Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

He reaches down and runs his fingers through her hair and brushes them along the back of her neck, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. She likes his touch, and the strength of his desire, but she pushes his hand away and holds it down against the mattress. She’s in charge of this and will not be led. She takes her mouth off of him. She strokes his penis slowly. Then stops. She runs her fingernails along the inside of his thighs. She smiles and crawls on top of him.

‘I want you inside.’

3

Eugene lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, Evelyn asleep on her stomach beside him. His hand rests comfortably on her naked bottom. His penis lies limp and sticky against his leg. Now’s the time to do this. He can take her by surprise. If he doesn’t do it now he’ll never do it, and he’ll end up dead.

That’s how he needs to think about it. He must get to Manning before Manning gets to him, and the only way he’s certain he can do that is through his daughter. Otherwise he must accept that people like him, little people of no importance, are mere pawns to be moved about and sacrificed as needed, and he refuses to be a pawn. He refuses to be sacrificed. Which means he needs to stop bellyaching about what must be done and do it.

He slips out of bed and picks up his pants from the floor. He puts his legs into them, pulls them up, buttons them. He walks to the table and puts on the leather gloves. He picks up the duct tape. He looks over to the bed where Evelyn lies asleep, her face calm, a smile on her lips. Her pale back is smooth and beautiful. He’d much rather kiss the freckles down the length of her spine than do what he’s about to do.

He inhales and exhales in jagged breaths. He tries to think of an alternative to what he’s about to do. He could get on his motorcycle and ride away. He could simply leave all this. He could do that, but it would solve nothing. He’d still be wanted for murder. It wouldn’t matter where he went or what he did, it would always hang over him. He can’t live like that. These last few days during which he’s been wanted for murder have been the hardest of his life. He can’t imagine living in such a state for years.

But he doesn’t want to do what he’s about to do. He believes Evelyn’s being straight with him. He believes she cares for him. He knows he cares for her. He doesn’t want to destroy that. But he’s afraid he must. He’s certain of it.

Or they could follow through on Evelyn’s plan. Afterwards maybe she could get him a meeting with her father. He could explain that all he cared about was getting his life back and now that he’s got it back he wants only to live it, to live it with Evelyn. Maybe that would be enough.

No. He knows better than that.

He has only one choice. If he cares at all about his own survival he has but one choice, and it doesn’t matter how much he hates it.

The alternative is death.

He looks again at Evelyn lying peacefully in bed and wants more than anything to lie beside her. To feel the warmth of her body against his body. He wants to wake beside her and look into her eyes and regret nothing.

But, so far as he can tell, that isn’t possible.

He pulls the end of the duct tape, listening to it peel off the roll. Evelyn stirs but doesn’t awaken. Soon she will — to an ugly surprise.

He exhales in a heavy sigh.

Then steps forward quickly, rushing toward Evelyn. He puts his knee into her neck to hold her down, pulls her arms behind her back, and wraps her wrists with tape.

She wakes with a scream and fights him, but he doesn’t stop.

Not until he’s finished.

Carl sits up in bed and tries to read a story called ‘I Joined a Gang of Hoods’ in the most recent issue of Stag , but is finding it impossible to concentrate. Instead his mind turns to his last conversation with Friedman. He went to his partner’s house and said we need to talk. He said you’re right, I need to get this under control, but now isn’t the time. We’re wrapping up this case. If I try to quit now I’ll get sick, I’ll be useless. Let me finish this case, bring in the milkman, then I’ll take time off and clean up. I have vacation days coming. I know how you feel about me using, you made that clear, but I need time. Friedman looked at him in silence, then nodded. Keep yourself as clean as possible. Use as little as you need to to keep yourself functioning, but when we wrap up this case you get yourself clean. I mean it. I won’t watch you kill yourself. Okay, Carl said. Okay. And about earlier, when I said we weren’t friends, I didn’t mean it. Friedman nodded, said I know, I’ll see you tomorrow at work, Carl, and went inside.

So he bought himself some time, which is good.

And if he finds another source he might not have to quit. It only got out because he was buying from within the department. That was a mistake. He can find another source. He can wave his badge around some jazz club and confiscate what he wants. He won’t arrest anybody, he’s not that big a hypocrite, just scare them a little and take their junk. Why not? There’s no downside.

Except he really does need to quit. He hates that his life now revolves around using. He hates the control it has over him. He lost Candice to it already, and she was the first glimpse of light he’d seen since Naomi’s death. For months he’s been walking toward a dark horizon and when light finally appears there, a faint white line, he runs in the opposite direction so that he can remain in darkness.

Only a fool would do such a thing.

If he’d known at the beginning this would lead to the needle he’d never have used in the first place. He just wanted a little quiet in his mind. He wanted to get away from himself. And he got what he wanted, didn’t he? For a while he got exactly what he wanted. But things have turned and he knows it, and he knows too he needs to do something about it. He needs to quit.

He’ll maintain until this case is closed, and then he’ll take some time off. He needs to do exactly what he told Friedman he’d do. He needs to regain control of himself and his life. He’s fifty-six years old, not twenty. He shouldn’t be living in some rooming house making mistakes he knows better than to make.

And what’s he going to do about this case?

Neighbors and coworkers have been questioned. Evidence has been catalogued. Reports have been written. The only thing left is to find the guy and arrest him. His picture is out to the uniforms, and his apartment and the bar at which he works are being watched, so it’s now nothing but a waiting game.

Part of him hopes they wait forever. Then he never has to quit. The case can remain open till the sun explodes and its fires envelop the earth. That would be good. He could use junk forever and Friedman wouldn’t be able to call him a liar.

He needs to quit.

They should follow up with Darryl Castor tomorrow, find out if he learned anything about where the milkman might be.

Then something occurs to him, and he sits up in bed unable to believe a connection he’s overlooked until now. They’ve been operating under the assumption that Eugene Dahl was working alone when he killed Theodore Stuart, but Carl now thinks that Darryl Castor might be reason to doubt that. The man is called Fingers because he has them in everything. He knows everybody. Someone has a product they don’t know what to do with, Darryl Castor can find him a buyer. Someone needs something extra delivered with the morning milk, Darryl Castor knows where to get it. There’s a chance he worked for James Manning at some point, peddled goods for him. He could easily be the connection between James Manning and Eugene Dahl.

But if that’s true, if that’s a legitimate piece of the puzzle, it means the picture he’s been putting together is wrong. It means he might have to tear the whole thing apart and start again, start with this piece and work outward.