Jericho Point (16 page)

I stood up.

Jesse rubbed his forehead. ‘‘Don’t.’’

‘‘If P.J. gets his teeth knocked out, he’ll never be able to tell us the straight story.’’

‘‘You aren’t the Eighty-second Airborne.’’

Marc pushed his chair back. ‘‘No, we’re Strike Fighter Squadron One-fifty-one.’’

Brian was on his feet as well, heading for the bar before I said anything. They cut between tables, smooth and quiet, with me behind them. P.J. pulled the bottle out of his collar but his back was drenched with beer. Shaun shoved him. Karen was coming down the bar. Ricky and Tiger went into the chorus, trying to ignore it.

Brian and Marc stepped up on either side of Shaun. They took his arms and Shaun bunched, ready to fight. Brian set a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, put his face to Shaun’s ear, and spit words at him.

Shaun’s head whipped around. He stared at Brian, his face stark. Then he shook loose and stormed out the door.

The bartender threw P.J. a towel. He wiped his neck. I let out a breath.

Brian put a hand on P.J.’s shoulder. ‘‘Come over to our table.’’

P.J. threw the towel on the bar. ‘‘No, I’m outta here.’’

Brian’s hand was insistent. ‘‘You aren’t going out there yet. That guy has
lying in wait
written all over him.’’

Reluctantly P.J. walked to the table with us. He shot a glance at Sinsa. Karen was at her table, hands on hips, giving her an earful. Sinsa stood up and started bitching back. Mighty Mites in battle. A moment later Karen took Sinsa by the elbow and walked her out of the bar. Ricky’s song finished and the crowd applauded.

I spoke into Brian’s ear. ‘‘What did you say to Shaun?’’

‘‘That I was paying for his drinks.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘If he left right now, I’d leave the money on the bar. But if he stuck around, I’d shove it up his large intestine with a pool cue.’’

Ricky gazed past the stage lights, trying to see where his family had gone. He tried to act cool, but when he put his Evian bottle down he missed the stool and spilled it. I had a feeling this was the effect Sinsa had hoped for. We approached the table. Jesse’s face was unreadable. P.J. looked like a whipped dog.

He lifted his chin in greeting. ‘‘Go on. Say whatever it is you’re gonna say.’’

Jesse stared. And stared. ‘‘No, I don’t think I will.’’

Marc and Brian sat down, but P.J. stood by the table. His eyes came up to about my navel.

‘‘And I get your point about the Alfa Romeo,’’ he said.

‘‘What’s that?’’ I said.

‘‘Shaun supposedly needs it for his image. But I’m being played for a sucker.’’

Simultaneously Jesse and I said, ‘‘
What?
’’

‘‘Sorry I can’t measure up. Yet again,’’ he said.

Jesse grabbed his crutches, balanced, and pushed to his feet. I felt Brian and Marc shift, surprised. They weren’t used to seeing him so tall. It unsettled people who only knew him sitting down.

Jesse looked pale. ‘‘And you’re screwing Evan over for those two? What is wrong with you?’’

P.J. glared at him. ‘‘Know what, Jesse? I’m a shithead, but at least I admit it. I don’t claim to be a saint and then take out my frustrations on everybody else.’’

I flinched. It was an ambush, all right.

Onstage, Ricky said, ‘‘How about something happier?’’ He spoke over his shoulder to Tiger.

Jesse leaned on his arms. He looked away from his brother.

From the stage came a flash, and sparks misted the air. The amplifier exploded. Tiger came flying into the audience in a cloud of smoke, his guitar shrieking with feedback.

Marc drove Brian and me back to my house. We rode in the truck, listening to the radio, digesting the mayhem from the club. The paramedics and fire department were there when we left. Jesse wasn’t. He had gone home without saying good-bye.

While Brian went to get Luke from Carl and Nikki’s, Marc walked me to my door. Amber light flowed from the Vincents’ windows. The live oaks leaned above us and ivy poured over the fence, gleaming in the moonlight.

I sought for something innocuous to say. ‘‘Luke’s going to be a rag doll when Brian carries him out.’’

Marc’s breath shone in the dim air. ‘‘You’re good with Luke.’’

‘‘It’s easy to be good with such a great kid.’’

‘‘Brian’s thrilled for you to spend time with him. It’s hard, Luke not having his mom.’’

This wasn’t as innocuous as I’d planned. ‘‘You miss your girls, don’t you?’’

‘‘Like I’ve had my lungs yanked out.’’

His rich voice tapered off. It was as much as he was going to say. But I knew the basics: that his wife had come home one day and told him their marriage was dead. She took the kids and headed home to Greenville, South Carolina.

He pulled out his wallet. ‘‘Here. Take a look.’’

He handed me a dozen photos to look at under my porch light. His daughters looked very much like him, with serious eyes, enigmatic smiles. They had pigtails done up with plentiful hair doodads.

He pointed. ‘‘Here’s Lauren, and this is Hope.’’

‘‘They’re perfect.’’

He slid the photos back into his wallet. We stood under the porch light.

‘‘So,’’ he said.

He drew out the word, almost begging for permission to speak.

‘‘Marc, you’re practically family. Just act like the rest of my relatives and ask nosy questions. Let’s have it.’’

‘‘You and Jesse.’’

The cold prickled on my face. My fingers were growing numb.

‘‘Tonight dredged up some bad memories. Don’t judge him by tonight.’’

He gazed at the vast winter sky. Above the black silhouette of the mountains, the polar star watched us spin.

‘‘You two seem to chuck a lot of rocks at each other,’’ he said.

God, another big brother. I stepped out from under the light. ‘‘Let me explain something. Jesse and I are both lawyers. We argue for a living. We’re good at it.’’

‘‘So you actually enjoy battle?’’

‘‘Says the man who gets paid to dogfight other airplanes.’’

‘‘Touché. Still, that can make life tense, day to day.’’

‘‘Did you and Brian plan ahead to double-team me? Look. Jesse got upset tonight because—’’

‘‘Double-team you? You think Brian wants to ride you over this stuff?’’

I snorted. ‘‘Tonight was an exceptional performance on Brian’s part. Usually Jesse gets under his skin like a bad rash.’’

‘‘He has nothing but praise for Jesse.’’

I stopped. ‘‘Really?’’

‘‘If it wasn’t for Jesse, he’d be dead. Surely you know how thankful he is.’’

I nodded, feeling an unexpected sense of warmth.

‘‘But,’’ he said, ‘‘I see that Jesse’s hard on you. People with high expectations of themselves often are. Take my word, I know from sad experience.’’

I took that not merely as a reference to his failed marriage, but as an opening. In the cold night air I felt a homey bond of kid talk and school photos between us. So I jumped—into a well of deep, irreparable stupidity.

‘‘Between us? I don’t want Brian worrying about this.’’

He nodded.

‘‘Jesse’s everything to me. But sometimes . . .’’ I hesitated. ‘‘You nailed it—he’s hard on himself. He judges himself ruthlessly. That’s one reason why he got so upset at the club.’’ I stared into the night. ‘‘Which makes me worry. What if I can’t live up to his standards?’’

He seemed like a solid wall beside me. ‘‘If that’s so, he’s a fool. Because you’re flawless just the way you are.’’

Straight out of the Buck Up the Kid Sister handbook. ‘‘Do you always know the right thing to say?’’

‘‘Hardly. But I’m working on it.’’

Inside my house, the puppy barked.

‘‘You know . . .’’ I smiled. ‘‘You can never say anything wrong to a dog.’’

‘‘Good try. But that would be too easy.’’ He smiled back. ‘‘And I like a challenge.’’

Ricky needed a few drinks to unscrew his head. The paramedics took Tiger away on the stretcher, his hands bandaged. The club still smelled like fried hair.

The firefighters said water on the floor and a bad connection between the guitar and the amp was what caused the explosion. But Ricky stared vacantly at the stage.

‘‘It’s close,’’ he said. ‘‘Death. I can smell it.’’

‘‘That’s Tiger’s guitar. Or else his boots,’’ P.J. said. ‘‘They both melted.’’

After a couple more whiskeys, P.J. led Ricky out of the club. When they got to the parking garage Ricky gave him the keys to the four-by-four. P.J.’d had only a few beers. And hadn’t felt the Reaper reach down onto the stage and miss him by inches.

P.J. turned the key in the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t start. That wasn’t right. Not with a Beemer. He tried again, pumping the gas pedal, but still nothing. The lights on the dash were flipping out. And he smelled a smell. Coming from the vents.

Ricky opened his door. ‘‘Shit. It’s smoke. The Reaper’s in here, fucking chasing me, man.’’ He jumped out. ‘‘He wanted me back there. He got Tiger by mistake.’’

P.J. didn’t bother to point out that Tiger wasn’t dead, just slightly scorched. But he did smell the smoke. He got out and put up the hood.

He stumbled back. ‘‘Fuck.’’

‘‘What is it? Is it . . . what is it?’’ Ricky said.

‘‘Ravens.’’

‘‘What?’’

P.J. put the back of his hand against his nose to block the stench. ‘‘Dead ravens. Jammed down on the engine block.’’

They smelled like decay and gasoline. Dried blood coated their feathers.

‘‘What are they doing there? Get rid of ’em, Peej.’’

P.J. wasn’t about to touch them. ‘‘Ricky, they can’t hurt you.’’

They burst into flames.

Lying awake in bed at five a.m., watching the trees outside dipping in the wind, I finally admitted that Jesse wasn’t going to call. I’d left him six messages after leaving Chaco’s. I got dressed and drove out to his house.

The freeway was empty. My tires droned on the road. When I reached San Ysidro I headed for the beach, across the train tracks and down the road through the Monterey pines. His Mustang was in the driveway. The morning star hung above the ocean. Beyond the mountains the sky was hinting blue.

Unlocking the door, I crossed the entryway. In the living room a single lamp was on, low. The morning twilight was pushing shadows across the house. The tide was out, and the ocean lay deep blue. Waves shimmered up the sand.

I saw the wheelchair, near the windows, disassembled. One wheel was off the frame, the tire was off the rim, and a repair kit lay on the table.

‘‘Jesse?’’

I heard a rustling sound, the noise of hands sorting through small, hard objects. I walked around the end of the kitchen counter.

He was sitting on the kitchen floor. As cold as it was, he was barefoot, in nothing but jeans. He had his kitchen junk drawer on his lap. He was rifling through it, pawing pencils and rubber bands and nuts and bolts.

‘‘Get a flat?’’ I said.

‘‘You don’t miss a trick.’’

His shoulders were tight. His mahogany hair was falling over his face. He picked up a package, saw it was batteries, tossed it aside.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ I said.

‘‘Choosing a new shade of nail polish.’’

I saw a tumbler broken on the floor, and a jar of pills spilled amid the shards of glass, looked like diazepam.

‘‘Jess.’’

He sifted junk through his fingers. ‘‘I’m trying to find a tire patch. Which I need because I ran over the broken glass and got a flat. Which I need to fix, because the tire goes on the wheelchair. Which I need to be in working condition, because . . .’’ He looked in the drawer. ‘‘Which . . .’’

He heaved the drawer across the room. Junk flew. The drawer crashed against the plate-glass window and clattered to the floor.

Junk freckled the wood. A coin rolled across the floor and tipped over, ringing. Jesse’s hands fell to his lap.

‘‘Don’t say anything,’’ he said.

I took a step toward the kitchen.

‘‘Leave it,’’ he said.

I stood, hands limp at my sides. ‘‘Jess, Marc didn’t know.’’

‘‘Leave it.’’

I knelt down. ‘‘Babe, there’s nothing you could have done for Adam. CPR wasn’t successful, but you didn’t fail. Nobody could have saved him.’’

‘‘There it is.’’ Leaning sideways, he reached for an object near the refrigerator. He grabbed the pack of patches he’d been looking for.

‘‘Jesse.’’ I stretched my hand out but he wouldn’t even look at me. ‘‘You can’t go on like this.’’

He put the patches between his teeth and started pulling backward toward the wheelchair. He kept his eyes trained on his feet.

I stood up, blood rushing in my ears. He reached the kitchen table, pulled up onto a chair, and tore open the pack of patches. I picked my way through junk and broken glass to the broom closet.

‘‘I’ll get it,’’ he said. He picked up the tire. ‘‘I’m going to fix this, and head in to work. I’ll talk to you later.’’

Behind him, outside the plate-glass windows, the sky was cobalt. A crescent moon skimmed the horizon, so thin it seemed illusory. But I knew it was real. All of this. And it wasn’t going away.

Ravens feast on the dead.

They eat carrion. He’d looked it up.

People used to think ravens could smell death on a person who was going to croak. That was why the birds were omens:
Time’s up, sucker
. And that’s why Ricky Jimson had been afraid tonight. You could see that from the photos.

The pix were lousy quality, because of the tiny camera in the cell phone. Still, when he downloaded them from the phone to disk he got that rush again. The one he’d felt when he shot the ravens. The one he’d felt when the birds caught fire on the engine block while P.J. tried to work the fire extinguisher and Ricky tripped and fell running away. They never saw him in the corner of the parking garage, behind his car. Losers.