Charlie Huston - Sleepless

And I ask myself, is there any benefit for him in lying about any of this?

Was he lying?

I have to go inside.

My father said that the worst lies are the ones you tell yourself. I asked him if he ever lied to himself. He said, “I hope, Parker, that I do not. But, being an excellent liar when called upon by duty, I cannot be certain that it is so.”

Was Afronzo Senior lying?

And if he was? And if he wasn’t?

A lie changes nothing. Not what has happened. Not what will be. Not what you must do.

The truth changes what has happened. It changes what will be. It changes what you must do.

Whether he has lied or not, whether he is right or wrong, whether the frozen world can be saved or is already lost, it does not change what I have to do.

I can’t do it. Without me. The baby. Without me. Rose. Who? Without me? Who?

The world, if it can be saved, it must be. If it is lost, something must be saved.

There is what I must do for my family. And what must be done.

Who can be told the truth? Bartolome won’t believe. Or will be afraid.

Hounds?

He’s a criminal as much as he is a cop.

My father said there is a reason we have laws. He said, “There is a reason we have laws, Parker. We have them to measure a society’s devotion to justice. And to show how far a society may have strayed from that devotion.”

My father could not lie to himself. He used his favorite shotgun to keep from lying to himself.

I am afraid, Rose, that I am my father’s son.

So late. So early.

I have to go inside. They are waiting for me. My family is waiting for me. Inside.

IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN PARK RETURNED TO CULVER CITY. The horizon had not lightened; in fact, the sky had dimmed as many fires had burned themselves out. Just one major blaze seemed to remain, what looked like several blocks burning in Hollywood where the Guard sergeant had said the NAJi church had been destroyed.

The drive from Bel Air had taken him through four checkpoints. At one he’d had to get out of his car and lie facedown on the ground while the Guardsmen ran his badge. They searched his car but did not find the hiding place in the spare tire.

Sitting in front of his house, he wrote in his journal. There was no order to his thoughts. He knew this but could do nothing but let himself be tumbled about by what he had been told. He’d been raised to an ordered mind. His ideas, values, emotions, often felt fitted together like brickwork. Or had until Rose had come into his life. But even then order had been the rule rather than the exception. It just took more effort to maintain that order. And the walls of his interior had become more eccentric. Odd modifications had been made to what had previously been a squared structure. Windows where one did not expect them, bits of ornament, an extra door.

It was all a jumble now. Only the keystone was in his hands. The thought that something could be done. That something could always be done. That the world could always be made better. It required only that one act. Do the things one believed in.

He opened the car door and climbed out slowly. In the house were his dying wife and his baby. There was something he had to do. But he had no way of knowing what it was. It was hidden from him. Concealed by its perfect enormity.

Coming through the front door into the lighted house, he was absently pleased to hear nothing. Registering the silence as an indication that his daughter was sleeping or in some similar state that gave her peace. He stood just inside the door and looked at the hall that led past her nursery to the master bedroom at the back of the house. He thought for a moment about peeking in, but feared that he would wake her from whatever kind of rest she had. His mouth and throat were dry. He went through the living room, scattered with foam blocks, a stack of laundered burp cloths, a spilled basket of stuffed animals, through the adjoining dining room where a playpen sat in place of a table, and into the kitchen.

In the past the sink might have been filled with dirty plates and glasses, testaments to Rose’s intense dislike for housework. Not that Park minded. He was a compulsive straightener of things. Until quite recently he had been accustomed to coming home from work and spending a peaceful thirty minutes picking up odds and ends of dirty laundry, cleaning the dishes, wiping a small spill from the floor, closing cabinet doors left open. The slight mess had been a trail of clues he had learned to read, indications of how his wife’s day had been. Had she indulged her sweet tooth? If so, she was probably displeased with her work. Was there only one plate in the sink? She had probably been very happy in her work and forgotten to eat. Sweaty socks and sports bra on the couch? She’d been restless, needed to go for a run. CDs left out of their cases on top of the stereo? She’d been listening to old favorites, seeking inspiration. The photo album pulled from the bottom shelf of the bookcase? She’d been nostalgic, looking at pictures of their comically small wedding and Yosemite honeymoon.

These days any mess was left by the baby and Francine. Toys and blankies, bottles rinsed and drying in the rack, an unfamiliar black slipper at the mouth of the hallway, a rubber ducky tucked inside. Signs he could not read.

He took a clean glass from the dish rack and filled it from the filter screwed into the taps. The water was nearly flavorless; neither refreshingly clean nor carrying an urban tang, it seemed to pass through his mouth and down his throat without wetting. He refilled the glass and drank again, feeling some relief this time. Still, he filled the glass once more and drank again, eyes closed. He lowered the glass and opened his eyes. He was reflected in the window over the sink and did not like what he saw. Someone stretched thin with worry and exhaustion and indecision. He could see quite clearly why Cager had suspected he was sleepless.

He filled the glass a last time and took it with him, passing back through the dining and living rooms, into the hall, past the room where his daughter was silent if not asleep, pausing for a moment to consider again if he could peek in, moving on without doing so, and stopping when he reached the open doorway of the bedroom he shared with his wife.

The man sitting on the three-legged milking stool Rose kept next to her side of the bed as a nightstand seemed to have been waiting for him, looking at the door when Park appeared there.

He rose. Thinning silver hair brushed straight back from a forehead and face that were hardly young but could have been anywhere between a healthy forty and an excellently maintained sixty. His build was athletic, but not oppressively so. His movement, rising from the stool, suggested grace hobbled somehow. Dark slacks and a dark, collared shirt, thin black socks, silk no doubt, that showed a sheen of pale skin beneath. Seeing those stocking feet, Park finally registered that the slipper with the ducky inside had actually been a black leather loafer.

The man tilted his head forward.

“Officer Haas, your wife has been telling me about you.”

Rose was on the bed, back cushioned by several pillows, knees drawn up, laptop at her side, the baby sitting up on her stomach, playing with a small flat rectangle that Park did not recognize but that caused a wave of nausea unsettling the water in his otherwise empty stomach.

Rose breathed in very deeply, inflating her belly, making the baby rise and bobble, then let the air out in a whoosh.

“Elevator going up, elevator coming down.”

The baby cooed, put one end of the rectangle into her mouth, and bit down on it.

Park had a sudden wish for the gun he’d left in the spare tire in his car.