Blake Crouch: *69

Fog enveloped the streets and homes of Quail Ridge, one of the new subdivisions built on what had been a farmer’s treeless pasture, the houses all new and homogenous, close enough to the interstate to always bask in its distant roar.

He stepped to the side as Martin walked into his house, then closed and locked the door after them.

“Laura asleep?” he asked.

“No, she’s still up.”

They walked past the living room into the kitchen where Laura, now sporting a more modest nightgown, had put a pot of water on the stove, the steam making the lid jump and jive.

“Hey, Marty,” she said.

He kissed her on the cheek. “My God, you smell good. So you told him about us yet?”

“Never gets old,” Tim said. “You think it would, but it just keeps getting funnier.”

Laura said, “Cup of tea, Marty?”

“Why not.”

Martin and Tim retired to the living room. After Laura got the tea steeping, she joined them, plopping down in the big leather chair across from the couch.

Martin said, “Pretty fucking quaint and what not with the fire going. So what’s up? You guys having a little crumb-cruncher?”

Laura and Tim looked at each other, then Laura said, “No, why would you think that?”

“Yeah, Mart, typically not safe to ask if a woman’s pregnant until you actually see the head crowning.”

“So I’m not gonna be an uncle? Why the hell else would you ask me over this late?”

“Go ahead, Laura.”

She pressed play on the answering machine.

They listened to the message, and when it finished, Martin said, “Play it again.”

After the message ended, they sat in silence, Martin with his brow furrowed, shaking his head.

He finally said, “I know you’re too much of a cheap bastard to have caller ID or anything invented in the twenty-first century, so did you star-sixty-nine it?”

“Tried, but Mom called literally the second I picked up the phone.”

Martin undid the top two buttons of his navy shirt, ran his fingers around the collar to loosen it.

“Could just be a prank,” he said. “Maybe someone held the phone up to the television during a particular scene in a movie.”

“If that’s what it is, I don’t recognize the movie.”

Martin quickly redid the buttons on his shirt, said, “What do you think you’ve got there?”

“I think someone’s phone got jiggled at the worst possible moment, and we were on their speed dial.”

“You call nine-one-one?”

“Called you.”

Martin nodded. “There’s gotta be a way to find that number. You know, something you dial other than star-sixty-nine.”

Tim said, “Star-seventy?”

“I don’t know, something like that.”

“We tried to call the phone company a little while ago, but they’re closed until eight a.m. tomorrow.”

Martin looked at Laura, said, “You okay, sweetie? You don’t look so hot.”

Tim saw it, too-something about her had changed, her face seasick yellow, hands trembling imperceptibly.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You sure? You look like you’re about to blow chunks all over your new carpet.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Martin stood. “I need to use the little girl’s room.”

Laura watched him walk out of the room and down the first-floor hallway, and only when the bathroom door had closed, did she look back at Tim and whisper, “You see it?”

“See what?”

“When he unbuttoned his shirt a minute ago, it exposed his white tee-shirt underneath.”

“So?”

“So I saw blood on it, and I think he saw me looking at it, because he buttoned his shirt up again real fast.”

Tim felt something constrict in his stomach.

“Why does he have blood on his shirt, Tim?”

The toilet flushed.

“Listen, when he comes back out, you say since you aren’t feeling well, you’re going to bed.” The faucet turned on. “Then go upstairs and wait several minutes. I’m gonna offer Martin a drink. We’ll sit in the kitchen, and you sneak back down and go outside, see if you can get into his squad car.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think he brought his cell phone inside with him. He usually keeps it in a little pouch on his belt. Probably left it in the car. Get it, and look back over the outgoing history. If he called our house at nine-sixteen tonight, we’ll know.”

“And then what?”

The bathroom faucet went quiet.

“I don’t know. This is my brother for Chrissakes.”

Tim opened one of the high cabinets above the sink and took down a bottle of whiskey.

“Old Grandad?” Martin asked.

“What, too low-shelf for you?”

“That’s what Dad used to pass out to. Let me see that.” He grabbed the bottle out of Tim’s hands, unscrewed the cap, inhaled a whiff. “Jesus, brings back memories.”

“You want ice or-”

“Naw, let’s just pass it back and forth like old times in the field.”

They sat at the breakfast table, taking turns with the fifth of Old Grandad. It had been several months since the brothers had really talked. They’d been close in high school, drifted in college, Martin only lasting three semesters. Tim had come home two years ago when Dad’s liver finally yelled uncle, found that something had wedged itself between him and his brother, a nameless tension they’d never acknowledged outright.

And though all he could think about was the message and Laura, he forced himself to broach the subject of Mom-hostile territory-asked Martin if he thought she seemed to be thriving in the wake of Dad’s passing.

“That’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say.”

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“No, you’re saying she’s better off without him.”

Beyond the kitchen, Tim heard the middle step of the staircase creak-Laura working her way down from the bedroom-and he wondered if Martin had heard it. The last two steps were noisy as well, and then came the front door you could hear opening from Argentina. Nothing else to do but get him riled and noisy.

“Yeah, Martin, I guess I am saying she’s better off without him. What’d he do these last five years but cause us all a lot of heartache? And what’d you do but step in as Dad’s faithful apologist?”

Another creak.

“Ever heard of honor thy father, Tim?” Martin’s cheeks had flushed with the whiskey and Tim wondered if he’d intended to raise his voice like he had. His brother’s back was to the archway between the kitchen and the living room, and as Tim saw Laura enter the foyer and start toward the front door, he tried to avert his eyes.

“You know he beat Mom.”

“Once, Tim. One fucking time. And it was a total accident. He didn’t mean to shove her as hard as he did.” Laura turning the deadbolt now. “And it tore him up that he did it. You weren’t here when it happened. Didn’t see him crying like a goddamn two-year-old, sitting in his own vomit, did you?” Tim could hear the hinges creaking. “No,” Martin answered his own question as the front door swung open, cold streaming in. “You were in college.” Laura slipped outside, eased the door closed behind her. “Becoming a teacher.” Any curiosity Tim had harbored concerning his brother’s opinion of his chosen profession instantly wilted.

“You’re right,” Tim said. “Sorry. I just…part of me’s still so pissed at him, you know?”

Martin lifted the bottle, took a long drink, wiped his mouth.

“Of course I know.”

Tim pulled Old Grandad across the table, wondering how long it would take Laura. If the cruiser was locked, there’d be nothing she could do but come right back inside. If it was open, might take her a minute or two of searching the front seats to find the phone, another thirty seconds to figure out how to work Martin’s cell, check his call history.