Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

Erica’s voice fluttered, so fragile that Nate could barely make out the words: “This is a mistake. How can you be sure there wasn’t some mistake?”

Nate had pulled the incident report, gone to the morgue to talk with the coroner, sat with Aiden and held his cold hand. To make sure he didn’t terrorize the wrong family, Nate had checked the driver’s license in Aiden’s wallet against the database in case the nineteen-year-old boy had been carrying a fake ID.

“I’m certain,” Nate said. “Aiden was identified and pronounced dead at the hospital.”

Experience had taught him that to overpower denial he needed to say to the bereaved, frequently and boldly, that the person had died. It had also taught him not to say that time heals all wounds, that he knew how they felt, that there was a reason for everything. He had learned when to pause, to let them breathe, when to lead and when to follow. But mostly he had learned to ignore everything he had learned, at a moment’s notice.

Erica withdrew into herself, shoulders curling, chin dipping. Sean looked at her, his mouth downturning violently, almost a sob. “You’re the cops,” Sean said, his voice high, adrenalized. “He’s a kid. You couldn’t protect him from some idiot driver?”

Nate said gently, “No.”

Sean was standing again, jabbing a finger down at Nate. “You should’ve done something. Someone needs to fix this. This is your fault. Your fault.”

Nate rose. “Okay.” He kept his hands out and his voice soft.

“I’m gonna sue the fucking shit out of you, this city. I’m gonna…” Sean’s finger, inches from Nate’s face, began trembling violently. His face flushed, and then he was sobbing, rent-open cries, loose on his feet. Nate lifted an arm, and Sean grabbed him and sobbed into his shoulder, and Nate held him for five minutes and then ten, until Erica rose and led her husband with great care back to the couch. Sean sat, holding her hand, tears streaming as Nate answered their questions and told them what to do next, writing everything down since recollection would be foggy-directions to the morgue, police case number, direct line to the coroner’s office. He did all that, and then he shut up.

Erica broke the silence. “But it’s so unfair. He’s our only child.” Finally she came apart, fist pressed to her mouth so hard that the skin went white.

Heat swelled in Nate’s chest, and he looked down, the carpet blurring at his feet. Some responders believed they always had to be strong for the relatives, but Nate had found that the times his voice hitched or his eyes watered, family members had looked at him not with disdain but appreciation.

Erica caught her breath again, blew her nose. “What a stupid thing to say.”

“No,” Nate said.

“Life isn’t fair, is it? Who gets to live. Who dies.”

No.

“I want to see him,” Erica said. “I want to see my boy. Where is he?”

Sean lifted the printout that Nate had brought-the route from their front door to the morgue. He raised his red-rimmed eyes to Nate and said, “Thank you.”

Nate nodded. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me? Anything you want me to do?”

Shaking their heads, they rose to see him out.

He always made the second-day call himself, since the last thing a family in crisis needed to see the morning after was a new face. When a piece of jewelry or a watch was released, he’d take it home and scrub off the dried blood before delivering it. He’d be one call away, their guide through the rough terrain. So he started to say what he always said next-that he’d check in with them again tomorrow.

But then he remembered: For him there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

He paused on the porch, looking back at Erica and Sean, feeling that nagging sense of remorse. His mind moved to his best friend’s body outlined against a brilliant blast of white. His failure of will in the car outside Charles’s mother’s house. That night in the house, his daughter trying to hide beneath the bed, his wife looking on, a bruise rising on her cheek. So much unfinished business. So much he still owed.

Since his diagnosis he’d done everything to spare Janie and Cielle any more trouble on his behalf. But maybe he owed them a final explanation before he punched out.

“He was just here last week,” Erica said. “Standing where you’re standing right now. He was tying his shoes, and the phone rang.…” She gestured toward the teak bench, at that row of sneakers, Aiden’s beat-up Chuck Taylors waiting, one on its side. “I went to answer. Could be important, you know. A nail appointment.” She gave a disgusted little laugh. “You know the worst part?”

Nate shook his head.

“I never got to say good-bye.”

For the whole ride, Nate alternated his gaze from the road to his rearview, searching for dark Town Cars with illegally tinted windows. After parking he sat, double-checking that no one had followed him, but also, he realized, stalling. It took all the courage he could muster to head up the walk of the beloved Santa Monica house. A corner brick at the base of the porch had come loose, and he paused to shove it with his heel back into alignment. Owning a house was a war of attrition. Sap holes in the gutters, birds’ nests in the chimney, dry rot in the window frames. Tears of rust hung beneath the house numbers and he thought of the time he would have cleaned them with pride. He knocked, and a moment later the door swung open.

Pete looked out at him, doing his best to disguise his consternation. “Nate. Been a while.”

“Right. Okay if I come in?”

Pete looked unsure. “Hang on.” He leaned back. “Janie?”

A moment later there she was. She wore a flare-waisted Spanish gauze blouse, bright orange to pick up the flecks in her eyes. Not that Nate noticed. Her thin eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath the bangs of her pixie cut. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you. And Cielle.”

She raised her left hand to push a wisp of hair off her forehead, and he saw with great chagrin that her ring finger sported a diamond the size of a bran muffin. “It’s been nine months, Nate. Nine months. Women make babies in that time. Not a visit. Not a phone call.”

“I know. I want to explain-”

“And it’s not like you came by to see her frequently before then.”

“That wasn’t just me. I would’ve loved nothing more than-”

At once there was a clutter of claws scraping floorboards, and then Casper was there, nosing through Pete and Janie, losing his mind at the sight of Nate. A hundred ten pounds of Rhodesian ridgeback backing up in celebration, wiggling, thick tail smacking legs and walls, turning to shove his hind end into the nearest set of knees. “Off,” Pete said. “Off. Down, Casper. Off. Casper-”

Nate said, “Sit.”

Casper sat.

Janie’s face was flushed, hiding the freckles. “Did you at least bring the divorce papers?”

“They’re at home. Signed.”

“Why didn’t you just bring them?”

“It’s been an eventful day. That’s why I want to talk to you.” He took a breath, unsure where to begin. “Did you see the news today?”

“No.”

“There was a robbery this morning. At Wilshire and Ninth.”

“I heard about it,” Janie said. “Radio.”

“I was sort of in the middle of it.”

Whatever she and Pete were expecting, it was not this. Janie’s expression softened with concern. The door creaked open, and Nate followed them in, Casper zigzagging underfoot like a patrol car slowing traffic. As they passed by the family room, Nate noted the new family portrait on the mantel-a trio, this time properly posed, with Pete replacing Nate. At the sight of the three glossy faces, he felt his last handhold at the cliff’s edge crumble.