A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) (16 page)

I shook my head, but I was too tired to explain that I was the one who was supposed to be helping people, not the other way around. I fumbled for my cell, thinking of calling Amanda to let her know I wouldn't be coming, but before I could concentrate on punching the number, somebody toyed with the focus on the camera and the room went fuzzy. I sank back into a big black pit where all the noises came through a ten foot layer of cotton, everything smelled of flowers and apple juice, and no one talked about cancer, or drugs, or death.

. . .

"So what should I do when I get him home?'

"There's not much to do. Help him get comfortable and stay positive. He'll be tired and woozy. Don't try to get him to eat or drink if he doesn't want to. He'll tell you when he's ready. We're sending him home with some anti-nausea stuff if he's not. That was a hell of a reaction he had."

"Is it always going to be this bad?"

"No. This is the tough part, where we have to wait for the drugs to work through his system. His reaction here and at home helps us grade the strength of the chemo regimen for next time. I know Dr. Demitri planned an aggressive dosage to try and get the best results, but it doesn't make sense if it ends up making Marty feel like this every time."

"God, I hope not. He looks terrible."

I opened my eyes, though they felt like they had to be unzipped first. I was still in the easy chair. A blanket had been draped over my lap. Amanda and Leah were standing nearby, heads close together.

"I can't look that bad," I croaked, trying to interject some humor into the situation, but the only words that came out were "can't" and "bad." The two looked over. Amanda had a worried expression on her face that twitched into concern and anger when she saw that I was awake.

"Marty," she said, coming closer. She had her enormous backpack with her. Just looking at the thing made me tired. She dropped it to the ground and leaned down next to me. "What the heck were you thinking? I can't believe you agreed to help me knowing you were starting chemo, for God's sake. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm feeling much better, thanks," I said. Leah poured me a plastic cup of water, which I knocked back and held out for more. I looked at her. "I thought you said the worst would be like having bad Mexican."

She bit her lip. "We can't always predict the reactions people have. I'm afraid you tipped the scale in the wrong direction."

No kidding, I thought. Then I looked back at Amanda. A mistake.

She was glaring at me. "Marty, this is crazy. All of it. We need to get you home, then I'll find some other way to handle Michael."

I swallowed, then shook my head. "No." She opened her mouth to say something, but I held up a hand. "Home first, then talk. Believe me, I'm not up for doing anything heroic and stupid right now."

Amanda frowned, a crease forming over the bridge of her nose, but said nothing.

I pushed the blanket off and, with their help, I was able to stand, pull on my coat, and totter out to the front desk, where I made a follow-up appointment with the receptionist. I kept nodding, agreeing to whatever date and time she was saying so I could get the hell out of there. Leah walked us out the front door, her hand under my elbow. She got us to the door, where she watched, her arms folded across her chest, as Amanda helped me into my own car.

I stared straight ahead, trying not to think, and failing. Amanda had almost been attacked the day after I'd taken the job, I was flat on my back from a chemo treatment, and she'd had to be the one to come get me. Why didn't I hire her, instead? I didn't feel like an ex-cop, I didn't feel like a bodyguard. I wasn't ready to start an investigation or stop a potential killer. I felt like Amanda's invalid father, ready to go back to the nursing home.

My bones felt heavy, as though they were sagging through my flesh. Slush spattered the windshield and the world outside was gray. I put the seat back and stared out the window, wondering if I had enough life left to preserve and, if I did, why bother?

v.

She was gone.

The lock had been easy--ten seconds' work--but he was still cautious. Kids at school had more electronic equipment than entire police departments did a decade ago. If she had a security camera with a motion sensor, his breakin was already playing in real-time on a website somewhere while he stood in the doorway. If so, it wouldn't be long before a patrol car would be on its way.

With his back turned to the room, he pulled a ski mask on over his face, then did a circuit, looking for outlets and cords in particular. Few webcams operated on batteries, so he pulled every plug he found. An alarm clock began its urgent, neon 12:00…12:00….12:00 and there would be lights that wouldn't come on when their switches were thrown, but he didn't care if he left that kind of evidence behind. She would know, in her gut, it was him. That was the point, after all.

He prowled the small apartment, asking himself what he'd learned with the flowers. This wasn't a courtship. There were no sunsets to ride into. This was about exorcising demons, about obliterating the past. He needed to admit he was enjoying teasing himself and her; some part of him couldn't resist the delicious twist of the petals, that there was a sentimental reminder that only the two of them shared. It was dangerous. Self-indulgent. He'd have to be more disciplined. Emotions like that had almost tripped him up the first time.

And could ruin things for him now. He'd watched in shock as Marty Singer, of all the people in the world, had skidded to a stop on the sidewalk outside the classroom building and ran around like a super cop, just like he had twelve years ago. And even though nothing Singer had done had touched him then, the man was dangerous. There'd be no more chances to scatter flowers.

He searched thoroughly like he'd been taught, looking for clues as to where she'd gone. As he upended boxes and pulled out drawers, the scent of her caught in his nostrils. Thoughts of Singer vanished, replaced with visions of Amanda as a little girl. Riding her bike. Laying on her bed. Playing in the yard. The memories elicited an involuntary croon from somewhere deep in his chest, a small animal noise that started to uncoil and grow. A prickling sensation started along his hairline and ran up and down his arms. He gulped in air, trying to clamp down on the feeling and the sound, choking both. This wasn't the time to give in. He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, gaining control. When he felt like he'd recaptured his focus, he opened his eyes and assessed.

Dishes were piled in the tiny, utilitarian sink. Garbage swelled in the trashcan, pushing the lid off. Clothes and papers were strewn around the fake hardwood floor. It would be tempting to believe this was just how a recent college grad lived or that maybe she was only gone for the day. If you didn't notice the small things. No checkbook or cell phone charger. Dresser drawers closed, but half empty. A jewelry box with impressions in the red velvet liner, but no tenants. She'd left in a rush and meant to be gone for a while.

Only one thing of note was left: a small glass figurine of a unicorn, lying on its side on the top of a dresser. It was the kind of meaningless keepsake a little girl wins at a carnival and keeps on a shelf with pink ribbons and candles. He stared when he saw it, letting the barest memory float to the surface of his mind and take shape. He'd seen it that night, the night everything had changed. The night, though he hadn't known it yet, that his life had gone to shit.

He placed the figurine in the center of the apartment, as though choosing a place of reverence. Resting his foot on it with exaggerated care, he ground it into the floor until it was nothing but grains of multi-colored glass. He liked the crunching sound it made and he twisted his boot several times to hear it again.

He took off his mask and walked out, leaving the door unlocked and open behind him.

We pulled up to the curb in front of my house. I managed get out of the car and stand up, all on my own. As long as I held onto the door. Amanda came around from the other side and threw one of my arms over her slim shoulders. She was surprisingly strong. We made the thirty feet to the front door in under a minute. A voice inside my head was screaming that we should be checking the back door, looking for signs of a breakin, and generally showing more caution than we were as we limped along. But that voice was drowned out by the one that needed me to lay down…now.

We got inside and I collapsed on the couch, a neat parallel to how I'd crashed onto it the day before. Amanda bustled around the first floor, turning lights on, feeding Pierre, and generally not looking in my direction or talking to me. I did a silent physical inventory and was relieved to find that I wasn't nauseous or in pain, simply wiped out beyond belief. I watched Amanda go about her self-appointed tasks, then flagged her down on her third fly-by through the living room.

"Hey," I said.

She stopped. "Yeah?"

I waved to a chair. "Can you sit down? Please? I'm going to apologize now and I'm too tired to yell to you in the kitchen."

She sat, managing to huff without making a sound. Her mouth was set in a firm, unrelenting line and her hands were carefully arranged on the arms of the chair. I stared at her for a second, trying to judge the best way to start, came up with nothing. So I dove right in.

"So. I've got cancer. I'm sorry. I should've told you. But I hadn't gone to chemo yet, as you probably guessed. I thought I had everything under control. Why not? It's been a long time since I got hit with something that I couldn't handle, so I fought it in my usual stupid way, like nothing was wrong. As if a little bit of luck and a couple visits to the doctor were all I needed. Apparently, that was a mistake. I've got to face the fact that things might not work the way they did before, that I can't make an assumption like I'll drop you off in the morning and pick you up later after a little dose of chemo."

Amanda was quiet and had moved only to breathe, so I continued.

"But, the nurse said something back there, before you showed up. Cancer is going to be the main thing in my life from here on out, but it's not going to be--it can't be--the only thing. I'm going to have a life after cancer. And that life is going to include things like helping protect you and putting away human stains like Michael Wheeler for good."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes for a second. "But I shouldn't ask you to put your life in my hands, to risk your neck just because I want to prove I can take cancer on headfirst and beat it. This isn't about me thumbing my nose at my disease, it's about keeping you alive and giving you your life back. This is a serious question. I guess what I'm saying is, do we find someone else to take this one, to watch your back? Or do you want me to stay on the case?"

I choked up and stumbled over the last few words, surprising myself. The possibility of having to step aside--good reasons or not--scared me. A black depression welled up in my heart at the thought of returning to the empty, meaningless days when retirement had yawned open in front of me.

I didn't have time to dwell on it, though. Amanda launched herself across the room and, with a sob, wrapped her arms around my neck in a bear hug. Not easy, considering I was slouched sideways on the sofa. I closed my arms around her and hugged her back, feeling how small and seemingly fragile she was.

"I'll take that as a yes," I said, and squeezed.

. . .

My confession seemed to patch things up, which was a good thing, as the rest of the afternoon was a wash. Between bouts of fatigue and waves of sleepiness, I reclined on the couch and stared off into space. I'd like to say I was busy solving the mystery of where in the hell Michael Wheeler was hiding, but in reality, my mind was completely blank, as empty as an upside-down bucket. Amanda puttered, asking me how I was doing every so often as she got familiar with the house and where I kept things. I felt guilty, watching her act as my impromptu sick nurse, but there wasn't much I could do about it. When there wasn't any more puttering left to do, she came in and asked me if I wanted the TV or some music on to keep my mind occupied.

"No TV," I said, cringing at the thought of being pinned to the couch, helpless, forced to watch the crap that passed for innovative programming. "That's my weather and sports box only. And, ah, the music I like isn't for relaxing."

She looked at me, curious. "Really? I thought cops were jazz guys. Smoky bars and saxophones, that kind of thing."

I groaned. "Jesus, no. I can't stand that stuff. All that honking and tooting drives me nuts. It's so random. It never seems to end."

"So what do you listen to? Like, do-wop stuff?"

She'd said it with a straight face, so either she was a great actress or she wasn't actually trying to insult me. "No, Amanda, I don't listen to do-wop. I grew up in the seventies, not the fifties."

"Like what?"

"I…look, I doubt we're on the same page, musically speaking."

"Try me."

I sighed. "The Dead Boys? Television? The Voidoids?"

Her face stayed blank. It was like I was explaining the inner workings of a jet engine. I tried again. "The Stooges? Chelsea? The New York Dolls?"

She shook her head.

I tried to find something to bridge the gap. "The Clash? Iggy Pop?"

Nothing. Then I thought of it. "The Ramones? You gotta know the Ramones."

She lit up like a light bulb. "I gotta be sedated," she crooned.

"No," I said. "But close enough."

"So you're into…punk?"

"You got it, sister," I said. I sat up, trying to get comfortable. "Hard to believe, huh?"

"I don't know. I can't see you with a Mohawk and a pierced nose."