Three A.M. (28 page)

I pictured a younger Anthony Kirk standing before the dam, his chest swelling with paternal pride. I could neither blame him nor feel remorse anymore—I could see now how inevitable it all was. This thing they had created. We were all just parts of the machine.

As we drew within a few miles of the city, I thought that just maybe, if I couldn’t break free from the machine, I might yet be able to break down my little piece. If I could be the right faulty cog, maybe the wheels could still be ground to a halt. An idea took root somewhere deep in my mind. Outlandishly optimistic though it was, I nursed this new fantasy as the helicopter began to descend past the highest buildings. Then wisps of fog licked at the windows. In a matter of seconds, the world was gray. I closed my eyes, hoping she was okay.

*   *   *

The skids hit cement roughly. Both soldiers across from me snapped upright in their seats. The guy on the right, clean shaven and maybe all of twenty-five, leaned over to his older compatriot and whispered something. Then they both got out through their respective doors. Mist poured into the chopper as the rotors slowed with a dying whine. That goddamn familiar scent wafted in. Moldering life. My skin grew damp. Then the pilot and trooper up front hopped out of the chopper, and for a minute I was left alone.

I could hear voices colluding in the fog. Then the older of the two soldiers leaned into the helicopter and trained a pistol on me while he unlocked the four cuffs holding me to the seat. He waved for me to follow and I stepped down, surprised to find the black pavement of a street beneath my feet. Through the heavy air, I could hear footfalls and the occasional whisper or cough. It sounded like I was surrounded, but the only person I could see was the soldier beside me with his gun barrel trained on my chest.

“Mind if I smoke?” I asked quietly.

“Those things’ll kill you,” he answered without irony. I snorted out a short laugh and dug in my pocket for cigarettes. The smoke tasted different here in the fog. Very familiar, but in no way comforting.

“How’s Watley?”

“Who?” the soldier asked, looking over at me.

“Nothing. Forget it,” I muttered back. I had taken seven or eight slow drags when a new gray-clad man materialized from the fog. He had the insignia of a major on his lapels. And the lines of a life free of pleasure cut into his face.

The major had a shock rod in his hand but held it down against his thigh. His tone was all business, but not menacing. “We’re in a lot off St. Anne’s, Vale,” he said, staring through me. “Follow me.”

I looked over at the soldier beside me. His eyes betrayed a lack of knowledge. With resignation, I dropped my smoke and walked behind the officer as he turned and set out through the gloom. After twenty or thirty yards, I saw the telltale dance of mist swirling before a blown-out street. Then we were through the undulating haze and I recognized the storefronts and benches of St. Anne’s Boulevard, once my refuge from perpetual twilight.

The major wheeled to face me. He dug in a pocket of his jacket and produced a sealed letter. I kept my hands to my sides as he held it out to me.

“Take it.”

“What is it, a sentence?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s next?”

“Don’t know,” he repeated laconically. “Don’t read this until I’m out of sight.”

“Why not?” I asked defiantly.

“I’m not sure, Vale. Orders.” He raised the letter before my eyes, and finally I grabbed it from him. “For what it’s worth, I remember you from basic training.”

I studied his face carefully, and he stood there, letting me do it. I didn’t recognize him at all. “I don’t remember you.” After a pause, I added, “No offense.”

“No, none taken.” He looked me in the eyes, then walked past, quickly receding into the haze. I looked down at the envelope in my hands. It was beige and without markings. I held it up to the diffuse light of the sky, somewhere above, and then tore off one side.

The letter within was handwritten on plain white paper.

Welcome home, Thomas. You’re free to do as you please. For now. But I think I’ll be seeing you soon nonetheless; you’ll have a choice to make.

J.W.

I turned 360 degrees, scanning every window and doorway in view. There were a few passersby, and in the shops and homes, all appeared to be the same as ever. No one paying attention to me. No one watching. I took a few tentative steps down the street, then stopped in the middle of the broad boulevard. There had to be a catch. No way was I on my own. I reread the letter twice. Free to do as I please? Choice? What the fuck was I going to do?

They were playing with me. He was. I had expected inquisition or execution or at the very least imprisonment—this was far worse. Trapped but free, just as I had been for fifteen years, but this time with the knowledge that there was more out there and that I was anything but in control. Kirk and Watley and all the rest of them had planned every fucking step of the way for me. The brief forays I’d taken off their established track had been for naught: I was back in the goddamn fog. And with Rebecca out there alone, I couldn’t think only of myself—I couldn’t be reckless. Bastards. “Just kill me now,” I muttered. Clearly that was in the future. The sword would fall. This stay only made it that much worse. Maybe that was their only plan. Watley had to know I would go down fighting. Would go down trying. I guess he just wanted to watch me do it. That, or they hoped I would lead them to something. I’d have thought it clear by now that I hadn’t known a goddamn thing, but still, it was possible. If that were the case, the joke was on them. Though I tried to keep the thought at bay, I knew well that the only other thing they needed was her. Rebecca was the last loose end. At least I could assume she was safe—if they had her, I imagined I’d already be dead.

I was walking aimlessly down St Anne’s, my eyes on the street. I’d never noticed the perpetual din of the blower fans before. And even on this clear street, the air was heavy and stale. I understood now more clearly why Ayers couldn’t take it, why he pushed back against them despite surely being aware of the danger.

Fifteen minutes later, and I was on my street. Where else could I go? Sure, it was an obvious destination, but they had just set me “free,” so I figured being there would be as good as anywhere. No need to hide. I didn’t have keys, but a few solid kicks would do just as well. I neared the shitshop and slowed down. Something was wrong. I stopped under the sign and peered up at it. Even in the pale gray of afternoon, I could see that it was not illuminated. And the grate behind the window, for the first time ever, had been slid aside. Inside, the shop was dark.

I could have gone home anyway, but I didn’t. I turned and walked away. I could have gone to Albergue. I could have tried to hide out—maybe in the abandoned warehouse, maybe just wandering the foggy streets with my head kept down. But no … delaying it would be futile. I knew the second the major walked away from me where I was going, really. I had just wanted to shit, shower, and shave first. I was headed for the fences up in the northern quarter. They were the oldest. The weakest. I didn’t know if the voltage was lethal. It didn’t matter. Watley obviously knew I would try to make a run for it now that I knew there was somewhere to run to, but maybe he wouldn’t anticipate me doing it so fast. No going home. Not a drink at the good old bar. It wasn’t like I’d be taken seriously if I told anyone what I knew. And if I was, I would only imperil more people. Sentence them to death by knowledge. Maybe that’s what they wanted. They’d expect me to look for Watley. To try to strike from within like the caged animal I was. But no … I’d just start climbing or digging—keep trying to get out of the cage—and then at some point, they could shoot me in the back. Be it in some gray alley or out in the sunlight again.

I began walking quickly north by northwest. When I got to Forty-eighth Street, I turned left, sighing as I passed a blower, and plunged into the mist. Part of me felt like I was leading the wolf home behind me. I would make it a painfully short visit, but I had something I needed to return to its owner. I trailed my hand along the bricks and after a few paces found the slick, damp brass plate engraved
RIVER STREET
. My friend’s street. Once more I set into the familiar rhythm. One two three steps and an orb post … one two three.…

*   *   *

The outer door to Heller’s building was ajar. That was unusual but not unprecedented. I wrote it off—what else could I do? Inside, I shut the door gently and stood still, listening. The humming vents and nothing more. I started slowly up the stairs, each creak and groan cutting through the air like thunder in my ears.
It’s just paranoia,
I told myself as my pace slowed and heart rate quickened.
Nothing up there but Heller.

I was taking one step every few seconds by the time I crested the last flight. Still silence. No signs of anything amiss. But my mouth was dry and the hairs on my arms had risen. I inched toward his door and knocked three times quietly. After a moment, I heard movement inside. Then nothing.

“Heller?” I called out.

More movement, and then came his voice. “Tom? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s Vale.”

“It’s open.” Open? All three locks open? I tried the handle, and sure enough the door swung inward.

“Why is it unlocked, kid? Are—?” Then I saw him. “Jesus Christ, Heller … what happened?”

He was lying on the couch, wearing nothing but his soiled old linen pants. One eye was bruised nearly shut. His lips were cracked, chest and arms black and blue all over. His left hand was wrapped in a wet rag, the beige cloth stained rust red with blood. He smiled weakly at me as I stood in the threshold, jaw hanging open.

“I fell.”

I slammed the door behind me and went toward him. Sitting down on the coffee table, I leaned in. “Tom, what happened?”

“I, uh … I was drinking, and I don’t really know.… I must have rolled down the stairs, I guess.…”

“Bullshit. Tell me.”

“Better not to, buddy.”

“Heller! You—”

He held up his good hand to silence me. His battered face took on an aspect I’d never seen before: pain and grim resolve mixed on his brow and taut lips, twisting his bloodied visage. He looked older, weary. Very slowly, very firmly he repeated: “Better not to tell you, Tom. I know that’s the last thing you want to hear. But the more I say, the more you’re going to run off and get yourself into trouble.”

“This is my fault.”

He sat up, wincing. “Don’t blame yourself. I don’t. I promise you I won’t blame you for any of it. Get—” His voice failed him for a moment as he swung his legs down to sit fully upright, agony dancing behind his sad young eyes. “—get me a drink, would you?”

I rose, nodding, and walked to the kitchen. I grabbed two glasses and a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet. It was clear the place had been ransacked, now that I glanced around. Not that it looked that different than usual, but someone other than Heller had been here. I looked over my shoulder as I filled the cups. He was looking down at his left hand, shaking his head mournfully. The fingers were mangled, ruined. I turned away and took a sip from the bottle, pretending not to have seen. The liquor burned my throat.

“Did you bring back my Chopin?” He hid his hand and looked up at me, eyes pleading as I sat back down on the table and handed him one of the two glasses.

“Of course.”

He leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. “Could you—?” He gestured to the tape player with his glass. I nodded and pulled the tape from my pocket, popped it into the machine, and pressed play.

The warm crackling began. Heller took a sip of liquor, coughing a bit as it went down, and leaned back. When the first notes began, he closed his eyes. I studied his battered face. Poor fucking kid. I had to help him.

I leaned back, then rose and moved over to the wall, lowering myself onto the ground to sit on the bare concrete. I’d give him his time with the music, then get to Salk’s for whatever first aid supplies he had. Then I was going to make Heller talk. And once he told me what he knew, I would tell him what I did. But the thought of it pained me: telling this man-child his sunset dreams and blue sky memories were more than just that. Would he be elated or shattered? I sat staring at his tightly shut eyelids and could scarcely fathom what just a few words could do to him.

He took small furtive sips from his whiskey, eyes never opening. His breathing seemed to be in tune with the sonata, chest rising as the music swelled, sinking each time it fell. I wanted to get moving, but there was no way I could interrupt him.

My thoughts drifted and soon were carried far away by dulcet strains formed in the long-dead composer’s mind. Green grass and floating clouds. My eyes left Heller and spent a while on the glass of bourbon and cigarette in my hands. I barely remembered lighting it. I took a drag and exhaled through my nose, closing my eyes. How many millions of people had been touched by the same music? How many had sat, transfixed and moved at the same time, by the notes Chopin scratched out onto the page? I felt very small. My life was a fleeting one. I had been destined for little and touched few. Here I had brought pain. The thought that had reoccurred to me a thousand times—in moments of desperation and as the destruction of rare moments of happiness—was that most people were insignificant, and I was one of them.

I read avidly in my youth to allay my loneliness. I traveled as far as I could afford to escape from my lack of purpose. As I aged beyond the years where listlessness was romantic, I became a professional dilettante, drifting from job to job, briefly seeking out communion in whatever social circle fell to hand. Then I joined the army like so many who crave nothing more than direction—any direction. Had that been a few years earlier, maybe I would have been the major with Watley’s letter. I slipped a hand into my jacket and touched the folded paper. No matter—sickness followed by fog snuffed any lingering chance I had of a worthwhile life. And one night, years after the mist had settled down over my quarantined world, while I was crouched next to a staircase outside a decrepit apartment complex, waiting for a man who was cheating on his wife, it all became clear to me through the haze: My only escape was to be escapism.