

Colin held out his hand until, hesitantly, Zack reached out and grasped it.

10

Sam stood on the edge of the crater that had been his home.

A thin ribbon of yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the pit. The tape rustled and rippled as a light breeze tested its temporary bonds. One section, near where Hannah’s potted herb garden would have stood, had already ripped from its post and now fluttered in the wind like an elongated flag. Appropriately, it flew at half-mast.

A light rain turned the last smouldering embers to mud, and the dull sun, filtered through a veil of cloud, cast the scene in a softer glow than the emergency halogen lights of just hours before.

Neighbours peeked from behind curtained windows, keeping their distance, not daring to encroach on his space. For this, at least, Sam was thankful. He knew nobody wanted to contemplate how easily this could have happened to them, to their home, their family.

They would talk among themselves after he was
gone. Some would even visit the hole, mourn the loss of life and thank the universe for being spared. They would call it a tragedy and then begin to forget.

This realization made Sam feel even more distanced from the ‘normal’ community that Hannah had embraced. Before this, all he lacked was money to keep pace with the business-class neighbours and their rotating parade of shiny leased cars.

But now his family was gone and he had lost everything.

Sam began to cry again, salty tears painful against the raw skin around his eyes. The little blue pills the harried doctor at the hospital gave him had made him numb, but uncomfortably so, as if his brain was packed in cotton wool laced with slivers of crinkled tinfoil.

After giving him the pills, the doctor told him to leave. ‘Go home’ were his exact words. There were no beds available, except for the dying, and even then it helped if you knew someone.

Sam tried to explain that he no longer had a home and that death was an acceptable trade for somewhere to lay his head.

The doctor thought he was joking and laughed aloud as a police officer stepped forward to take Sam’s arm and lead him away.

He had begun to shiver in the back of the police cruiser, his body convulsing savagely and his teeth chattering so loud, he worried they would break.
He popped two more of the blue pills and the young officer handed him a thick, woollen blanket to wrap around his shoulders.

When the shivering refused to stop, he asked the officer to drive by his home. The young man had looked at him with large, sad brown eyes before reluctantly agreeing.

As Sam walked the circumference of the pit, he felt as though he had turned to stone. The young officer cleared his throat. ‘I need to get you downtown, Mr White,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really supposed to bring you back here.’

‘What’s your name?’ Sam enquired softly.

He didn’t turn around as he spoke and anyone passing would think he was talking to the crater rather than the young man who shifted nervously from foot to foot beside his cruiser.

‘Dale, er, Officer Dale Ryan.’

‘Thanks for everything, Dale.’

‘You’re welcome, sir, but we really need to get going. The detectives will want to talk to you.’

Sam turned his head slowly, as if his skull had grown too heavy for his shoulders. He looked down the street to where someone had moved his abandoned Jeep from the middle of the road and parked it against the kerb. Beside the mini-vans and family sedans, it looked more battered and forlorn than usual.

And, Sam realized, it was all he had left. ‘Can I take my own vehicle?’

‘Sorry, no,’ Ryan said quickly. ‘I’m supposed to make sure you get there.’

Sam snorted. ‘You’re to make sure I don’t do anything stupid like drive my piece-of-shit Jeep into this fucking hole at 120 miles per hour, huh?’

‘Um, yeah, I guess so, Mr White.’

Sam stared at the officer and a sudden wave of rage burst from within.

‘Christ! When did I become so fucking old that twenty-somethings started calling me Mr and Sir, and watching over me like I was about to crap on their good seats?’

The officer stayed mute.

‘I’m only forty-two.’ Sam’s anger crested and ebbed as rapidly as it had erupted. ‘And I’m not planning to crap on your seats.’

‘That’s good to know,’ Ryan said tentatively.

Sam stepped back from the crater’s edge and walked to the cruiser.

‘Tell them we’re coming in.’

11

Zack picked at his plate of potato pancakes, slicing off a tiny bite with the side of his fork and pushing it around his plate.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ the male officer asked through a mouthful of waffle. ‘Cause it looks delicious. I’m starting to wish I had ordered it.’

Zack put down his fork, the morsel uneaten. He opened his mouth to speak when the cellphone in his pocket chirped.

The two officers exchanged glances as Zack reached a trembling hand into his pocket, his fingers sliding over the tiny gun until they wrapped around the plastic phone. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.

‘New friends?’ asked the distorted voice.

‘What of it?’ Zack’s voice was void of emotion as he automatically scanned the restaurant, searching the faces of the other diners, trying to find who didn’t belong.

‘You don’t want to talk to them,’ said the voice.

‘Why not?’

Zack finished his scan of the restaurant, but didn’t see anyone who stood out. Four people were on cellphones: two women, sitting across from each other at the same table and occasionally exchanging smiles even as they talked to other people; a skinny messenger with long, hairy legs squeezed into skin-tight bicycle shorts; and a grey-haired salesman in an out-dated check jacket who kept dabbing at his forehead with paper napkins.

Colin leaned across the table, his hand stretching to touch Zack’s arm. ‘Everything OK?’

Zack nodded, but twisted around in his chair to face away from the two cops.

‘You still have something to lose,’ said the voice.

Zack almost laughed. ‘I have nothing.’

The line went silent for a moment and then another voice came on.

‘Zack, is that you? I can’t find Kalli. He won’t tell me where she is.’

‘Jasmine!’ Zack jumped to his feet and walked away from the table. ‘I thought you were—’ His voice caught in his throat and his body began to tremble so badly he could barely stand.

Once he’d turned the corner to the washroom, out of sight of the cops, he sank to his knees on the dirty floor and grasped the concrete-block wall for support.

‘Find her, Zack,’ Jasmine pleaded. ‘Do anything he asks.’

‘I am. I will . . . anything.’

‘Touching,’ said the electronic voice.

Zack closed his eyes, not wanting the sound of Jasmine’s voice to leave his head. She sounded so scared, and yet he knew it wasn’t for herself. She was focused on Kalli, their fourteen-year-old daughter who loved to draw horses and still secretly sucked her thumb in her sleep.

The same daughter who, along with his wife, he believed had been blown to bits before his eyes.

‘Don’t hurt her,’ Zack said. ‘I’m begging you.’

‘You know what I want.’

Zack held back a sob. ‘I had most of it. I liquidated everything—’

‘Did I ask for most?’

‘No, but—’

‘Stop snivelling. I can help you fulfil your obligation. Are you interested?’

‘Yes,’ Zack agreed instantly. ‘Anything.’

‘Here’s what I need you to do . . .’

12

Officer Dale Ryan escorted Sam to the glass-and-steel lobby of the Portland Justice Center. Located in the heart of the city, the building housed not only the Portland Police Bureau, but also four courtrooms and the 676-bed maximum-security Multnomah County Detention Center. For criminals, that meant they could be booked, tried and locked up without travelling any further than the elevator.

Ryan signed him in at the reception desk, the relief of having turned over responsibility clear upon his face.

‘Good luck, Mr White. I’m sorry for your loss.’

Sam nodded slowly. The effects of the blue pills had begun to wear off, making him feel tired and defeated. He wasn’t even sure if his voice would still be audible if he opened his mouth to speak.

A slim, middle-aged Latino woman rose from behind a plastic desk as Ryan retreated.

‘Would you follow me, please, Mr White? You’re expected upstairs.’

The woman flashed him a quick smile – a rapid flexing of cheek muscles delivering minimum friendliness – before unlatching a security gate in the reception desk and inviting him in.