Should she crawl? Isn’t that what they said to do in fires? Yeah, but the fire was in the basement, so what good would it do?
Shaking her head, she decided to drop to her hands and knees, realizing instantly that it was the right choice. Smoke, little more than heated air, would rise, collect in the top part of any floor.
After a few seconds of crawling, she made her way to the child, crouched and unconscious in a corner. She grasped for the small body, scooped it into her arms, stood and turned to head back out the door. No way she could crawl now.
She kept her eyes on the door, which looked like a gaping wound into the darkness outside. On the way, she tripped on something and almost went down. Another person, she realized. Also unconscious.
“Hey!” she screamed, hoping the guy in boxers was still outside. “There’s a woman in here!”
“Got her,” came the short reply. He was obviously inside the apartment too. That was good; it meant he had run into the fire with her. And then Grace was back out the front door again, cradling the child against her, sobbing as she looked for signs of life.
(It was a girl, she could see now, a beautiful five-year-old girl like her Tiffany had once been, like—)
She squeezed her eyes shut once more, squeezed thoughts of Tiffany from her mind, opened her eyes slowly again.
She whispered to the child, incomplete, incoherent words, willing the young girl to open her eyes, just open her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Tiffany,” she said, seeing that the child was Tiffany—the same ruddy cheeks, the same wild hair that wouldn’t stay out of her face (that was impossible, of course, that was impossible)—and then: “I know you don’t have the dead blood.”
Suddenly, miraculously, Tiffany opened her eyes. And smiled at her.
(Not Tiffany)
A tap on her shoulder. It was the guy in boxers. At his feet lay an unconscious woman.
“I think she’s stoned out of her mind,” he said.
Grace glanced down at the woman and saw the needle marks on the woman’s arms.
She closed her eyes, turned, gently rocked the child to soothe her. And as the tears continued to stream from her eyes, the cleansing tears that were helping her see clearly for the first time in years, she sank to her knees because she knew she could no longer stand.
And as police cars and fire trucks poured into the parking lot in front of her, the dragon did some chasing in the apartment behind her.
56.
Later, after getting control of her sobs, after telling a police officer she’d seen the wild-eyed man on the lawn come crashing out of the apartment just before the fire erupted (though she said nothing about the gunshot wound, her mind was still clear enough to steer away from that entanglement), she returned to the tattoo shop. It was late. Or early, depending on your definition—that hazy dead zone between the quiet, still darkness of late night and the awakening of first light in the eastern sky.
Her clothes still smelled like smoke. Her tears still traced clean tracks down her ash-covered face. Her stomach still felt sick and empty.
The police wanted her to come to the station and make a statement at eight o’clock that morning, just a few hours away, knowing she knew more than she’d let on, but evidently trusting her enough to let her leave. She would do that. She would tell them all she had seen. Even the part about the gun.
Well, maybe not all of it. She’d already concocted a story about how she became suspicious of Dane because of his tattoos—all of them fire related. How he talked about fires and burning throughout his last tattoo session. (This was an outright lie; neither she nor Dane had any memory of their last tattoo session, she knew.) How she had followed him and had her suspicions confirmed when he lit the fire in the basement of the apartment complex.
They might slap her wrists, give her the old lecture about not taking the law into her own hands, that kind of thing. But they would let her walk out of there after a few hours.
And she would keep walking. She would be the phoenix.
She unlocked the gate at the front of GraceSpace, rolled it away, unlocked the front door, turned on the lights inside. First she wrote a note to Vaughn and Zoey, letting them know their apprenticeships were over and telling them the shop was all theirs. She was making other plans, moving other directions.
She took all the cash from her Dark Room’s safe and transferred it to her purse. Then, she took the .38-caliber revolver from her purse, put it in the safe, and locked it again. Finally, she retrieved the last bottle of Black Tar, slipped it into her purse. Yes, it was the last bottle. But she had the stock number; she could order more.
She could order so much more.
Out in the front lobby area, she passed the mirror Dane had used to admire his new phoenix tattoo fifteen long hours ago. Her reflection stared back with red, unmoving eyes.
After a few seconds of staring, she unbuttoned her shirt and looked at her chest. The tattoo of the door was there still, but now it was different. The door was open.
Unlocked.
And in the thin sliver of space behind the open door on her chest, she saw hidden letters, now glowing. F-A-M-IL-Y. She touched the letters, saw an image of her children, Tiffany and Joey, laughing as she chased them across a manicured lawn, dappled sun shining through the thick canopy of leaves above. This tattoo moved, hypnotically cinematic, a movie in front of her eyes. The children were older now, yes. But still children. Still her children.
She smiled at her reflection.
In that moment, she stopped chasing the dragon.
And it stopped chasing her.
Final Stanza
Minus Midas
4.
They wanted him to kill a woman here in the District.
Not that he had to, of course. Killing was completely voluntary; he could quit at any time.
All he had to do was die himself.
And that would mean one other person close to him would die as well.
And so, because he had to keep living, he had to keep killing.
He smiled as he cradled the mug of coffee in his hands, and blew on it a bit before sipping. It was a habit he’d developed, this blowing on coffee before every sip, imprinted into his brain because he’d worn gloves so long. Sometimes leather, sometimes latex, sometimes leather over latex. Hold a mug of coffee in your hands while you’re wearing gloves, you don’t know how hot the drink is. If you’re not paying attention, you burn your lips, maybe blister your tongue. So it became a habit to blow on any drink before he sipped it, and the regularity of the act comforted him.
There really was no alternative. He couldn’t take off the gloves while he was out in public. Ever.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, one of those old analog jobs you don’t see around much these days: bright white face, black hash mark for each minute, wedgelike ebony hands pounding out each and every second, 24/7. Part of why he liked this diner.
The guy was fifteen minutes late. He’d have to make a note of it afterward, let people know. Maybe get the guy’s knuckles cracked, a small victory for him. After all, these Handlers (and that’s what the Organization called them—Handlers, as if he were some kind of celebrity being escorted on a press junket) were paid to keep him on a leash. A tight leash. Noting their missteps was one of the few small ways he could show a little control over his situation. Keeping with the leash analogy, it was the only way he could snap his jaws, bite the hands of the guys taking him out for a walk.
He smiled. Analogy. Mrs. Brown back at P.S. 238 would have loved to hear him use the word. Every once in a while he found himself thinking about her, thinking about the guys like Kurt Marlowe and Neil Kramden, even thinking about Mr. Sherman himself, who had changed his life forever in what he’d come to think of as the Great Sherman Tank—so named because his life had tanked hard a
fter that incident.
Man, had it tanked.
He blew on the coffee, sipped it again. It was lukewarm at best, but he could no more stop himself from the habit than he could stop himself from breathing. It was part of who he was.
A sizzle escaped from the back at the grill, followed soon by the scent of onions frying. Probably an order of steak and onions, maybe a Philly sammy. It was still pretty early for lunch, midmorning, but that’s another reason why he liked the Blue Bell Café. You want lunch at 10:00 a.m., no one bats an eye; they just throw your order on the grill. You come in with a broken arm or a face that looks like hamburger, no problem; they just throw your order on the grill. You wander through the front door with your clothes caked in blood, no questions asked; they just throw your order on the grill.
Not that he’d ever come into the grill with blood on his clothes, of course. But he could, and that’s what counted. Blood wasn’t really his style, which was what made him so valuable to the Organization.
He lived everywhere and nowhere, on the road every month of the year. But because the Organization had put down its roots in the DC area, this was as close to home as he got. Three, four times a year he did jobs here, giving him some degree of familiarity. All of the other job sites he usually visited only once.
The door hinge squeaked open, and he knew without looking that it was his guy, his Handler, finally showing up. Close to twenty minutes late. Oh yes, he’d note that for later.
He closed his eyes, cradling his chipped porcelain mug of coffee in both gloved hands, inhaling the earthy scent of the dark liquid inside. A few moments later, he sensed the man standing next to him.
“Mr. Bleach?”
A thin, reedy voice. It shocked him a bit, not the voice he’d expected, not the kind of voice he always heard from these guys, but he showed no reaction. Keeping his eyes closed, he smiled. “Not Mr. Bleach. Just Bleach.”
“Just Bleach?”
He opened his eyes, seeing for the first time the kid who matched the voice. Young, maybe twenty, tall and thin, big patch of red hair up top, couldn’t even grow a full mustache yet. Not that it had stopped him from trying; the kid had one of those peach-fuzz excuses on his top lip, which probably included the first hairs that had sprouted on his face a few short years ago. In a hurry to grow up. Too much of a hurry.
Still, he felt sorry for the kid. Maybe because of the voice. He nodded at the empty seat across the booth. “Yeah,” he said, “just Bleach.”
Of course, his real name wasn’t Bleach; nobody had a last name like Bleach. Inside, he was still Stan Hawkins. Still thought of himself that way. To everyone else, he was Bleach.
But he would always, to himself, be Stan.
The kid sat down quickly, all elbows and awkward sharp angles. “I’m sorry I’m late Mr.—ah, I’m sorry I’m late, Bleach. I just—this is—”
“Your first time,” he finished for the kid. He blew at his coffee, took another sip. It was starting to go cold now, but the waitress would be back to warm it up any minute.
The kid nodded his head, overeager. “Yeah, yeah. I just— man, you wanna do good your first time out, and you go and do something like this, end up being late, you know?”
The kid should be aggravating him, probably would be under normal circumstances. Another smile creased his face. Normal circumstances. As if he’d ever been in any such thing.
Okay, he had to admit it. He found himself liking the kid, in spite of it all. He decided he wouldn’t say anything about being late.
It was the kid’s voice that did it.
When the kid spoke, his voice cracked like brittle sugar candy. Just as his own had done, once upon a time.
Stan put down the cup of coffee. “What should I call you, kid?” he said, looking over at the counter and nodding to the waitress.
“Well, my name’s Brian,” he said, a bit uncomfortably.
The waitress was coming over with a fresh pot now, so he turned his attention back to the kid. “They didn’t give you a name yet?” he asked.
“Well, yeah.” The kid waited while the waitress poured more of the coffee in Stan’s cup, shook his head when she asked if he wanted anything.
After she left, Stan spoke again. “But you don’t like your name,” he said.
“It’s . . . Carrot.”
Stan smiled, blew on his fresh cup. Much hotter now, much better. “Yeah, well, kid, that’s the whole idea of the name: you’re not supposed to like it.” He paused a minute while the kid stared at the table. “Let ’em see that the nickname bothers you, it’ll only be worse.”
The kid smiled and looked at him, getting a bit more comfortable now. “Sticks and stones, all that jazz?”
Stan returned the smile, knowing it came off more ominous than genuine—especially if the kid knew anything about him—but unable to help himself. “In the Organization, it ain’t sticks and stones that will break your bones.”
The kid’s smile faded. Carrot. A little obvious, maybe, but the Organization always knew your weak points. Each and every one.
“What about your, um, name?” the kid asked.
“I told you: just Bleach.”
“I know. I mean, how’d you get it? I guess I maybe expected you to be an albino or something.”
Stan huffed a bit. More like a leper than an albino. “Ever use bleach, Brian?” he asked.
The kid shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Get stains out of clothes, that kind of thing.”
Stan blew on the coffee again, sipped. “That’s what I do. I clean up stains.” He paused. “That kind of thing.”
The kid swallowed hard. So the Organization had given him a bit of background on the man they called Bleach. Just as well, really. The kid’s fear should keep him out of the way.
“So where to, Brian?” he asked as they left the diner and walked to the car. He already knew where they were going, of course, but he wanted to help the kid relax, get his feet under him a bit.
“Apartment down in Anacostia.”
“Okay.”
“Bad news. Don’t really want to wander over there unless you have to.”
“Really.”
“First time in DC?”
He smiled. Where’d they get this kid? “Yeah,” he said. “First time.”
The kid, amazingly enough, was pretty quiet during the first part of the ride. Stan had been sure he would be one of those jittery kinds, twitchy and itchy, constantly talking to keep the nerves in his stomach calm. Even so, he knew a few questions would have to come. They always did.
As the kid wheeled the car off the Beltway and into the concrete jungle, he spoke. “What’d she do?”
Stan smiled, looking out the window at some rusting hulks in the old navy shipyard. He thought it might be what concentration camps looked like. “Don’t know, kid.”
“You don’t know? You’re here to . . . do this, and you don’t know what she did?”
“I never know. Makes it easier. Sometimes.”
“But not all the time?”
“Not all the time.”
The kid waited in silence for a few more seconds. “And it doesn’t bother you? Not knowing, I mean?”
Stan looked at the kid, who kept glancing back and forth between him and the potholed street ahead. “’Course it bothers me. Nothing about this doesn’t. But no one ever asks. ’Cept kids like you.”
The kid sniffed. “I’m not a kid.”
Stan smiled, turned to look out the window again.
The kid’s voice came again. Softer. Quieter. “Can I watch?”
Stan pulled in a deep sigh. Everybody wanted to see someone else die. Until they did. Then they never wanted to see it again. Having seen it a few dozen times now, Stan certainly wished he never had. But that ship had sailed a long time ago.
“You don’t really want to watch,” he answered.
“Yes, I do.”
“You just drive. That’s why you’re here. Meet me, pick me up, drop me off so I can catch my f
light.”
“I won’t get in the way or anything. You won’t even know I’m there.”
Stan offered a grim smile as he watched the reflected cement spin by on the inside of the windshield in front of him. “I’ll know you’re there, Brian. I always know.”
He thought it was a nice touch, using the kid’s first name again. Just the right amount of sincerity.
The kid pulled the car to the side of a secondary street, hitting another pothole just as he put the white Chevy into Park.
Stan sat a few moments, studying the decaying building next to them. “This the place?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. She’s in apartment . . . uh . . .”
“Number 955.”
“Right.”
Stan opened the car door, shut it behind him, and began walking toward the building. He didn’t pause, didn’t look at the kid, didn’t do anything to encourage him. Still, he wasn’t surprised to hear the kid’s car door slam behind him as he walked away. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed toward the front door of the crumbling tenement.
No call box, but there was a hole where one used to be. A decade ago, maybe. He paused, considering, then went to the doors and tried them. They opened with barely a give. Not surprising. From the looks of it, security was the bottom of the priority list for this particular building. Right below plumbing and electrical repairs. Maybe even below razing the place and starting from scratch.
He felt the kid behind him now, coming through the door as he walked into the lobby area. He ignored him and walked past the long row of mailboxes, more than half of their tarnished brass doors broken open, abandoned long ago. Some people probably still got mail—maybe even the woman in 955—but he guessed this wasn’t a plum route for mail carriers.
Stepping over some trash on the floor, he moved toward the concrete stairs, hearing a loose-limbed shuffle behind him.
The kid’s voice echoed in the hollow shell of the building’s core. “Don’tcha wanna take the elevator?”