Дж. Хатчинс - Personal Effects - Dark Art

I glanced around, searching for a police cruiser. There wasn’t one. An official-looking black Lincoln was parked nearby; presumably a D.A. office loaner, since my father’s BMW was most certainly in a repair shop. The car was empty. My father had made the trek here alone.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“Gone,” Dad affirmed. “Noon sharp. I believe you were in the infirmary. I’m… I’m sorry you didn’t see him off.”

I raised my chin, and looked into his eyes.

“I said all I needed to say to him.”

“Why, Zachary”

My father’s expression had gone from impassive slate to pained curiosity. I waited for more.

“Why? Why didn’t you drop it? Why did you—there’s no other word for it—why did you defy me? Why, especially now, at the end, when you see that I was right? When you see I wanted to protect you? I… I don’t… ″

I watched him as his voice trailed off, remembering the moment back in the precinct lot when he’d lost control—when he’d screamed his confession to me, his primal snarl, his reason for pursuing the blind man like a junkyard dog. It was then that I’d finally seen my father as a mortal, capable of frailty. The tumblers had fallen then, and he had, too. It had been a painful, necessary thing. It was evolution.

I couldn’t tell him that, and I wouldn’t expect Dad to understand it. I’d have to learn to live with it.

“I guess you were right,” I said. “I’m like Mom. Caring to a fault. Curious, too. Rushing in, asking questions only after it’s all done. It’s like you said. I needed history.”

Dad smiled slightly. It was confident again.

“Context,” he said.

I suppressed many things at that moment: The urge to tell him how disappointed I was in him; how I knew the things he’d done two decades ago… the sins against his brother and sons; how I loathed-yet-still-loved him; how I would silently continue to defy him and visit the imprisoned man who was proud of me, the father-f igure I barely remembered, the buried man who lived on.

“Taylor Family Loyalty,” I whispered. I glanced from the horizon back to my father. “What’s going to happen to Grace”

His smile faded. His blue eyes went ice-cold, full-bore D.A.

“The confession speeds up everything,” he replied. “If he pleads no contest—and there’s no reason to think that he won’t—the trial will be short. I won’t push for the death penalty. The confession, his regret for the murders and this ‘conflict of interest’ business between us would make that… strategically difficult.”

I ground my teeth. I wanted to grab his fluttering coat collar and shake a sliver of compassion into his obsessed brain. Fucking strategy. I could bombard him with so much goddamned “history” and “context” right now his head would spin off his shoulders.

I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep lungful of air. Dad would deliver that which Drake craved. The price his soul demanded. Justice.

I exhaled, and opened my eyes.

“I’m sorry she was killed, Dad. I’m sorry you lost her.”

My father blinked. He turned his face away.

“She was beautiful and brilliant,” he whispered. “I think… No. I know you would’ve liked her.”

I thought of last night’s madness in my Alphabet City apartment, and at Daniel Drake’s house—and how that “very large world” above ours had spilled over, if only for a few moments, into this one. I didn’t want to know why Drake’s cell phone rang when it had. I didn’t want to know if it was the corroded battery or something else. I knew only the name on its screen, and that it had been angelic, and that it was now buried with the past, where it belonged.

“I think you’re right,” I said.

I hugged him and loved him the best I could.

“Katabatic!”

I grinned at my brother’s exclamation as I placed the last of our spoons into the silverware drawer. He and Rachael were performing some technical tomfoolery in the living room; something involving Lucas’ laptop and her monstrous widescreen television. True to my road-trek promise to Rachael, I’d cooked dinner and washed the dishes.

When Luc had learned of this penance, he’d cackled and christened me “The Dish Slut.” Har-dee-frickin’-har.

At least Lucas had asked no questions about my bashed-and-patched body earlier this evening. My brisk “Greatest Hits” recounting of last night and this morning—including the standoff with Daniel Drake, Dad at The Brink and my suspension, but excluding details about nearly everything else—had satisfied him. Much like his uncanny ability to know when it was time to depart a social setting, Lucas also knew when it was best to skip the fine print.

He had asked about Daniel Drake’s condition; I think he felt for the fallen son, just as I did. I’d called Haverstraw’s hospital on my way home from The Brink. Daniel was in stable condition.

I leaned into the living room and silently watched my tribe as they giggled at the TV, admiring their creativity and resourcefulness—and loving the themness of them.

Lucas had rigged the laptop to the tiny parkour cameras he’d shown me at Well7 on the night of Gram’s memorial service. With Rachael’s computer sorcery, the Toughbook now streamed wireless video to the television. The jittery footage was separated into four boxes on the screen, one for each of Lucas’ feet and hands. It was like the title sequence from “The Brady Bunch”… if a spastic dog had filmed it.

“Dig it, Dish Slut,” Lucas said, pointing at the screen. The contents of one sub-screen jerked, now recording its own on-screen footage. The image was a whirling visual feedback loop, video filming video filming video.

“Awesome,” I said, and sat beside Rachael on the couch. She _ leaned her head against my shoulder. I held her hand. Bliss hopped into my lap and purred. Dali looked on from the well-worn “Zach chair” in the corner.

“How long must I endure this crass moniker?” I asked my brother.

“A whole month,” he snickered. He gave Rachael a wink. “That’s the deal, right, Hochcrot? Z’s doing ’em for a dirty thirty. You’re Palmolive’s bitch, bro.”

“He’s getting off easy, at that,” Rachael said.

I nodded, squeezing her hand. Oh, how I knew that was true. Oh, how I loved this woman and her patience—and her acceptance, if not understanding, of how I was wired.

Lucas bounced in place before us; the footage from his toys stuttered and pixelated, trying desperately to keep up. Dali bolted from the room.

“Ahem. Your resident wunderkind has a new creative vision,” he announced, beaming. “I’m using my ParkourCams as monster POV footage for… a horror thriller.”

He raised his hands, made them into playful claws and growled.

“Snarl,” Rachael deadpanned.

“Is this movie about a black figure that stalks prey who’ve been ‘marked for death’ by a blind man?” I asked.

Lucas nodded furiously. His curly hair rocked like a shabby shrub in a hurricane.

“New genre: parkhourror. Title: Obsidian Vengeance. ‘Based on a true—’”

“I’d work on it,” I said. “A lot .”

The three of us laughed. For the first time in days, I felt safe. Warm.

Latin music blared from my brother’s pocket. Shakira. The chica. Lucas raised his eyebrows appreciatively and fished the cell phone from his baggy pants.

“Heh, nine o’clock sharp,” he said, placing the phone to his ear. The TV behind him blurred brown, an IMAX close-up of his shaggy hair. I smirked. I didn’t think the technology was quite “there” yet.