Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

Too much, too fast.

He flipped his hazards and worked his way over. He didn’t stop in the grandma lane, but edged all the way off the road, the tires humming and buzzing across the divots cut in the pavement as he stopped. He killed the engine and squeezed the steering wheel, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic whir of cars blowing by.

His father sat in the passenger seat.

He looked the same, just the way he had when he’d visited Cook County Prison, the last time Danny saw him alive. His face weather-beaten and lined, but proud. Hard. The hands rough, the circular-saw scar white across the bridge of his thumb. A cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth, firm and straight as the axle of the world. He stared at Danny, and that look came into his eyes, the measuring one. Appraising.

Judging.

Dad …

In his mind, he heard the squeal of tires. Imagined Dad pumping at the brakes, trying to regain control, a cigarette still between his lips.

Imagined the decision. The choice, and its consequences.

The slow motion squeal of tires. The shatter of glass and banshee wail as steel kissed concrete. The way the truck had jerked up on its front wheels, fast at first but then slowing, pausing, maybe holding for a terrible instant before toppling over. The strange silence – so quiet, so embarrassingly quiet – after the truck came to rest upside down.

Dad. I…

In his mind, he could see the disapproval in his father’s eyes. Nine years dead, and still disapproving.

Danny shook his head. The skyline twinkled under velvet indigo skies. A semi passed in a rush of air that rocked the Explorer from side to side. Without the heater, the air grew swiftly colder.

Danny turned off the hazards, started the truck, and got back on the road.

The low thrum of blues bass rolled up his spine as he slotted a coin into the phone and punched the numbers.

“You’ve reached Danny and Karen, we’re not in right now…”

Before, he’d thought he’d go home after the job. He’d imagined he might ease the pain of waiting by reminding himself of the life, and the woman, that his efforts were meant to protect. Instead he stood in a rib joint on Halsted, listening to the accusatory beep of his own answering machine.

“Hey, Karen. Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be late tonight. You know, work-” There was a fumbling noise.

“Danny.” She sounded out of breath. He thought of her wrapped in a towel and running for the phone, and the ease with which he could picture it stung him. He adopted a haggard tone as he told her how work was keeping him late. How he was sorry about it. She was silent on the other end of the phone, and he could imagine her biting her lip.

“Danny-”

“I know. It’s just a crazy week.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you, babe. I promise.”

She paused. “How about tomorrow night? We haven’t been out in a while. We could,” her voice rose provocatively, “make it a date night.”

“Sure.” He paused. “I mean, I’ll try.”

She snorted on the other end of the phone. “Okay. See you whenever, then.”

“Wait-” But she’d already hung up.

Lying to Karen to keep her safe. Rationalizing Richard’s willingness to screw his workers as justification for ripping him off. Planning a kidnapping to protect the kid. He’d always dealt in shades of gray, but it was getting harder to spot the contrast.

Across the room, he saw a waitress set his order on the table, but he had another call to make. He slotted the coin, willing the guy to answer. Five rings, and then the familiar message, asking him for one good reason to care that he’d called.

Danny cursed, and waited for the beep. “Patrick, it’s Danny. I need your help. It’s-” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. How much could he leave on an answering machine? “It’s about that thing we talked about. Look, just call my mobile when you get this, would you? Day or night.” He started to say more, thought better of it, slammed it in the cradle.

Then he went back to his table and ate his half slab in silence, trying to think of ways to tame the whirlwind.

In the dream he stood in a warehouse under bloody spotlights. Karen held the hand of a little kid in a rugby shirt, different from Tommy but the same. They both stared over Danny’s shoulder, slack-jawed in terror. He turned in agonizing slow motion, the movement taking years. Evan stood smiling, the gun raising as though of its own accord, like the pistol was moving his arm instead of the other way around. But instead of pointing at him, the gun fell on Karen and the boy. Before he’d seen the muzzle flare Danny had jerked awake, drenched in sweat, Karen a sheet-wrapped silhouette beside him, the digital clock reading 5:32.

He’d showered in a daze and tiptoed out, a ghost in his own life.

Now though, back in the Explorer, morning light bright and cold through his windshield, he felt better. Morning did that to him; he was a sucker for the promise of a fresh start. Evan might be a force of nature, but Danny knew his potential, could read the climate of his moods. As he turned into the Pike Street complex, some of his strange black hope even began to return. If this was to be a game, at least he knew the rules.

He slid the gate open – they’d left it unlocked so that Debbie could get out if she needed – and pulled the Explorer in, parking it next to a battered Ford Tempo, the back window covered in band stickers and duct tape holding the seats together. As he killed the engine, the only sound he could hear was the snapping plastic on the building.

He got out of the truck, a cup of coffee in each hand, and shut the door with his hip. As he walked toward the trailer, a motion in the window caught his eye, two fingers spreading a dark slit in the blinds.

The door opened and Debbie stepped out, her arms folded across her chest, shoulders huddled in against the cold. The look on her face when he handed her a cup of coffee was as close to glee as he’d seen in a long time.

“Bless you,” she said, holding it to her mouth to blow the steam off.

He nodded, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she’d closed the door behind her. “How is he?”

“Fine. He was scared at first, but he calmed down. We’re watching Cheers reruns. There’s a marathon on WGN.”

“Jesus, you didn’t take his mask off?”

“No. It’s not like you need to see to watch Cheers , you know?” She met his stare. “Weren’t we past the part where you thought I was dumb?”

He laughed. “Right. Sorry. He’s okay?”

She nodded, and something in him unclenched. He’d agonized over a way to knock Tommy out without hurting him, trying to think of every movie device, fantasies of tranquilizer darts and chloroform, but in the end, the stun gun had been the best and safest he could come up with. Police across the country used it because it was not only effective, but also assured there wasn’t any permanent damage. But still. “I’d been worried.”

She cocked her head and looked at him, an unblinking, New Agey gaze that made him uncomfortable. Her hair was parted in the center today, and fell straight past her shoulders. There was something kind of hippyish about her now and then. “You were, weren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Well, I guess I thought you’d be, I don’t know,” she said, “more like Evan.”

The comment surprised him, and he stared back, trying to read the meaning in her eyes. In a game like this, it could be tricky separating ally from enemy. He and Evan were partners, yeah; but if things went sour, they were competitors, too, and both of them knew it. He’d assumed she’d fall on Evan’s side of the divide.