Marcus Sakey - At The City's Edge

"Forget it." Her voice was calm.

"No, I mean it. That wasn't the way I planned – I mean, not planned, but you know, wanted, things to happen." He sighed. "It's just-"

"Forget it," she said. "It's not a big deal."

"Right," he said, feeling strangely sick. They rode in silence through electric air.

On the right they passed a school, brick, three stories, dark against dark skies. The bottom levels of the building showed clean spots where graffiti had been sandblasted. Opposite was a row of cracker-jack two-flats and a barren lot, fenced off and untended, the grass waist high.

"I wish we had a gun, at least."

"You keep saying that."

"I keep meaning it."

"You know the worst thing I learned," Cruz said, her voice abrupt in that change-the-subject way, "when I joined Gang Intel?"

He fought the urge to say, That your partner was selling arms to gangbangers ?, afraid it would come off the wrong way. "What?"

"One of the best ways to gauge the power of a gang is to see how many schools fall on their territory."

"Seriously?"

"The Latin Saints, for example. Their area is pretty small compared to some of the others. And Hispanic gangs don't deal in narcotics as much, so they aren't as well funded. But you know what they have?"

"Schools?"

"Schools. Two high schools and a junior high. They recruit shorties right out of recess. Use the young ones to carry dope, money. Or to do shootings. They have a tattoo, a stick figure, and you gotta earn it. I stopped this kid one time, maybe sixteen, he had one the length of his forearm. I asked what he did for it, you know what he said?" She paused. "He said, 'A few things.' "

He didn't know what to say to that, let the moment stretch. Then, "This is Damen."

"I know." She braked at the stop sign. Looked at him, her eyes narrow. "You're sure it will be there?"

"I'm sure."

"Because this is an awfully big risk."

"I'm sure." I have to be .

She stared, the darkening skies hiding her features, all but a glint of lost light from her eyes. Finally she shrugged. Turned the corner.

Damen Avenue, just like three days ago. Had it been only three days? Three days since he'd turned onto the street with his nephew in his car, feeling smug and sure and looking forward to rubbing his brother's nose in his failings. Three days since he found the still-smoking horror that had been Michael's bar; three days since his brother's dream had turned into their nightmare.

Damen Avenue, just like before but nothing at all like before.

She stopped the car across from the burned hulk of the bar. The clouds had painted the streets twilight. The special in the window of the storefront diner was now a half-slab and greens, six bucks. He was rolling up his window as the first drops of rain plinked against the roof. They sat for a moment watching it begin. Heavy, pregnant drops that exploded on the hood of the car. Two, five, twenty, a hundred, and then hissing sheets that blurred the world. Lightning glowed behind them, followed by thunder like someone rolling heavy furniture across a wooden floor.

"Maybe," Jason said, "this is a good omen."

She looked at him sourly.

He opened the door and was soaked to the skin before he could close it. Mist rose from the blacktop, the day's heat steaming. Jason slicked his bangs out of his eyes, then popped the trunk, took out the old pry bar they'd borrowed from Washington's basement. Its heft was a comfort as they crossed the deserted street.

The police tape fluttered yellow, the only color he could see in this sudden purgatory. Beyond it lay the charred and bubbled ruins where his brother had died. The rain was already collecting in scorched hollows, sweeping loose ash into a black lake. Jason stared, feeling something like a head rush, his thighs weak and vision blurry.

His brother had died here. Right here, alone and scared.

Thunder cracked again, closer this time, and the rain lashed down harder.

"You want an engraved invitation?" Cruz stood with hip cocked.

"I was just…" He shook his head. "Michael was my older brother. He saved my butt so many times when we were kids." Rain beat goose-bumps into his skin. "I just wonder if at the last moment, Michael was praying I would come save his."

Cruz softened, left the tape and stepped in front of him, her features traced by the light from the diner windows. She opened her mouth, closed it, then said, "Are you all right?"

He nodded, slowly. Tightened his grip on the pry bar.

She put one hand up to cup his cheek. Her palm was warm, and the ridge of her thumb fell tingling across his lips. She nodded toward the wreckage. "Come on. Let's finish this. For him."

He figured the first step was the hardest, so he made himself take it. Then he turned and held the tape up for Cruz. She started carefully through the debris. Her clothing was soaked, and ash clung to her pant legs as she wound her way into the center of the building. A few blackened steel girders supported a skeleton of the ceiling, and the darkness fell across her in patterns. She twisted the flashlight in her hand and a thin beam of wavering light fell on the ruined floor. "Where is it?"

Jason gestured with the crowbar, walked past her. "Back here." He climbed gingerly onto a pile of twisted lumber, testing to be sure it would hold his weight, then scrambled to where blackened bricks marked the entrance to the back room.

Rubble lay in scattered piles, chunks of brick and mortar. It took him a minute to get his bearings, and then he pointed. "There." A metal lip shone beneath a section of wall. He and Cruz each took an end and heaved, tipped the stone up and over to fall with a splash and a crack. The trap hatch was a scorched square of metal thirty inches to a side, with a ring in the center. The heat had warped the metal, and Jason didn't bother with the pull-ring. Instead he slid the crowbar into the crack and shoved. The metal shivered, but didn't give. He grabbed a chunk of brick and concrete, and pounded the bar in deeper. Then he took a breath and wrapped his hands on the cold iron bar.

Cruz squatted beside him, her hands above and below his, skin warm in the cold rain. He smiled, said, "Ready?", and then heaved back on the bar, his feet scrabbling at the rocky earth for purchase.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then with a pop like the top off a bottle of beer, the hatch gave, swinging back on bent hinges to crack on the stone, revealing a square hole silent as the grave. The first inches of steep metal Navy stairs faded swiftly into a play of shadows and rain.

Past that, nothing.

Jason set the crowbar on the stack of bricks. His bangs had fallen across his eyes again, and he slicked them back, hands trembling, though whether it was from effort or tension, he couldn't have said.

Down that hole was everything they needed.

Or nothing but ghosts.

He took the flashlight from his pocket, grabbed the lip of the trap hatch, and started down.

July 9, 2004

Jason sits on the ridge in full kit – desert BDUs, body armor, M4 carbine, spare 5.56 ammo, helmet with NODs, sidearm, Gerber knife, Wiley X ballistic sunglasses, first aid kit, gallon of water, sixty, seventy pounds in all – and watches the house burn .

Flame runs like water, spills in hungry shades of orange and yellow. The heat warps the world into twists and spires. Greasy black smoke pours out windows. The warmth on his face is a pulse, a brush of sun .

He has his iPod going, only the left earphone in, Bjork singing over shimmering tones that all is full of love, that you have to trust it, her dreamy voice a fantastical counterpoint to the angry roar and crackle of flame. Down the hill, Jones macks for the camera, rifle in one hand, a thumb jerking toward the flame, as Kaye frames the shot with the digital camera .