Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

‘We found your brother in a house. With a severely injured woman. Annabel Wingate. Any idea of his relationship to her?’

‘He was always something of a ladies’ man,’ William said.

The black detective made a noise deep in her throat that implied a lack of surprise.

‘Did she die?’ William asked. ‘The injured lady?’

‘She’s critical.’

William scratched at the stubble of his neck, the rasp pronounced off the concrete walls. ‘Huh,’ he said.

Markovic nodded at the coroner, who cleared her throat nervously. She was an attractive woman, blond. ‘I’m going to push this button, and the curtain will rise. The body is lying inside on a table. I’d like to forewarn you that there was some trauma to the head, so-’

‘Do it,’ William said.

She clicked the lever, and the curtain rose. There lay Hanley on his back, presented like some ceremonial dish, his gray skin catching reflections off the stainless-steel table. A medical-green sheet was draped over him, folded back to his chest. Though his head was in the correct position, it was all wrong, as if it had been popped off and screwed back imprecisely. The left side of his face was dented, flesh draped like parchment over the space that bones should have lent form to.

William reached over, touched his fingertips to the cold glass. Though Boss Man had confirmed Hanley’s death already, William realized he’d held out a fantasy of a mix-up. It took him a moment to find his voice. ‘Yeah. That’s Hanley.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Markovic said.

‘I want to touch him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Elzey said. ‘There’s an active investigation-’

William wobbled over to the door. ‘I want to touch him.’ His voice wavered. He waited, stooped, pathetic, eyes on the floor.

The silence was thunderous.

Finally the coroner said, ‘He could use latex gloves…?’ A box was fetched. William pulled on the gloves, stepped inside. The room, a good twenty degrees cooler, smelled of bleach, metal, and musk. The odors seemed to lodge in William’s lungs. The detectives and coroner kept their respectful distance, if respectful was watching him pay his last respects through a picture window. He put his back to them, blocking their view, and slid off one glove. Reaching out a steady hand, he laid it on his baby brother’s cheek. It never ceased to amaze him how devoid of life dead flesh felt.

‘Hanley,’ he murmured.

He pushed his brother’s eyelids down, then wormed his hand back into the glove.

He stepped out, passed the others without a word, and labored down the hall. Getting up the stairs, he broke a sweat. His grip on the railing felt arthritic, and he tugged at the fabric of his pants to hurry his legs up a step at a time.

Walking out, he let the nighttime breeze blow through his face into his lungs to drive out all those scents. Dodge was waiting in the van, hands on the wheel, staring ahead as if driving.

William struggled into the passenger seat, cranking down his window. He reached for the sunflower seeds on the dash, then thought better of it. Dodge stuck two cigarettes into his mouth, lifted a cheap plastic lighter from the breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt, and lit them up. He passed one across to William, who took it with trembling hands. They sucked, breathed smoke. William flicked his yellowed nails against one another. He rubbed his eyes, then finally looked over and nodded at Dodge.

‘When we get him,’ William said, ‘we’ll take our time with him.’

Dodge dropped the steering-column gearshift into reverse. He said, ‘Course.’

Ten minutes later, even with the freeway air blasting in his face, William couldn’t get his lungs clear.

Mike opened the interior door, towel-drying his hair from the shower. Kat was awake in the darkness, hugging her pillow, her own hair a white swirl of mayo and plastic wrap. ‘I didn’t know where you went.’

Mike pointed to the monitor at his hip, which gave off a soothing rush of white air. ‘I got you, sweetheart.’ He gestured next door. ‘And Shep’s here.’

At this her face lightened a touch.

Shep waited for Mike’s nod, then leaned through the doorway. ‘What’s with your head?’

‘Lice.’ She made a face. ‘I know.’

Shep vanished for a moment and returned with his Dopp kit, the same one he’d had as a kid. He rooted around, produced a pair of clippers, and tossed them to Mike.

‘ No .’ Mike shoved the razor back at Shep, as if it could cut Kat’s hair itself.

Shep held up his hands in surrender, came in, and took up on a chair in the corner.

Mike’s mouth moved a few times as he tried to put his gratitude into words, but Shep cut him short. ‘Handle your business.’

Mike closed the door quietly after him.

Kat jerked awake in the darkness with a cry.

Shep didn’t move from his chair. ‘You’re okay,’ he said.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Meeting a guy next door. You’ve only been asleep a few minutes.’

‘Someone who’ll help us?’

‘Sure.’

‘Did you see her?’ Kat asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What’d she look like?’

‘Chalky. Peaceful.’

‘Is she gonna die?’

‘I don’t know.’

Her bottom lip started to go, but she got it under control. ‘Can I… can I have a hug?’

‘I don’t do that,’ Shep said.

She flopped back down and curled up in a little ball. Within seconds she was asleep again. She fussed, eyelids flickering. Shep rose from the chair and moved silently across the room. He stood over her. She fussed some more. He reached out and rested a large hand on her back.

She stilled.

A moth landed on the window by Mike’s face and spread its leathery wings. Rain started up, a patter on the motel roof that grew to a constant thrum. Just as he started to doze off, the rumble of Hank’s Oldsmobile outside jarred him awake.

When Mike opened the door, Hank ducked into the room, pulling off driving gloves, rainwater dripping from him. ‘It’s like a cow pissing on a flat rock out there.’

Slanting rain smudged the streetlights. Steam rose from the hoods of idling cars. A seam of straw-colored light fringed the eastern horizon, interrupted by the blocky rise of Universal City. Mike took a long look outside before closing the door.

Hank brushed off his coat, his trousers, the drops big enough to tap the carpet. ‘I’m sorry about Annabel. You know there’s nothing you could’ve done differently.’

‘Does anyone ever say that when it’s true?’

Hank tugged at his jowls – point taken. He scratched his shin.

‘They ID her attacker yet?’ Mike asked.

‘Hanley Burrell.’

Mike pictured the angled view he’d had of the guy from across the kitchen. That unshaven cheek, the hunch over Annabel, those fingers fussing obscenely at the strap of her bra. Mike couldn’t manage to attach the name to him. It conferred a humanity, a real-worldness to a figure who seemed to have crawled out of a nightmare. Mike turned the name over, came up blank. ‘Where’s he from?’

‘No address. I guess he was a transient.’

‘He have a brother, William?’

‘Indeed he does.’

‘Lemme guess – no address for him either.’

‘No. His last-knowns put him in Redding, but that was two years back.’

Mike exhaled, fighting to concentrate. ‘North-of-Sacramento, middle-of-nowhere Redding?’

Nodding, Hank hacked into a fist, a rattling cough that went too long and left him winded. His head drooped, and he pasted a few stray hairs back over his scalp with a palm. Then he drew himself upright, finding again that proud posture. Still, he looked as fragile as a newborn’s neck.