Gregg Hurwitz - We Know

And then something unexpected happened. My reaction shifted, away from fear, to a flick-it urge for confrontation, no matter the stakes. Seventeen years ago I'd exited this house on trembling legs, but now I found myself charging the front door, spoiling for a fight. By the time I was off the porch, the car was already around the corner, the whine of its acceleration rising in pitch but fading with distance. When I reached my truck, there was nothing but crickets and the machine-gun strafing of a high-power sprinkler. A spasm of energy spun me in a full circle, but I spotted no one anywhere.

My mouth dry from the scare, I hurried back, closed and locked the door, and left the way I'd come in. At my truck, I pulled a flashlight from the glove box, slid beneath, and examined the undercarriage, as Liffman had taught me. The gas tank also showed no signs of tampering.

When I climbed into the truck and set my hands on the steering wheel, they were still shaking. I squeezed the wheel, doing my best to still them. When I looked up, I noticed a slip of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. Like a valet stub. But I hadn't valeted, not in months.

I climbed out and tugged it from under the rubber blade. A film-processing slip from a photo place on Ventura Boulevard. A single roll. Ready for pickup today at noon. The order number and pickup time were preprinted, the name and phone number spaces left blank. The only human mark was the black circle around Thursday. The film had probably been dropped in an overnight box rather than brought to a counter.

I got into the truck once more and stared through the windshield at nothing. My fear bled into curiosity and back again. A panicky urge overtook me. To drive away from all this. Keep moving until I wound up at a new city, a different apartment, a cannery in Alaska. But no matter how hard I tried to give in to the urge, some part of me wouldn't allow it this time. I had reached some turning point that I hadn't even known I was approaching.

I headed home. After monkeying my way up the telephone pole, I checked the locks, the paper clip, and the two nails through the front door, then sat on my mattress, staring at the damn photomat slip. My bones ached from last night's explosion, and my shirt chafed the raw skin of my chest.

When I closed my eyes, I saw again in the darkness those familiar ideograms, blue ink faded into flesh. TRUST NO ONE.

To find the answers that I needed, I'd have to source Charlie's connection with Frank beyond Okinawa. How had Induma put it? Maybe it's time to look for some new allies. Or new candor with old ones.

I got up and moved the television off Frank's trunk and onto the floor. The lid creaked as I pried it up. I dug around until I came up with what I was looking for. A creased photo of Callie from so many years ago. At the beach, squinting into the sun, one hand pinning back her thick, unruly hair. That face, almost as familiar as my own, though I hadn't seen it for years.

It was time.

On the front walk, I felt exposed in the bright light of morning, though I'd circled the block three times to make sure I wasn't being followed. A moment's pause didn't help me regain my composure, but I forced my legs to carry me up onto the porch of the neat white two-story. My thumb rested against the doorbell, barely touching it, refusing to press.

Finally I rang. A three-chime doorbell. I ran my hand through my hair, shifted from foot to foot.

The wound in my cheek from Charlie's bone frag made me self-conscious.

Approaching footsteps. My mom's voice calling back into the house, "I got it, sweetheart."

The big door swung in, and her smile caught on her face. My mom looked good, probably, for her age, but all I could notice at first were the differences, the incontrovertible evidence of the passed years. Her hair was a little coarser, the auburn sheen a shade too rich to be natural. She looked youthful in her ponytail and man's shirt, which was flecked with dried paint and unbuttoned to reveal a tank top. She wore foundation to cover the wrinkles, I assumed, but it muted her freckles, too. I didn't like that. Callie's freckles were my favorite part of her.

Sorrow rippled through her features and left them blank. "Five years," she said. "Your visits are getting almost frequent."

"I think four. Remember that lunch?"

"Right. Lunch." She lowered her head, pressing her crown to the edge of the door. "You get my Christmas card?"

"Yeah. You get mine?"

"I did."

She stepped back. I followed her in, Charlie's key clicking around inside my sneaker. We passed through a tiled foyer with mirrors and dried flowers in vases, and into a spacious kitchen. Porcelain rooster by the Viking stove, blue-checkered tablecloth, butter churn in the corner. I couldn't put the new country-contemporary decor together with Callie.

A short, wiry man sat on a wicker stool at the center island, reading the paper and eating poached eggs. His curly hair was receding, with strands of gray at the temples. It was poofy, needing a cut. He stopped mid-chew, regarded me over the top of the sports section. Halfway down the staircase to the right stood a girl, maybe thirteen years old. She was stooping so she could look down into the kitchen and see who'd arrived. Despite the heat, she wore a hooded zip-up sweatshirt over a baggy thermal shirt-charcoal on black. Maroon and blond streaked her dark brown hair, which fell lifelessly to crowd her face. Her sleeves were pulled down over her hands, and she pinched the banister, ready to retreat.

Callie stopped by the double doors of the Sub-Zero and gestured at me, at the man, back at me.

"This is my son," she said.

The girl's jaw dropped. Two scampering footsteps and she was gone.

The man set down his newspaper, dotted his mouth at the corner with a paper napkin. He came around and shook my hand. "Steve Yates." He looked at Callie, nodded supportively, and excused himself to the next room, leaving his breakfast behind.

She said, "My husband."

"Right. Congratulations. I got that card, too."

"And you didn't want to come?"

"I didn't know it was an invitation."

"We didn't do a big thing." She flared an arm. "Third marriages, you know."

"Six months ago?"

"Yes. Steve and Em moved in over Christmas break. Changing schools in the middle of the year was…" She used the heel of a hand to shove a wisp off her forehead, and then she said, "Why are you here, Nicky? I mean, I've been trying to see you forever now. You're hardly one to just drop by." Her eyes moved to the cut on my cheek.

"Some stuff's come up." I was looking at Steve's breakfast more than at her.

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're not sure what's come up, or you're not sure you want to tell me?"

"Both." I looked at her directly. "Whatever Frank was afraid of? It came back."

But she barely responded. Her eyelids fluttered an extra beat when she blinked. That was all. I couldn't read the emotion, hidden as well as her freckles.

"Okay," she said. "Are you gonna talk to me?"

"Until I know what's going on, I don't want to put you-"

"In danger? Nice of you to make that decision for me." She crossed her arms, tight, like she was cold. "So what do you want?"

I said, tentatively, "Frank's pictures. That were in his chest. What'd you do with them?"

She stared at me, her lips trembling. The question had offended her, or my arrival had. I wondered how much I'd changed, if I disappointed her.

Finally she said, "They're in a moving box. In the attic. I put them there when I got the trunk ready for you."

I forced the next question out. "Can I see them?"

"Why not, Nick?" she said irritably. "Why not?"

We had a frozen moment, and then I asked, "Where's the attic?"