Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

He set it down lovingly on the floor and turned to Nate with excitement. “Dude, you’re the man. People are wearing WHAT WOULD NATE OVERBAY DO? T-shirts. I’m not kidding-Google that shit.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate said.

“Have you watched the news? You’re a celebrity.”

“No. Steve Mc Queen was a celebrity. I’m Monica Lewinski.”

Jason chewed his lower lip. “Who’s Steve McQueen?”

“Who’s Monica Lewinski?” Cielle asked.

“I give up,” Nate said.

Cielle, back to her magazine. “Thank God.”

Nate eyed the husky kid. “Jason, right? How old are you?”

“Seventeen. But I’ve been emancipated ’cuz my parents were screwups, too. No offense.”

“None taken. You are aware that my daughter’s fifteen?”

Cielle flipped a page harder than necessary, giving off a crisp snap.

“And a half, ” Jason said. The edge of a tattoo peeked up from his collar. “It’s only like sixteen months’ difference.”

“I appreciate the math. But you’re still too old for her.”

“Or maybe you’re just blinded by the radiance of my awesomeness.”

“Or maybe that.” Reminding himself that he had bigger fish to fry right now than an emancipated seventeen-year-old with gauge earrings, Nate backed out of the garage and headed to the porch.

Pete answered the front door, on his knees in the foyer, skinny bottle in hand. “Nate. How you feeling today?”

“Oh, God. Let’s not start that, please. And what the hell are you doing?”

“Putting hot sauce on my dress shoes.”

Casper watched cautiously from the kitchen doorway. He lifted a stare in Nate’s direction, his Rhodesian ridgeback brow furrowed in puzzlement. The wrinkles on his forehead could convey a broader range of human emotion than most human faces could.

Nate took in this standoff as Pete returned to the task, diligently applying sauce to the heel of a two-tone wing tip. “Of course,” Nate said. Then: “Why?”

“The dog has chewed up half my shoes.”

“So you’re putting hot sauce on them.”

“To dissuade him. Yes. An admittedly unconventional approach, but I’m running out of footwear. At least footwear that doesn’t make me look like a homeless guy.”

Nate had to smile.

Pete got up. “Casper. Come. Here. Come. Come. ”

Nate snapped his fingers low at his side, and Casper trotted over. His hindquarters stayed offset at a slight jag from his front legs, like revelers navigating a two-man horse costume.

Pete took Casper’s collar and pointed the dog’s unwilling nose to the shoes. “See this? Steer clear.” He scratched Casper behind the ears, released him, and dusted his hands. “He’s a maniac. Ate a box of tampons last week.”

“This dog is an exceptional animal.”

“That’s what all dog owners say. You ever hear anyone say, ‘Oh, my dog? He’s really ordinary.’”

“A fair point.” Nate looked at Casper. Casper looked at him. They knew better.

“So what’s up, Nate?”

“I want to talk to you and Janie, actually.”

“She’ll be right down.” Pete started for the kitchen, then said reluctantly, “Listen, the U-pipe beneath the sink’s leaking. I’ve checked it twice. What am I missing?”

“It’s the drain, not the U-pipe. Plastic washer gets worn out. There’s a box of them in the corner of the pantry.”

“Thanks.” A sheepish grin. “I’ll take a look at it.” Pete assumed his position behind the kitchen island. Ground turkey shaped into patties, corn bobbing in a pot on the stove, two glasses filled with soda and a third, presumably Cielle’s, with water.

Pete drizzled olive oil into a pan, dropping in sliced onions as Janie entered.

Her head tilted as she took in Nate. Awkward. “You called late last night?”

“Yeah. Look. There’s really no good way to lead into this. So … uh, I didn’t just go up on that bank ledge to foil robbers. I was up there to jump.” He kept his eyes on the marble island, but he sensed both faces go lax. “The disease, you know? And…”

“What, Nate?” Janie said.

“You need to be careful here. Keep an eye on Cielle. Keep her close.”

“Wait. Why ? You’re scaring me.”

“Just … be cautious. It’s for your own good. And hers.”

“We haven’t seen you in nine months, ” Janie said. “You don’t get to tell us what to do. Certainly not without telling us why. ”

“Okay.” He took a breath. Bit his lip. “I got knocked out and regained consciousness half embedded in a slab of ice.”

She’d been ready with a response, but his words must have caught up to her, because her mouth froze partway open. It closed with a little pop.

Still speechless, she circled a hand for him to continue, then listened intently as he spelled out his ordeal with the Ukrainians, ending with Pavlo’s threat.

The onions sizzled, black wisps rising, until Pete picked up the pan and turned it upside down in the sink. Janie sank onto a barstool. Pete coughed out an angry one-note laugh, wiped his mouth.

“They threatened to kill my baby?” Janie finally managed. It seemed she was saying it aloud to try to get her mind around it.

“Yes. But I’m not gonna let that happen.”

“All due respect, Nate,” Pete said, “but it hardly seems like you’re in control of the situation.” He hurled a dish towel at the backsplash.

Janie looked catatonic. From the garage, muffled screaming: “You can have anything ya want but yer a better mint taker for free!”

“We need to just get in the car and start driving,” Janie said.

“Not yet,” Nate said. “These guys have shown that they have reach, resources. They’ll be watching, and who knows what they’ll do if you try to run. I’ve got a window to take care of this.”

“So we’re supposed to just sit here?” Janie said.

“You want them to catch up to us at a Motel 6 in Nevada?” Pete said.

The question bled through the air, and they breathed until it dissipated.

“Do we tell Cielle?” Nate asked Janie.

“Are you kidding?” Pete said. “It’d scare the living hell out of her. What’s the upside in that?”

“She hates not knowing,” Nate replied. “Not having a say in things. Janie? Are you okay?” Nothing. “Janie, look at me. I will take care of this.”

“Give us a moment here,” Pete said.

“Okay.” Nate pulled his gaze reluctantly off Janie. “I need to check something in Cielle’s room. I’ll just…”

Heavy on his feet, he mounted the stairs. For all his concern about sparing them fallout from his illness, here he’d inflicted on them something much worse. In Cielle’s room he headed for the closet. Parted the curtains of clothes. A mound of clutch purses in the back. He dug under them, and there it was.

A red diary.

Just as Pavlo had promised. His men had shown up so quickly after the bank shoot-out. They’d stood where Nate now stood, arms in his daughter’s wardrobe, prying and digging and reading. Revulsion rose in his gorge, then something sharper. Rage.

Gathering himself, he breathed deeply, tapping the red leather against his thigh. Something in the closet caught his eye, mostly hidden beneath a black sweater. The edge of a wooden frame. Was it? He lifted the sweater tentatively to discover their old family portrait. The three of them laughing and hugging and half falling over. She’d kept it. Buried in her closet, but still. When he inhaled, he felt the slightest catch in his throat.

The door boomed open, and Cielle and Jason spilled in, Cielle mid-rant: “-just saying I can’t believe you called a friend of mine ‘Sewer Crotch’ on your Facebook page.” She halted two steps into the room, her eyes blazing over to Nate, who was bent into her closet, incriminating diary in hand.