Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

‘And the knife.’

She reaches into her purse, removes them, and hands them to Eugene. When their fingers touch he finally looks at her, finally makes eye contact, and he holds it for longer than is comfortable. He seems to be looking directly into her.

Then he breaks away, glancing down at the objects she’s handing him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Be sure to wipe your prints from the knife. And wear gloves when you go into Lou’s room. There can’t be any evidence that you were there.’

He nods.

‘What time will you have him out?’

‘We’re having drinks at eight o’clock. Told him we needed to discuss business.’

‘This knife,’ he says, ‘you were supposed to use it to frame me?’

‘I was supposed to plant it in your apartment.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You still did plenty.’

‘I’m sorry for that, Gene.’

‘I know.’

The barmaid returns with Evelyn’s sandwich and Eugene’s coffee, the coffee spilling over the edge of the white cup and into the saucer when she sets it down.

Evelyn pulls the top slice of bread from her sandwich and sprinkles salt and pepper onto the mayonnaise smeared across it before setting it back down. Then she wipes her hands of rye seeds and stares at her plate, not the least bit hungry.

Eugene sips his coffee black, grimaces, and gets to his feet.

‘I’m gonna go.’

Evelyn reaches out and puts her hand over his hand.

‘Gene.’

He looks at her.

‘Do you think there’s any chance for us after this?’

He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: ‘I don’t know.’

3

He walks back out into the daylight, squints at the blue sky, takes a final drag from his cigarette. He holds it pinched between finger and thumb a moment, looking at it thoughtfully, then flicks it out into the street. He tried not to show it, but seeing her did something to him. It always does. But he knows he must be careful.

He walks to his motorcycle and kicks it to life.

He straddles the bike, knocks the kickstand out of the way with his heel, pulls out into the street. The afternoon air feels good rushing against his face.

He needs to buy a pair of gloves.

1

Carl walks through the hallway. He looks down at his scuffed black shoes as they kick one in front of the other. His feet are beginning to hurt as the drug wears off, but at least he managed to stop the bleeding. He wishes he felt better. The junk doesn’t do for him what it used to do. It used to make him feel blissful nothingness. Now it simply takes away the sickness, and that horrible itch at the back of his brain. That’s something, of course. But he can’t bring back that bliss, that feeling that he’s a silent echo bouncing against the emptiness of the universe, bouncing out further and further into nothing, free of trouble and thought and doubt and worry.

He needs to make Candice understand that he’s not addicted. If he can do that maybe he won’t feel sad anymore.

The trick is to feel nothing. To keep your soul winter-numb.

He pushes his way through a door labeled

HOMICIDE DIVISION

and into the squad room. He starts toward his desk, but only manages three or four steps before he sees Friedman get to his feet and start toward him. He’s about to say good morning, how you doing, but doesn’t get the first word out before Friedman grabs him by the arm and starts pulling on him. He says what are you doing, have you lost your goddamn mind, but Friedman doesn’t answer, only pulls him into the bathroom.

‘Do you think you’re fooling anyone?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘How long have you been using?’

‘What? I don’t-’

‘You think people don’t talk? You want to know what most secrets are? They’re things everybody knows but whispers about in hushed tones. If more than one person has a piece of information, it’s not a secret anymore. How long have you been using?’

Carl says nothing. He stares at his partner and wonders about his future. Will he be suspended? Lose his job? Go to jail? He doesn’t even know if he wants answers to those questions. He supposes he doesn’t. He supposes he’d like to echo against the emptiness and pretend none of this is happening. He doesn’t want answers, but his mind forms the questions anyway.

‘I was hoping you’d pull yourself out of this, but all I can see is you sinking deeper into it. You’re not far from drowning in it.’

‘I’m fine, Zach. It’s fine.’

‘You’re not fine. You’re not even close.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because you’re my friend and I can’t watch you kill yourself when-’ He looks away, blinks several times, looks back. ‘Because you’re my friend.’

‘Fine, then. We’re no longer friends. Go fuck yourself.’

‘Carl.’

‘No, if you’re doing this because I’m your friend, then I won’t be your friend. We’ll be enemies instead. Come on.’

Carl puts his fists up in front of his face, swaying slightly, glaring at Friedman. He wants Friedman to hit him. He doesn’t know why, but he does.

‘Come on.’

‘I’m not gonna fight you.’

‘Then I’ll fight you.’

He throws a punch, fist swinging only through air as Friedman pulls back, and next thing he knows he’s lying on his back looking up at Friedman and past him to the glowing lights in the ceiling. They’re very bright.

Friedman holds a hand out, offering to help him up. Carl slaps it away.

‘Fuck you.’

Friedman nods.

‘Okay. But you need to pull yourself together. I know things have been rough for you since Naomi died, I know you’re having a hard time, and I understand it. I’d fall apart if I lost Deborah. But you’re killing yourself. You’re killing yourself, and I refuse to stand by and watch it happen. Think about that.’

Friedman pushes out of the bathroom, leaving him alone on the cold tile floor.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Then after a while he does. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, finds a packet of cigarettes in his pocket, lights one. He reaches to the counter and pulls himself up.

He pushes out of the bathroom, then out of the building.

He’s going to lose his job anyway, and maybe he should. He doesn’t care one way or the other. Why should he? It’s pointless work. Everybody dies. Take all the murderers off the streets and the very next day someone will die choking on a cold roast-beef sandwich. You can’t arrest a heart attack and you can’t arrest cancer.

You can’t prevent death. You just pretend you can so the living can remain oblivious to it right up until a pain shoots through their left arm or they find the tumor.

The dead, meanwhile, don’t care; it’s a one-way door they’ve gone through.

He walks to his car and gets inside. He starts the engine, puts it into gear.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Somewhere.

2

Candice parks her car in the driveway and kills the engine. She looks through the water-spotted windshield to the paint-peeling garage door. She feels slightly dazed. She can’t believe her son did what the Sheriff’s Department thinks he did. It’s impossible.

They think he caused an accident by trying to steal a deputy’s service revolver while the man was driving. They think another man tried stop his escape after the accident and Sandy shot him because of it. They think he’s a badly warped record that plays different from the rest of us. Of course he is. He killed his stepfather, so he must also have done what the Sheriff’s Department thinks he did.

But something else must have happened.