Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

“A couple metacarpal fractures,” Janie said. “Spica cast for six weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “You’re right. This did start with me.”

Pete waved him off. He looked shaken still.

“Cielle?” Janie asked.

“Upstairs. Won’t come out.”

Janie nodded and started up.

Nate and Pete regarded each other awkwardly.

“I’m gonna take care of this, Pete. I’ll keep you guys out of it. I promise. I’m gonna go see this guy. Tonight.”

“Nate,” Pete said, his eyes glassy. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Of course.”

He gestured toward the garage, and Nate stepped out after him, puzzled. Once the door had closed behind them, they faced each other in the quiet.

“Look, Nate, I’ll be honest with you.” Pete shifted on his feet, uncomfortable.

“What, Pete? Spit it out.”

“The guy, when he grabbed my arm, it was like I was a doll. I mean, Ukrainian gangsters. This is real. ”

“I know.”

“And I mean, this is your mess, Nate. I’ve cleaned up after you before. But I don’t know…”

“What?” The light from the garage-door opener clicked off, leaving them only with a faint throw of moonlight through the window. Nate could hear Pete breathing, see the outline of sweat on his cheek. “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

Pete cleared his throat. “I mean, what did you get me into here, Nate? It’s your mess.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“When Sally died, I barely came back from it. It took me months just to notice that the fucking sun was still in the sky, you know?”

“No one’s gonna die here, Pete. Not Janie, not Cielle.”

“I don’t know that I could get through something like that again.” More breathing. Something jangled in his hand, and Nate saw he was making a fist around his car keys. “I just moved in two and a half months ago.”

“Wait,” Nate said. “No. No, no, no-”

“I can’t do it, Nate. It’s not my mess. I paid off the mortgage here before things got tough financially-”

“This isn’t about money, Pete. They love you. Janie loves you. And Cielle-think about how she feels about you. You have to stay.”

“And I love them, too-” His voice broke in a half sob. “I’ll go with nothing. They can keep it all. But I can’t leave them knowing they’re … you know. Alone.”

It took everything Nate could muster to hold his mouth closed. Teeth clenched, lips pressed. And then he felt all the anger and tension leave, deflating him.

“Okay,” Nate said. “I got it.”

“I mean, you’re in the middle of it anyway. You might as well-”

“Pete. I said I got it.”

“Tell them. Tell them I love them. And I’m sorry.” Pete shifted the keys in his hand, his face narrowed with grief. He shuffled to the car, cast drawn in to his stomach protectively. His fingers pulsed, and the car chirped, and when he ducked in, Nate could see in the dome light that he was sobbing silently.

The garage door whirred up, and Pete backed out, and then the door closed and Nate stood there until the overhead light clicked off again. He took a deep breath, his lungs aching. Blew it out. Went inside.

Janie sat cradling Cielle on the couch. They looked up, faces drawn. “I heard the garage door,” Janie said. “I thought you left.”

“No.” Nate bit his lower lip. “Pete.”

Janie’s face broke.

Nate couldn’t stand to see her grief head-on. He studied the tips of his shoes. “He loves you both very much. But it’s a lot to handle. Too much, probably, for anyone.” He couldn’t believe he was defending the guy. “And he wanted to make sure you were taken care of financially, the house at least. He was broken up. He cares about you a lot, that much I could tell.”

When he finally dared to lift his head, Janie had composed herself as best she could. For the moment she and Cielle were holding it together, but they looked utterly shell-shocked.

“My God.” Janie blinked, tears finally spilling. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “We’re all alone in this.”

Nate could hear the faintest click of the kitchen clock. “I’m still here.”

Their faces showed that to be scant consolation.

Passing a strip mall on a busy street in Tarzana, Nate spotted the illuminated sign with glowing ornate letters: NEW ODESSA. Pavlo Shevchenko’s suggested meeting place. Granted, Nate was a few days early, but it was his best bet to find the man, and in light of Yuri’s attack they had business to discuss. Janie was okay with holing up behind locked doors, 911 ready on speed dial. Vowing to check in on them later, Nate had stopped off at his place to pick up his gun and his medication, the two essentials he’d require moving forward.

He flipped a U-turn, the Jeep rattling into the lot, and parked at the far end. He popped the glove box and reached for the Beretta, but as soon as his hand touched the cool metal, something made him look up and across at the restaurant. A done-up middle-aged couple, the man with a cheap suit and skinny tie, the woman in a slinky sequined dress, approached a large oak door. A vast bouncer emerged from the shadows of the awning and patted them both down thoroughly, the diners submitting readily to the search as if it were a commonplace prelude to a meal. Nate looked back across at his hand buried in the glove box. Then he moved it from the stock of the handgun to the pill bottle. He gulped down his nightly dose of riluzole and antibiotics, adding Advil in response to the complaints of the stitched wound in his shoulder.

His heartbeat reverberated in his palms, his neck, matching the taps of his steps across the parking lot. As he neared the awning, the bouncer loomed.

“I’m here to see Pavlo Shevchenko,” Nate said.

“Spread arms.”

Nate complied.

The man’s paws groped Nate’s sides, his belt line, squeezing each leg and sliding from groin to ankle. As he knelt, his pant cuff pulled high, exposing a gun barrel strapped to the ankle. Satisfied, he rose and checked Nate’s chest and stomach, presumably for a wire, untucking and lifting Nate’s shirt without a trace of hesitation. “Come.”

Nate followed him into a dim lounge, dense with smoke and sweet perfume and the tang of pickled fish. Couples and groups of men crowded the tables, animated voices speaking what Nate assumed was Ukrainian. A glimpse through velvet curtains revealed a brick-walled banquet hall to one side, a makeup-intensive singer swaying and crooning lyrics in a foreign tongue as partygoers slow-danced drunkenly, holding each other as if in grief. A momentary disorientation washed over Nate; he had stepped through a portal into a foreign country.

The bouncer put a broad hand on the small of Nate’s back, steering him forcefully through. A table in the rear corner was framed by several pillars, affording it relative privacy and clear place of distinction. Drawing into view at the table’s head, bent so his elbows framed his plate, was Pavlo Shevchenko. He wore a dark suit, slightly dated in style, with a thin, expensive-looking dress shirt. Hunched protectively over his food, chewing, he looked lean and hungry, his face angular in the faint light. His eyes lifted to freeze Nate in a cold stare.

Across from Pavlo in the other seat of honor sat a heavy older man, thick-lipped and wearing an expression of general displeasure. The rest of the chairs were occupied by men wearing velour warm-ups and chunky gold Rolexes, sipping vodka from weighty shot glasses. Right out of central casting. None of the henchmen from the warehouse were in evidence. Tyazhiki. Shadow people.

The bouncer had a brief exchange with one of the men, the words sharp. Pavlo interrupted, addressing Nate directly. “You have accomplished my task already?”