The Best American Mystery Stories 2014 (28 page)

—Nish!

Tightening a cable tie around the wires of his computer, desk now set up near the bathroom, Nish smirked. His knees cracked as he walked to the study door and unlocked it.

Breathing hard, Paulette looked at Nish’s feet. She needed to hear his voice, gauge his mood, before daring to meet his eye.

He wore dark socks, perhaps from last night. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Finally he spoke. —I might hit two thousand words today.

Paulette knew the tone well: reasonably calm but delicate—volatile. The wrong word, just the wrong intonation, would anger him. —That’s great.

—Of course, the trick is to make it two thousand
good
words.

—Always. Nish, honey, I wonder if you could let me up.

—In a little while. I’ve done some renovatin, keepin busy.

—I noticed. Could you get me a glass of water?

—Sure.

Outside, he keyed the lock shut.

She listened to his tread on the stairs. Up in the kitchen he ran water, then cracked the old-fashioned ice tray, the one with the aluminum handle. Beneath his weight the ceiling creaked, reminding Paulette of a frightening day in the foster home. The older boys had invited her to play hide-and-seek with them in the basement, beneath the kitchen, while their foster mother made supper. That ceiling had creaked so loudly that Paulette feared the entire house would collapse. The boys had laughed first, but then they agreed, taunting her. Any moment now the ceiling would give out, and it would all come tumbling down and bury them. Maybe an arm would stick out of the rubble, maybe a head. Any moment.

Nish returned, carrying ice water and a box cutter. He put the glass on the floor, sat next to Paulette, and sawed through the plastic ties. As he dragged her up to her feet and escorted her to the bathroom, she felt pain in her right ankle.
When did I twist that?
She thought about Nish’s eyes and the spray bottle of tile cleaner beneath the sink. She thought about the bruises, old and new, on her thighs. She thought about the keeping of secrets.
Pants and long sleeves for the next few weeks, girl. Today is going to leave marks
.

Paulette stumbled. Nish caught her. Arm around her waist, he guided her back to the futon. —Better?

She nodded.

He kissed the top of her head, and sighed. —Why?

—I’m sorry. I can see I hurt you. I’m so sorry.

—You’re sleepin with him, aren’t ya?

—Nish—no, honey, no.

—No? Whose house were you comin out of this mornin? Whose goddamned fancy jacket were you wearin, hey, and with whose goddamned credit card in it?

First-person, girl, first-person, don’t make him think you’re blaming him
. —I know, I know, it looks bad, but I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. But I’m here now, so you can just give him back his stuff, okay? Can you do that for me, Nish? Please?

—Here, you’re thirsty.

She gulped water. The glass slipped from her numb hands; Nish managed to catch it.

—Oh my God, Nish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

—It’s okay. You want help with the rest of it?

—No, no. I’m fine.

—So it really doesn’t leave any taste? I was gonna give it to you last night and bring you home then, but young fellah Paddy got in the way. As usual.

Paulette closed her eyes. Havoc—cable ties, locked doors, some drug or another, but something else, quite strong all by itself: dread.

Nish took another cable tie from his pocket and wrenched it around her wrists.

—You’re hurting me.

—Jesus, Paulette—you’re overreactin.

—You’re tying my hands!

—In front this time. What, you need me to remind you what
hurt
means?

—Nish—

—Because it sounds like you’ve forgotten.

—No! No, I haven’t forgotten.

He eased her onto her back. —Then settle down.

Damp from a shower, bathrobe on, Nish crossed his arms and nearly filled the front doorway. —O’Mara. What the fuck do you want?

—Have you seen Paulette?

—Paulette no longer lives here, but I think you knew that.

Patrick winced. —Yeah, that’s none of my business.

—Goddamned right, it’s not. So again: what the fuck do you want?

—I think Paulette’s got my credit card by mistake. I want to check with her before I go through the hassle of reportin it stolen. I’ve been tryna reach her for hours, but her cell must be turned off. Her landlady hasn’t seen her since yesterday, and you weren’t answerin
your
phone—

Landlady. You know where she’s livin
. —Couldn’t you satisfy her?

—Well, I didn’t expect her to stoop to a mercy fuck, but you are lookin pretty smug there. Hey, if that’s all you can get—

—Looks like you paid her with your plastic. Used to that, are ya?

—Flannigan—ya fuckin drama queen. Do you know where she is?

Nish slammed the door.

Constabulary headquarters, designed in the architectural shadow of brutalism, felt like a dark brick bunker. Inside, bright and copious lights gave people a sickly cast. On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the lights shone on a duty sergeant and a nervous visitor, a man slipping his hands in and out of his pockets.

The sergeant rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the pads of his fingers. —You want to contact your bank about a stolen credit card, Mr. O’Mara.

—It’s not stolen. It’s missin. And I’m afraid the woman who’s got it might be too.

The sergeant flipped his notepad to a fresh page. —Hang on. I’m getting over a stomach flu. Bastard of a bug on the go.

Patrick nodded. —Had it yesterday.

—Her name is Paulette Tiller, and she was over to your apartment last night? And she left this morning?

—Walked home.

—But just this morning?

—I know, I know, but she always takes my calls. This—this is gettin complicated—her husband—

—What’s his name?

—Nish Flannigan.

The sergeant added “domestic” next to the names. —Nish from Ignatius. I had an uncle called Nish.

Patrick wanted to leap across the desk and shake him.

The sergeant pretended to give Patrick another lazy glance, noting his features and body language, his anxiety, his voice. —Is there a history here?

—I dunno what to be thinkin. She’s frightened to death of him, but I never noticed it till this mornin. If she’s that scared, why didn’t she just leave earlier?

—It’s never as simple as just leaving, Mr. O’Mara.

—Yes, it is! You just walk out the door.

—Do it.

—Wha?

The sergeant pointed to the main entrance. —Walk out.

—I can’t. We’re in the middle of a conversation, and besides, you’d come after me. You’re a cop.

—Yet you’re perfectly free to just leave.

Slouching in his chair, Patrick tried to figure it out.

—How long ago did Ms. Tiller separate from Mr. Flannigan?

—Maybe a month ago.

—Dangerous time.

Patrick nodded, though he didn’t understand. He also didn’t expect the hard look and the question he got next.

—Mr. O’Mara, why is this complicated?

Nish squinted at the Constabulary officer on his doorstep.  —Don’t you wait forty-eight hours or somethin? Who’s after reportin her missin? Paddy O’Mara, I suppose.

—Mr. Flannigan?

Nish sighed. —She left me, all right? Four weeks and three days ago.

—I’m sorry to hear that. When did you see her last?

—Last night. Socially, at the Torngat party, but we didn’t speak. She spent most of the night talkin to O’Mara. They even left together. He was over here earlier, throwin that in my face. You know that little shagger’s been up on assault charges, right?

Considering possible conflicts between words and meanings, the officer passed Nish a card. —Call me at this number if you hear from her.

Think it through, Nish
.

He tugged medical gloves onto his sweaty hands, thinking it through quite clearly, thank you. He’d have to risk a drive to the bog, that patch up the shore Paulette liked so much, because his carpentry just wasn’t up to building anything like a false wall. Nor was he about to dig up the backyard, not with his creaking knees.
Know your weaknesses
, he’d always told his students,
and work around them
. He wrenched open the bedroom closet door and dug beneath a pile of laundry, some of it clean, most of it not. His fingers brushed the smooth handle, the spiked head, of Patrick O’Mara’s bush hammer. Nish had quite enjoyed burgling Patrick’s apartment—
in broad fuckin daylight, no less, easy as droppin by for a cup of tea
—easy and thrilling, like writing fiction used to be. Nish even liked saying the silly verb aloud, conjugating it: I burgle, you burgle, he she it burgles. Wearing medical gloves that afternoon too, Nish had examined several of the stoneworking tools, recalling Patrick’s explanations.
The bush hammer—yeah, I know, I always laugh too—the bush hammer’s got these spike things in the head, so when you beat metal or stone with it, you get this distressed look. Right beautiful, sometimes. The stone pick, though, that’s the one that scares people, all curved and long and comin to a point: right vicious-lookin. Wicked
.

Wicked. Like Paulette, holding the buoy.

Nish imagined discussing this scenario in a workshop.
So your protag’s made up his mind. What does he choose? Not the pick. It’s too easy
. He swung the bush hammer, finding its range, testing its weight. Then he noticed a particularly sweet detail, good for the bog: a name etched in the handle, letters burned black.

O’MARA
.

He laughed.

He dropped the hammer on his foot.

Paulette jerked awake. Nish was yelling—in another room, good, but yelling. Her sweat cooled quickly, and her swollen hands throbbed. How many more lessons before this little stunt ended? So much weight, splitting her open—
Come on, Nish, give your balls a chance to fill up
—because he would own her. Break her too. Sure. You were free to break what you owned. Paulette understood that.

Nish unlocked the door and limped into the study. Paulette recognized Patrick’s bush hammer. She recognized many things in that moment, as fight-or-flight bowed to dread. Big conversation in a little room: she’d not get to say much. She’d not get to finish the next book. She’d not get to apologize to Patrick about the jacket. She’d not have to worry about long sleeves and pants.

Nish studied her, curled up on the futon, tied fists protecting her face. Speech rapid and pressed, she bargained: never talk to Patrick again, break her lease, move back in, never so much as look at another man—

She took the first blow on her shoulder. Screamed. The second blow, skull, finished it.

Shut her up, at least
.

Nish pried the hammer free of Paulette’s head: much less blood than he’d expected. He started rolling up the plastic.

Jesus, Paulette, either you’re gettin heavy or I’m gettin old
.

I feel like the proper fuckin stalker here
.

By sunset Patrick had called Paulette’s cell eight more times. The Constab had contacted him again, a different officer, this one hinting through wayward questions about violent pasts. Would Mr. O’Mara feel angry, hypothetically, if Ms. Tiller returned to her husband, angry enough to do something about it? Patrick had killed that conversation with a request that anything else the police wished to say to him beyond
We found her, Mr. O’Mara, thank you for your help
could be said in front of a goddamned lawyer.

He stared up through his kitchen window; trees darkened as the light failed.

He set out shortly after nine.

Nish and Paulette’s neighborhood smelled of barbecued suppers, and Patrick, suddenly hungry, had no trouble sneaking around the back of their house. Or was it just Nish’s house now?
How the hell does that work, her leavin, her payin rent while he stays put?

Mature trees and a stone wall kept the yard dark.

Nish’s pickup was backed in, just below the deck.
A townie’s truck
, Patrick had called it,
always so goddamned clean, neither sign of work stainin it
. Cautious of creaks, Patrick walked up the steps. On the deck he glanced back at the pickup: empty lined cab. He sidestepped shovels and the old charcoal barbecue; he peered in the kitchen window.

Nothing.

Fuckin foolishness. Go home out of it
.

Turning away, he caught movement inside. The door leading to the basement opened; Nish seemed to be hauling some burden.

Patrick squinted.

Nish flicked on a light.

A racket of snow shovels clanging against the barbecue, of a body thudding the deck, of clothespins spilling: Nish cried out. He hit the outside lights, took a good look, and laughed, opening the window. —Jesus, Paddy, ya got no gift for subtlety.

Blushing, Patrick wrenched himself free of the barbecue.

—Door to the deck’s not workin right. Come round the front. We’ll have a drink.

Nish kept Patrick waiting a few minutes, but he was smiling when he unlocked the door. Patrick asked to wash his hands.

—You’ve been here dozens of times. You know where everythin is.

Patrick disliked visiting the bathroom on the upper floor, because he had to pass through the master bedroom.
Gives me a chance to look around, though
. The sight of the bed, rumpled on one side, neat on the other, made Patrick wince. The bathroom: nothing strange. Nail scissors on the floor, plenty of dust, a few sour facecloths, one toothbrush.

Paranoid much?

Patrick dried his hands on his jeans.

In the living room, he sat on the sofa. Nish gave him one of two glasses of malt whiskey, a three-finger measure.

Might be a long chat
.

It was a long chat, and mostly in Nish’s voice: writing, women, writing, Paulette. —I’m not—I’m not complete, without her. It’s that simple. And Paddy, I really owe you an apology. Last night—I couldn’t help thinkin—y’all right, or what?