Johnny waited. The old man rubbed at his gummy eyes, coughed again, deep and wet.

  “John?”

  Johnny didn’t answer, finished his cigarette.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Johnny got up, went into the kitchen. He dropped the butt into the sink, ran water on it, then pulled open the latch on the old-style refrigerator. It was empty except for beer, some cold pizza on a plate.

  He took out two cans of Bud, kneed the door shut. Back in the living room he handed one to the old man, sat back down across from him.

  “You awake now?” he said.

  Frazer looked at the beer, pushed moisture away from the pull top with his thumb.

  Johnny popped his can open, sipped. It was watery, flat.

  “You should have let me know, John. That you were coming.”

  His words were slurred. Johnny saw the bridge resting on a paper towel on the end table.

  “Go ahead,” he said, pointing at it. “Put that in.”

  Frazer looked at him, then reached for the bridge. He turned his head slightly to hide the process, made wet noises as he slid it home, adjusted it. Johnny took another sip of beer.

  “What time is it?” Frazer said, his words clearer.

  Johnny looked at his watch.

  “Midnight,” he said.

  “Awful late, John.”

  “Drink your beer. Then we’re going for a walk.”

  “A walk? Where?”

  Johnny drank beer, watched him. The old man fumbled with the can, got it open. Foam spilled onto his pants.

  Johnny looked at the television screen, a map of Europe with animated arrows spreading across it. He heard the old man slurp beer, felt his eyes on him. Johnny ignored him, drank from his can. When it was almost empty, he shook the contents, set the can down on the coffee table with the others.

  “There,” he said. “Now we’ve had our drink together. Get your coat.”

  “John.”

  “Come on. Get up.”

  He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, waited for him. Frazer got up slowly, one hand on the couch arm to steady himself. He broke wind loudly, then stood up, shoulders stooped.

  “Where we going?”

  “Just out back. I want you to show me a couple things. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, remember?”

  “I don’t have my shoes.”

  “Those slippers are fine. We’ll only be a couple minutes.”

  Frazer looked at him, then twisted his feet into a pair of brown corduroy slippers on the floor. Johnny went into the mudroom, got the hunting jacket off the peg, stood there with it.

  The old man shuffled into the kitchen, coughed deeply.

  “Wait a minute,” Johnny said.

  Frazer looked at him.

  “The money I gave you. What did you do with it?”

  “What?”

  “The five hundred. You couldn’t have spent it all by now. Where’s the rest?”

  “I’m saving it, Johnny. For groceries.”

  “Get it.”

  “You taking it back?”

  “I’m not here to steal your money, old man. I just want to make sure you haven’t spent it all yet. Get it.”

  Frazer went to the sink, leaned down and opened the cabinet beneath it, broke wind again. He reached under the pipes, came out with a Maxwell House coffee can.

  “That your bank?” Johnny said.

  Frazer put the can on the counter.

  “Take it out,” Johnny said.

  He rooted through it, brought out matchbooks, nuts and bolts, then a roll of cash, wrapped tightly with a rubber band.

  “There it is,” he said. He put it on the counter. “There’s four hundred there. Just like I said. I’ve still got most of it.”

  “Good,” Johnny said and opened the mudroom door, nodded outside.

  Frazer took the coat, pulled it on. Johnny went out first.

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tit,” Frazer said. “That’s what your mother used to always say. Remember that?”

  Johnny didn’t answer.

  Frazer shut the door behind them, buttoned the jacket up.

  “Let’s walk,” Johnny said.

  “Where?”

  “Over here a little.”

  The backyard sloped down through trees to a fallow field, a collapsing barn on one side. With the moon, it was almost as bright as day.

  “Used to play out here,” Johnny said. “As kids.”

  He walked down to the field, watching his footing. He looked up at Frazer, who had stopped halfway down the slope.

  “Come on,” Johnny said. “Just a little ways.”

  “I need my boots, John.”

  “No, you don’t. It’s fine here.” He stamped the frozen ground. “You won’t fall.”

  They walked out into the field, the ground furrowed and hard. Frazer had wrapped the coat tighter around himself. He coughed once, spit. Johnny turned his back on him, walked out farther into the field. Through the trees on the far side he could see houses, Christmas lights.

  “Who did you tell?” he said.

  “What?”

  Johnny turned to him. He reached under his jacket, got the Sig out.

  “Who did you tell that I was back here?”

  Frazer saw the gun then.

  “No one, Johnny, I swear.”

  Johnny worked the slide, locked the hammer back, let the gun hang at his side.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Put that thing away, John.”

  “I just want to know who you told. Then we can go back inside.”

  “Why would I tell anyone about you?”

  “Because you couldn’t resist. Because you can’t shut your mouth for five goddamn minutes. Who did you tell?”

  Frazer looked back at the house, then at the trees on the other side of the field, as if comparing distances.

  “Nobody special,” he said finally. “Just people that know you, that would be happy to see you again.”

  “What people?”

  “Down at the Jumping Brook. At the bar. People you know. That’s all, John. Everyone always asks about you, about my sons.”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s it, Johnny, that’s it, I swear to the Lord Jesus …” His voice trailed off into a deep cough.

  “I think you’re lying. I think you called the police, told them I was back, that I had money. Got them interested in me again.”

  “No, Johnny, I didn’t. Why would I?”

  “Because you were scared. Angry.”

  “I didn’t, Johnny. I swear on your mother’s grave I didn’t.” Johnny looked across the field again.

  “Kneel,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Face the barn. Do it.”

  “Johnny, I—”

  “Don’t make me ask you twice.”

  The old man turned slowly, coughed, the single one growing into a chain that wracked his body. Then he lowered himself to one knee, a hand on the ground to steady himself. He set the other knee down heavily, nearly lost his balance.

  “Shape you’re in,” Johnny said, “I’d be doing you a favor if I put you in the ground.”

  “John, I’m your father. I love you. I always loved you, all you kids. I always did my best for you. Raised you like my own.”

  “Beating the shit out of us, terrorizing us? That how you did it?”

  “Times were hard back then, John. Sometimes I drank too much. I know that, but—”

  “Did you fuck Belinda?”

  “No!” Another cough. “And whoever told you I did is a goddamn liar.”

  “When we were kids, we were terrified of you. Mitch used to mess his pants when you came home drunk those nights and started going at him.”

  “John, don’t do this, please.”

  “Three little kids. Fucked for life because of you, because they ended up in your house. We would have been better off on the street.”

  Frazer closed his eyes tightly, and Johnny saw the dark stain spread down his right pants leg.

  “I did my best for you, Johnny. I did.” Tears in his voice now.

  “It wasn’t good enough.”

  “John, your mother’s looking down on us right now …”

  “No, I don’t think she is,” Johnny said, raised the gun.

  “You’ll burn in hell for this, boy.”

  “Then I’ll see you there,” Johnny said and fired twice.

  The brass was easy to find in the moonlight. He went back to the house, got the money, put it in the pocket with the shell casings. He let himself out the front door, the TV still on.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was stopped at a light. The moon was a blue and silver globe in the east, its mountains and shadows visible to the naked eye. He blinked wetness away, breathed in deeply, looked up at the moon. Wished he had a cigarette.

  23

  “Is she gone?” Nikki said.

  Harry shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least. When I called again, she answered, then hung up. I tried back, but she wouldn’t pick up.”

  They had the house to themselves, Jack and Reggie at a bed-and-breakfast in Cape May, “making up,” as Nikki had put it. They had Chinese take-out food in front of them, glasses of white wine. She wore jeans and a red cardigan sweater, no makeup. Behind him, the refrigerator hummed.

  “We can help her,” he said. “But I don’t have the feeling she wants it.”

  She pushed her plate away, drank wine.

  “What happened at Mitch’s trailer?”

  “A neighbor called the locals. Errol was there alone. He talked his way through it, but we’re blown there. If we’re going to keep an eye on the trailer, we’ll have to find another way to do it.”

  She refilled their glasses from the bottle.

  “You trying to get me drunk?” he said.

  “I have the feeling nobody gets you anything you don’t want to be.”

  “Not sure of your grammar there, but you’re probably right.”

  She got up, scraped their plates into the trash, rinsed them in the sink. As she moved, the cardigan rode up slightly on one side, showing an inch of skin. He got up, resealed the leftover food containers, found room for them in the refrigerator.

  “Isn’t this a cozy domestic scene,” she said.

  “Make you uncomfortable?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess it’s just been such a long time since I’ve led anything even close to a normal life.”

  “We don’t always get to pick and choose how we’re going to live our lives,” he said. “Things happen.” He sat back down.

  She leaned against the counter, sipped wine.

  “Amen to that. You’re an interesting man, you know that? Not at all the way I envisioned someone in your business being.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “Touché.”

  “I’m sorry. That was wrong.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know what I’ve done. I made choices. If I had to make them again, I’d do it differently. But you don’t get to do that.”

  “No.”

  “I could tell you about things that happened to me, in my childhood. And you’d say, ‘Oh yeah, that explains it.’ But it wouldn’t be totally true, would it?”

  “It never is.”

  “Tell me about this woman. The one in Seattle.”

  He reached for the wine bottle, turned it to look at the label.

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know. She said she would. I hope she does.”

  “You look so sad when you say that.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “And will you get married again? Someday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a Man of Mystery, you know that? I’m supposed to be the one with the past. Tell me something about yourself.”

  “Like what?”

  “A secret. Something you’re ashamed of. Something that happened in your life. Something you did, something you felt.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just want to level the playing field a little.”

  “I told you a lot.”

  “Not really. Me, on the other hand, my life’s an open book now, isn’t it? You know everything I’ve done, every low I hit.”

  “I don’t judge. It’s none of my business.”

  “You’re right, you don’t judge. And you don’t ask too many questions either. Even when I’ve volunteered to answer them, whatever they are. Not many men would pass up that opportunity.”

  “Like I said, none of my business.”

  “Knowing what I did out there, how I made a living. It doesn’t make you curious?”

  “You’ll tell me what you want to tell me, and when.”

  “You think I’m embarrassed by it? I’m not. I did what I had to do. I made my choices. It’s easy to get hooked up with the wrong people, sure. And that business eats you up. But there’s always another factor, a decision you make somewhere along the line. Some women I’ve known—here and out there—look at themselves as victims. I never have.”

  “I know that. I admire it.”

  “I don’t hate Johnny. I never did. I hated myself for what I let myself become, how I let things get away from me. But I never blamed Johnny.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  She shook her head.

  “On one level, it’s got nothing to do with him, does it? I’ve made mistakes. I have to pay for them, find a way through, control the damage. I don’t want to see Johnny dead or back in jail. I just want him out of the way so that I can start making things right again. I can’t have him here, now, at this point in my life. He’ll destroy everything I’ve built, everything I’m building. He’d ruin everything just to prove he can. For the boy too, if he finds him.”

  “Then that doesn’t leave a lot of choices, does it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should just call him, talk to him. You’ve got that phone number.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ve always been able to deal with him in the past. Even the way he was, I could always talk to him.”

  “He’s been in prison for seven years. You think that improved his personality? No, I don’t think you should call.”

  “I feel like I’m running away again. Putting other people at risk, making them deal with my problems. It’s an issue I’ve always had, relying too much on other people. It got me into a lot of trouble. I thought I was through with it, knew better. But now I’m slipping into it again.”

  “You can’t do everything yourself. And there’s other issues at stake here. The boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “You made the right decision. Don’t second-guess it now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “I have the feeling that’s a phrase you’re pretty free and easy with. Meant to reassure. But not always true.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Excuse me,” she said and set her glass on the counter, left the kitchen. He heard her feet on the stairs.

  He got up, recorked the wine, took his glass out into the living room. Somewhere a church bell was tolling the time.

  He sat on the leather couch, waited. After ten minutes, she still hadn’t come down. He went to the foot of the stairs, called up.

  “Nikki?”

  No answer.

  “Nikki?”

  He listened, then went quietly up the carpeted stairs. Three doors opened off the hall, one of them slightly ajar, light inside.

  “Nikki?”

  “In here,” she said.

  He put his fingers on the door, pushed it wider. It was a small bedroom, a dresser against one wall, a closet. There was a single lamp atop a nightstand, a nylon scarf thrown over the shade, bathing the room in a bluish light.

  She had her back to him, was going through the nightstand drawer. She came out with a blue candle in a glass, a pack of matches. She lit it, set it on the nightstand. The flame flickered, and after a moment, the smell of jasmine drifted over to him.

  “There we go,” she said, switching the lamp off and turning to face him. Shadows fell against the wall, danced.

  “You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’ll understand.”

  He was frozen.

  “You could leave right now,” she said. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

  He shook his head. She came closer and he smelled fresh perfume, vanilla musk.

  He touched the side of her face lightly, felt her tremble as he trailed his hand down her throat, her collarbone. He could feel the pulse of her, the thump of her heart.

  He leaned close and their lips met, hers opening under his. He tasted the sweetness of the wine, broke off the kiss to look at her. She met his eyes as he undid one button on her sweater, then another, exposing the sheer black bra beneath. He reached inside, cupped her warmth, felt her nipple harden. She closed her eyes.

  He held the edges of the sweater, tugged gently, and the rest of the buttons undid themselves. One popped off, landed on the bed. He kissed her again, both hands on her now, and slipped the sweater off her shoulders, let it fall silently to the floor. She leaned into him, eyes still closed, mouth open. He tasted her tongue, cupped her buttocks through the jeans. She began to pull at his belt, unsnapping, unzipping, kissing him harder, hungry. He reached back with one hand and gently pushed the door shut.

  It had started to snow lightly, flakes blowing up against the window. She had found three more candles in Jack and Reggie’s room, along with a package of condoms. The room was filled with a yellow glow, flickering shadows.

  He got up, walked naked to the window, the floor cold under his feet. He held the curtain aside and looked down at the quiet street, the Mustang already covered with a dusting of snow.

  When he looked back at her she was lying on her side in the tangled sheets, her bare back to him. He could see the yellow and red butterfly just above the cleft of her buttocks.

  “Is it snowing?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Almost Christmas. The year’s gone by so fast.”

  He went back to bed and she slid over to give him room. He lay on his left side, propped on an elbow, looking at her, put a hand on her hip. He thought of Cristina, imagined for a moment it was her beside him.