Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

He turned, his face a brutal mask. No longer the soap-opera bad boy of her imagination, but a wild-eyed beast kept too long in a cage. Then he thrust the bloody keys into her hand and ducked down to grab the man’s feet.

“Open the trunk,” he said.

She took one look at the brass keys shining and wet in her palm, turned sideways, and booted her burger all over the pavement.

Half of Detroit burned down every year on the night before Halloween. Or it used to, back in high school, when Karen had lived downriver. In Wyandotte the pranks had been more on the level of blowing up mailboxes than torching warehouses, but she’d always hated Devil’s Night anyway. Maybe because of her brothers; they’d always go out, prepared like commandos, dressed in black and packing duffel bags stuffed with eggs, toilet paper, M-80 firecrackers, spray paint, God knew what else. They always let her paint camouflage makeup from the drugstore on their faces, but when she would beg them to let her come along, David would laugh, and Brian would ruffle her hair and say that it was guy stuff. Then they’d leave on their adventures and she’d sit home stewing.

Now here she was, the day before Halloween. Thirty-two years old and still being excluded by the man in her life.

After storming out the night before, she’d come home, taken a bath, and gone to bed, waiting for the sound of the front door. Expecting Danny to come after her, ready to be honest abut what was going on and put her worst fears to rest.

She was still awake at one o’clock, when he crept in and tiptoed past their bedroom to the kitchen. She heard the answering machine beep, and then the sound of the message. Then heard it twice more.

By the time he finally came to bed, she’d fallen into sweaty dreams of her brothers setting their condo on fire and laughing as she leaned out the window and begged them to stop.

When she woke up, Danny was gone.

She went to the gym and attacked the elliptical for an hour, then hit set after set of crunches, trying to use the fire in her muscles to burn away the suspicions that had grown since she’d heard the detective’s call. She showered under blistering water, and treated herself to breakfast out. Sat in a booth and read the front page of the paper five times without absorbing a word.

Then she came home, replayed the answering machine message, and dialed the number, as she’d known she would since she woke up alone.

On TV, the cops sat at desks piled with papers. There were oscillating fans in steel cages, and the telephones were always old rotaries. Karen wondered if that was what it really looked like, and doubted it. They probably sat in cubicles like everybody else.

“Detective Nolan.” His voice sounded gruffer than on the machine.

“This is Karen Moss.” Her heart thumped against her ribs so loudly she was afraid he might hear. “You called Danny and me yesterday.”

“Danny Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Is he there?”

“No. He’s been busy lately, so I thought I’d see if I could help.”

“I’d really like to speak to him. Do you have another number?”

“Not really. He’s in construction, you know, and he’s away from his desk a lot.” He had a mobile, of course, but she didn’t say that. She’d indulge her curiosity, but not to the extent of putting Danny in an awkward position.

“I see. What about when he gets home?”

“I’m not sure when that will be.”

There was a pause. “Ms. Moss, does Danny know you’re calling?”

Her heart hammered louder. “No.”

Another pause, then a sigh. “You don’t happen to know a guy named Patrick Connelly?”

Of course. This must be all about Patrick. Relief flooded through her, and she almost laughed at herself, at her foolish worries. Some part of her had actually started to imagine that Danny was the one in trouble, that Danny had done something irreparable.

“Sure, I know Patrick. Is something wrong?”

“Well…” He paused, one beat that stretched to two, and then three, and she felt spiders of dread crawling back up her arms. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. He’s dead.”

Her fingers went cold, and she felt like she was going to drop the phone. “That can’t be. He was just here for dinner.”

“He was?” Nolan sounded surprised. “When?”

“I don’t know. A week and a half?” What had happened? Some accident on his bike, maybe? She knew he didn’t wear a helmet half the time. Unbidden, an image rose in her mind, Patrick splayed and broken across the hood of a car.

“So he was a friend of yours?” Nolan asked.

“Of ours, yes. Will you tell me what happened?”

There was another pause. “He was killed last week. Maybe Monday or Tuesday.”

“Killed?” She tried to think of another way Nolan might have meant the word. “Do you mean – what do you mean?”

“He was shot.” He paused. “I know that’s hard to hear. But I think it might be good for us to talk in person.”

Her mind felt numb, woolly. Patrick murdered.

“Ms. Moss?”

“Sorry. Now?”

“You live up near Wrigley, right? I can be there in an hour or so.”

“No.” The word came out fast, unplanned. She didn’t want the detective in their home. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Where?”

She gave him directions to a restaurant on Belmont, and promised to meet him in an hour. When she hung up the phone, the quiet stung her ears. Thoughts came quick and chaotic. Who would shoot Patrick? He was just a boy, more mischief in him than evil. She knew he stole cars, that he robbed people, but still, she more easily pictured him in a tree house than in a coffin.

Then the next thought. Danny. This would tear his heart out.

She wandered into the bathroom, took off her clothes and started the shower, thinking it would give her a place to cry. While it heated, she sat on the bed, staring out the window at the brick wall three feet away, thinking about the detective and feeling dread tighten her stomach. Detective Sean Nolan. She tried to put a face to the name, imagined a young Pacino, eager, a cop on the make. Why had she agreed to meet him? It felt like meeting a plague bearer. He lived in a world she and Danny had left behind; what if the traces that lingered on him infected the life they had built for themselves?

And she had called him . There was cruel irony there. Some part of her had been afraid that maybe, just possibly, Danny had involved himself in that old life again. But it turned out she was the one who had opened the door to let it in.

Get a grip, Karen. Patrick would be dead either way.

In the end, she spent forty minutes going from the bed to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, pacing and anxious, before finally turning off the water in the shower, putting her clothes back on, and walking out to meet the detective.

Ann Sather was a Chicago institution, a cavernous Swedish restaurant filled with the smell of coffee and echoing with noisy conversation. She would have known Nolan even if he hadn’t described himself. It wasn’t the buzz-cut hair, the silver tiepin, or the brown leather golfer’s cap. It was an air of confidence, like he’d been tested in ways most people would never face, and felt good about the way he’d scored. She recognized it easily. Danny had the same thing.

“I’m Karen Moss.”

“Sean Nolan.” His eyes were a watery blue, at once kind and hard. “Thanks for coming.”

She let the hostess guide them to a table, wondering what she was doing here. They sat in awkward silence as the waitress weaved between the tables to take their drink order. Karen asked for an orange juice she didn’t want. He ordered decaf and a cinnamon roll. She laughed, the pitch nervous.