The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

Bush-Hammer Finish by Michelle Butler Hallett

FROM The Fiddlehead

St. John’s, July 2013

THE TROUBLE with Paulette, Nish Flannigan decided, reaching for his cufflink: she overreacted. The cufflink had fallen beside the wedding photo of Paulette that Nish kept on his dresser. He studied it: Paulette, filling out a sleeveless beige dress, standing on a wharf between wooden lobster traps, and holding not a bouquet in front of her belly but a red buoy, scarred and beaten. Her red hair tumbled over her freckled shoulders, and her beige high heels stood before her, almost hiding her polished toenails. She’d tucked her chin down and looked up at the photographer, mouth in a smirk, eyes glinting. Mischievous, Nish had called her, wicked.

A thread dangled from his cuff. Nish turned around, arm stuck out before him, about to call for Paulette’s help. Instead he strode to the adjoining bathroom and hauled open medicine cabinet, cupboards, and drawers, scowling as nail scissors refused to appear. He found them in Paulette’s drawer, hiding beneath a stray panty liner and three bobby pins with long red hairs caught in them. The tiny scissors slipped off Nish’s broad fingers, and he kept missing the thread. He threw the nail scissors at the toilet. They bounced off the raised seat and fell to the floor. The thread, he tore.

Checking his bow tie in the mirror, he wished he’d not gone bald, not gotten fat, not become so damn vain. He slapped the light switches down and walked to the kitchen, where he poured some malt whisky and raised a cheer to his gala invitation, pinned to the fridge with a magnet. To The Rooms, Alice, to The Rooms.

Trying not to loom, Nish smiled at the arts reporter. -It’s always an honor to be nominated for these things. The victory’s in the nomination.

The arts reporter gazed up, and Nish recalled signing a book for her and suggesting she join one of his workshops, once he got them back on the go. She looked ten years younger than Paulette, midthirties maybe, and dyed blond. She finished asking a question Nish had been expecting.

He smiled again. -Yes, well, that two former protégés of mine are also nominated only sweetens the evening.

His two former protégés stood at the far end of the room. About the same size and height, they looked quite comfortable with each other, talking and laughing, looking up at the same moment.

The reporter cleared her throat and stepped back into Nish’s line of sight. -The Torngat is the Atlantic region’s most prestigious award for writing, and this year the gala’s not only being held in St. John’s, but all three nominees are Newfoundlanders: yourself, of course, Patrick O’Mara, and Paulette Tiller. Do you think-

– Last time we hosted the Torngat, there wasn’t a single Newfoundlander on the goddamned long list. So I think it’s about time.

Her polite laugh failed. She’d transferred from Halifax, a city she considered the cultural center of Atlantic Canada, and she found people in St. John’s arrogant: sure, we’ll talk to ya, but don’t think you can get too close. -You’re sixty-two this year, and it’s been eight years since your last book. Is this novel your swan song?

– God, I hope not.

– Return of the phoenix?

Nish waved this idea away.

– You’ve won a few big awards in your time, the Giller, the GG, and you even came close to the Impac, but you’ve never gotten a Torngat. This is your third nomination. Any thoughts on how this evening might play out?

The Ceeb exiled you here to punish your incompetence, didn’t they? -No. All I can do is write the best book I can.

– Thank you, Mr Flannigan.

– Nish, please.

She smiled. Friendly Newfoundlanders, my ass.

Nish watched her navigate the crowd to reach Patrick and Paulette. The reporter’s look and tone as she’d thanked him reminded Nish of the librarian at the Centre for Newfoundland Studies. She’d squinted but kept her face straight when Nish asked to see his own papers and notebooks, donated ten years before. They’re still mine, Nish had explained. I have every right to see them. That had been two years ago, around the time he’d argued with Paulette about her wanting to publish as Paul Tiller. Jesus, Paulette, what are you tryin to prove? This is St. John’s. Everyone knows who you are. She’d done it, though, Paul Tiller, all long hair and lipstick in the author photo.

She wore a short and sleeveless black dress tonight, showing off her arms and legs. Nish knew the dress, and those ugly flat boots. The expensive clutch beneath her right arm had been a gift from him, but those fancy patterned tights were new. Her hair, pinned up in a chignon, salon-fresh and red to the roots, shone.

Jesus, Paulette.

He needed a drink.

Patrick sipped his ginger ale, and his dark hair fell into his eyes. -No one?

– Foster care, right? When I was in a home, it was me and half a dozen other kids, most of them already in trouble with the law, and only the one adult home most of the day. Then I lived in a hotel, me and a social worker, so really, who had time to read to me?

– Spose, girl.

Paulette smiled, looked at the floor. -I think it’s sweet, a sign you really want to look after someone, if you read aloud to them.

– My grandfather read me a story every night, guaranteed.

Paulette glanced at the crowd. -Arts reporter, three o’clock.

– Where ya goin? You’re nominated for this too.

– She wants to talk to you.

– Patrick O’Mara? Hi, I’m from the CBC.

Paulette smirked into her drink. Patrick’s bad-boy charms were mellowing as he approached forty, but his dark eyes still flashed, and his snug jeans fit well. Many women, and more than a few men, got a bit gooey about the brain when talking with him. This evening, in character, he’d not rented the expected tuxedo. Instead he wore his biker boots, dark jeans, a white silk shirt, and a velvet jacket, black and blue, that made Paulette think of Elizabethan portraits.

A delicate flush spread over the reporter’s upper chest as she asked Patrick about his stonework: was it just a hobby, or was it serious competition for his writing? Patrick laughed. He then answered what Paulette considered a particularly stunned question about ideas and inspiration by saying he didn’t know what roman à clef meant.

Frowning at this, the reporter shoved her mic at Paulette’s mouth. -Paulette Tiller-or Paul, I guess-you’re nominated for your first book. Wow. You got your start under Nish Flannigan?

Swallowing, Paulette tried to avoid memory: Nish on top, insistent, artless. Heave away, me jollies. -I suppose.

Patrick gestured to Paulette that he’d get them both fresh drinks.

The reporter’s eyes followed Patrick’s reflection in the glass behind Paulette. -People are calling you a female Patrick O’Mara.

– What?

– Shouldn’t you be flattered?

– For the love of God!

Paulette strode off. The reporter glared after her.

Nish, leaning against the bar, half hearing a drunk poet who only ever discussed “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” watched Paulette leave the reporter and watched Patrick smile and accept congratulations from woman after woman. Wondering what Paulette might be overreacting to this time, Nish ordered two drinks and waited.

– Young fellah Paddy.

– Nish, how are ya?

– Here, you take this.

Patrick accepted the drink, held it up: some fruity cocktail, finished with a maraschino cherry impaled on a little plastic sword, a straw, and a paper umbrella. He said nothing.

– Balls-out and fuck-black-tie in that fancy jacket, aren’t ya? I read your novel. I recognized the bit where your adolescent protag entraps the pedophile teacher. I think that was the first thing you ever brought to one of my workshops. God, time flies. Remember askin me to blurb your first book?

Patrick studied Nish’s drink: malt whiskey, neat.

– I spent the whole night on your manuscript, Paddy. I never told you that. It was like sittin up with a sick child.

– At least my new one here tonight doesn’t read like I devoured my old notebooks, all my used-up ideas, and then puked up the mess. Be awful if that happened.

Nish took a good swallow. -You know what your trouble is? You can’t decide. Are you a writer or a rock-breaker? Man up, my son, and figure it out.

– Yeah, really fuckin dreadful, havin more than one talent. Dunno how I bear it, some days.

Nish said nothing as he walked away. Patrick knocked back the girly drink-out of spite, he told himself.

Two men in their fifties, famous Atlantic Canadian writers who’d made the Torngat longlist, jumped in fright at the urinals as Paulette banged the men’s room door off the wall. Staggering, she helped Patrick to a stall. He made it, falling to his knees. Paulette dampened some paper towel and tried to ignore the man on her right as he turned red.

The man on her left snorted. -O’Mara can’t handle his liquor?

Paulette nodded at the man’s open fly. -Isn’t that awfully small to be out by itself?

Hearing the phrase Bitter cunt, Patrick retched.

Not long after, Paulette helped Patrick get into a cab. He’d slurred when calling for it, then gone quiet. On a summer night like this, west wind stirring the trees and beating off the fog, he’d walk home. Right now, however, he felt quite separate and in some danger, as if he’d been tucked in a glass box and placed on the edge of a deep hole. Despite all his gifts with language, he could not explain this.

He dug his credit card out of his wallet and handed it to the driver, who told him to put it away for now, because they hadn’t even left yet.

Paulette touched Patrick on the shoulder. -What is the matter with you?

Patrick struggled to get the card in his jacket pocket. -You’re-wait-

– Shove over.

Back inside The Rooms, at the upper windows, the arts reporter stood near Nish. Angry with Paulette still, and spying the departure, she’d made sure to bump into Nish and, in her stumble, draw his attention to the scene outside.

Nish took a sharp breath.

– Wait.

Patrick rolled off his bed, got to his feet. Stonework glittered in lamplight, hurting his eyes. He did not remember leaving his lamp on. Nor did he remember placing that big bowl near the bed. Sweaty, not sure if he’d vomit or urinate first, he got to the bathroom.

Seat’s down. Did I-

He looked down: fully dressed, boots and all.

He washed his hands, checked his phone, swished mouthwash to chase off a shocking foulness, and shuffled to the living room. Turned away from him, dozing on the futon, red hair down: Paulette, curled in a tight fetal position, fists near her face. She also wore her clothes from last night. Patrick lifted the blanket on the rocking chair and draped it over Paulette.

– Jesus! Patrick! I thought you were Nish.

– Oh, thank you very much.

She’d rolled over and thrown off the blanket. Perched on the edge of the futon, she took some deep breaths. -What time is it?

– Just gone six. You know, normally when I bring a beautiful woman home, I expect to find her in the bed with me.

She rubbed her bare arms. -You’re lucky you fuckin got home. What the hell happened to you last night?

– I remember you gettin in the cab. Here, you’re frozen.

Patrick took off his jacket and passed it to her. She tugged it on, relishing warmth and scent. Patrick, picking the blanket up off the floor, muttered about a virus or maybe a migraine, but his head felt fine, which made no sense, because the scattered times he got a migraine… He peered at her. -Wait, who won?

– I did.

– You did? That’s excellent. That’s-ah, Jesus, everyone’s gonna think I left because I got pissed off it wasn’t me. And Nish would have said-I’m sorry-I mean-I only had the one drink.

– You look ghastly. You want to go see a doctor?

– I’m fine. Let me make you some tea. I could do some eggs too.

She nodded.

Once in the kitchen and out of Paulette’s sight, Patrick scowled. He felt like his blood had gone gelatinous. -You did the right thing, leavin Nish. It’s none of my business. I’m just glad you didn’t hang around for months on end, like some women do. At least he wasn’t beatin ya.

– What did the police say about your break-in?

Patrick thought about what he’d just said; he thought about the blanket. -I never went to the police after.

Buttoning the jacket, Paulette walked into the kitchen. -For the love of God, Patrick, someone broke in and stole your gear!

– So I lost a bush hammer and some stone out of it. Thief’s a wannabe mason, I spose. He left the upstairs alone, though. I figured he knew no one’s livin there. Drugs, girl, guaranteed.

– And you don’t think the Constab should know that maybe some arsehole drug dealer’s got a spiked hammer?

– Cops won’t listen to the likes of me.

She rolled her eyes. -The likes of you?

– That little punk who ambushes the pedo in my novel, beats the livin shit outta him: scattered bit autobiographical.

She accepted a mug of tea. -I figured that.

– Young offender’s record out of it.

– Patrick, think it through. That record’s sealed, and you’re almost forty.

– This is Newfoundland, Paulette: the only secrets we got are the ones everybody knows. Besides, I’m after tellin the story, now, aren’t I?

– Paranoid much?

He dropped sugar in his tea. -Pragmatic.

Maybe an hour later, head down to avoid the drizzle and fog, Paulette left the old house where Patrick rented his basement apartment. She noticed the flimsiness of his door, a late addition to the house obscured by a concrete stairwell: an easy break-in.

Parked around the corner, at the far end of a private lane between houses, Nish watched her. -Walk of shame, right down to the goddamned jacket.

He let her go a good two blocks before driving to catch up.

Rain started; Paulette groaned. The jacket. A pickup truck pulled over.

Nish’s truck.

The passenger-side window descended, and Nish leaned over, smiling his peaceful smile. The dark circles beneath his eyes crinkled. -You’re gonna get soaked. You want to come back to the house and call a cab from there? Just to the porch?

A rainy Sunday morning, empty streets, drawn curtains: the entire neighborhood bore down on Paulette, like the presence of someone hungover, someone whom she feared to disturb. She patted her dress, knowing even as she did so that she’d left her damn phone in that damn clutch back at The Rooms-putting it down when she saw Patrick stagger-left it on the cushioned bench under the painting of the eighteenth-century soldier whose red coat frayed into a hundred threads.

A half-hour walk. I say no, he can follow me, find out where I’m living.

She’d slept so badly, thrilled about the award, angry about not being able to celebrate, worried about Patrick.

– All right.

Nish said nothing as they drove, and Paulette just looked out her window.

At the house, Nish held the door for her and then hurried to the kitchen, as if not wanting to eavesdrop. He didn’t know she didn’t have her phone, and she almost called out to him. I don’t need his damn permission to use the phone. This was my house too. She zipped off her boots-Nish hated dirt on the carpets-and tiptoed to the living room.

For the love of God, Nish.

He’d piled a month’s worth of mail, newspapers, and magazines around the sofa. She caught an odor she’d not known since living in the crowded foster home: old piles of dirty laundry. She looked for the phone book, unable to recall a single taxi company’s number as other memories plagued her: Nish buying her roses on their first date when she said she’d never gotten flowers; Nish praising her writing in a workshop; Nish carrying her into the bedroom; Nish proposing to her the night he won the Giller; Nish telling her off for leaving his side at a party; Nish punching her belly and dragging her to the living room floor, where he kicked her and-

Not rape. Bad as it got, she couldn’t call it rape. The kicks had been more or less by accident too; she’d been rolling on the floor, snotting and begging. The punching? A problem, yes, but then she’d pissed him off somehow.

Tea things clinked. Nish bore a tray. -Could we talk? I just want to talk.

Neck stiff and kinked, eyes raw and swollen: she’d been crying, and her face slid on her own tears and sweat, on plastic. She wanted to vomit. Patrick must have picked up a virus, and-

Clammy plastic stuck to her bare legs, her upper chest, her face. Pain: breasts, shoulders, wrists, ankles, labia, vagina. The weight of her hands bore down on the small of her back.

Paulette, you stupid cunt!

She’d feared a little setup like this for months, telling herself she was overreacting, because no matter how he looked at her, spoke to her, or even how he struck her, Nish would never try to keep her. The futon down in his study, his finished office in the basement, his precious little windowless sound-insulated room all cut off from the world so he might create in peace, handy bathroom nearby-had to be the futon, had to be the study. Nish sometimes explained things to Paulette in the study. She did not enjoy her visits. Hands behind, ankles together: whatever he’d tied her with felt sharp and hard. She rolled onto her side, pressing her strained shoulder. She rolled back, trying to look around. Nish had removed his desk. He’d sealed the futon in plastic and tacked some more plastic sheeting on the walls, leaving the sound foam bare. Words uttered in Nish’s study became sterile and solitary; the sound foam sucked the room dry of echo. Paulette groaned. Then she shouted the only word that mattered.

– Nish!

Tightening a cable tie around the wires of his computer, desk now set up near the bathroom, Nish smirked. His knees cracked as he walked to the study door and unlocked it.

Breathing hard, Paulette looked at Nish’s feet. She needed to hear his voice, gauge his mood, before daring to meet his eye.

He wore dark socks, perhaps from last night. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Finally he spoke. -I might hit two thousand words today.

Paulette knew the tone well: reasonably calm but delicate-volatile. The wrong word, just the wrong intonation, would anger him. -That’s great.

– Of course, the trick is to make it two thousand good words.

– Always. Nish, honey, I wonder if you could let me up.

– In a little while. I’ve done some renovatin, keepin busy.

– I noticed. Could you get me a glass of water?

– Sure.

Outside, he keyed the lock shut.

She listened to his tread on the stairs. Up in the kitchen he ran water, then cracked the old-fashioned ice tray, the one with the aluminum handle. Beneath his weight the ceiling creaked, reminding Paulette of a frightening day in the foster home. The older boys had invited her to play hide-and-seek with them in the basement, beneath the kitchen, while their foster mother made supper. That ceiling had creaked so loudly that Paulette feared the entire house would collapse. The boys had laughed first, but then they agreed, taunting her. Any moment now the ceiling would give out, and it would all come tumbling down and bury them. Maybe an arm would stick out of the rubble, maybe a head. Any moment.

Nish returned, carrying ice water and a box cutter. He put the glass on the floor, sat next to Paulette, and sawed through the plastic ties. As he dragged her up to her feet and escorted her to the bathroom, she felt pain in her right ankle. When did I twist that? She thought about Nish’s eyes and the spray bottle of tile cleaner beneath the sink. She thought about the bruises, old and new, on her thighs. She thought about the keeping of secrets. Pants and long sleeves for the next few weeks, girl. Today is going to leave marks.

Paulette stumbled. Nish caught her. Arm around her waist, he guided her back to the futon. -Better?

She nodded.

He kissed the top of her head, and sighed. -Why?

– I’m sorry. I can see I hurt you. I’m so sorry.

– You’re sleepin with him, aren’t ya?

– Nish-no, honey, no.

– No? Whose house were you comin out of this mornin? Whose goddamned fancy jacket were you wearin, hey, and with whose goddamned credit card in it?

First-person, girl, first-person, don’t make him think you’re blaming him. -I know, I know, it looks bad, but I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. But I’m here now, so you can just give him back his stuff, okay? Can you do that for me, Nish? Please?

– Here, you’re thirsty.

She gulped water. The glass slipped from her numb hands; Nish managed to catch it.

– Oh my God, Nish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

– It’s okay. You want help with the rest of it?

– No, no. I’m fine.

– So it really doesn’t leave any taste? I was gonna give it to you last night and bring you home then, but young fellah Paddy got in the way. As usual.

Paulette closed her eyes. Havoc-cable ties, locked doors, some drug or another, but something else, quite strong all by itself: dread.

Nish took another cable tie from his pocket and wrenched it around her wrists.

– You’re hurting me.

– Jesus, Paulette-you’re overreactin.

– You’re tying my hands!

– In front this time. What, you need me to remind you what hurt means?

– Nish-

– Because it sounds like you’ve forgotten.

– No! No, I haven’t forgotten.

He eased her onto her back. -Then settle down.

Damp from a shower, bathrobe on, Nish crossed his arms and nearly filled the front doorway. -O’Mara. What the fuck do you want?

– Have you seen Paulette?

– Paulette no longer lives here, but I think you knew that.

Patrick winced. -Yeah, that’s none of my business.

– Goddamned right, it’s not. So again: what the fuck do you want?

– I think Paulette’s got my credit card by mistake. I want to check with her before I go through the hassle of reportin it stolen. I’ve been tryna reach her for hours, but her cell must be turned off. Her landlady hasn’t seen her since yesterday, and you weren’t answerin your phone-

Landlady. You know where she’s livin. -Couldn’t you satisfy her?

– Well, I didn’t expect her to stoop to a mercy fuck, but you are lookin pretty smug there. Hey, if that’s all you can get-

– Looks like you paid her with your plastic. Used to that, are ya?

– Flannigan-ya fuckin drama queen. Do you know where she is?

Nish slammed the door.

Constabulary headquarters, designed in the architectural shadow of brutalism, felt like a dark brick bunker. Inside, bright and copious lights gave people a sickly cast. On this quiet Sunday afternoon, the lights shone on a duty sergeant and a nervous visitor, a man slipping his hands in and out of his pockets.

The sergeant rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the pads of his fingers. -You want to contact your bank about a stolen credit card, Mr. O’Mara.

– It’s not stolen. It’s missin. And I’m afraid the woman who’s got it might be too.

The sergeant flipped his notepad to a fresh page. -Hang on. I’m getting over a stomach flu. Bastard of a bug on the go.

Patrick nodded. -Had it yesterday.

– Her name is Paulette Tiller, and she was over to your apartment last night? And she left this morning?

– Walked home.

– But just this morning?

– I know, I know, but she always takes my calls. This-this is gettin complicated-her husband-

– What’s his name?

– Nish Flannigan.

The sergeant added “domestic” next to the names. -Nish from Ignatius. I had an uncle called Nish.

Patrick wanted to leap across the desk and shake him.

The sergeant pretended to give Patrick another lazy glance, noting his features and body language, his anxiety, his voice. -Is there a history here?

– I dunno what to be thinkin. She’s frightened to death of him, but I never noticed it till this mornin. If she’s that scared, why didn’t she just leave earlier?

– It’s never as simple as just leaving, Mr. O’Mara.

– Yes, it is! You just walk out the door.

– Do it.

– Wha?

The sergeant pointed to the main entrance. -Walk out.

– I can’t. We’re in the middle of a conversation, and besides, you’d come after me. You’re a cop.

– Yet you’re perfectly free to just leave.

Slouching in his chair, Patrick tried to figure it out.

– How long ago did Ms. Tiller separate from Mr. Flannigan?

– Maybe a month ago.

– Dangerous time.

Patrick nodded, though he didn’t understand. He also didn’t expect the hard look and the question he got next.

– Mr. O’Mara, why is this complicated?

Nish squinted at the Constabulary officer on his doorstep. -Don’t you wait forty-eight hours or somethin? Who’s after reportin her missin? Paddy O’Mara, I suppose.

– Mr. Flannigan?

Nish sighed. -She left me, all right? Four weeks and three days ago.

– I’m sorry to hear that. When did you see her last?

– Last night. Socially, at the Torngat party, but we didn’t speak. She spent most of the night talkin to O’Mara. They even left together. He was over here earlier, throwin that in my face. You know that little shagger’s been up on assault charges, right?

Considering possible conflicts between words and meanings, the officer passed Nish a card. -Call me at this number if you hear from her.

Think it through, Nish.

He tugged medical gloves onto his sweaty hands, thinking it through quite clearly, thank you. He’d have to risk a drive to the bog, that patch up the shore Paulette liked so much, because his carpentry just wasn’t up to building anything like a false wall. Nor was he about to dig up the backyard, not with his creaking knees. Know your weaknesses, he’d always told his students, and work around them. He wrenched open the bedroom closet door and dug beneath a pile of laundry, some of it clean, most of it not. His fingers brushed the smooth handle, the spiked head, of Patrick O’Mara’s bush hammer. Nish had quite enjoyed burgling Patrick’s apartment-in broad fuckin daylight, no less, easy as droppin by for a cup of tea-easy and thrilling, like writing fiction used to be. Nish even liked saying the silly verb aloud, conjugating it: I burgle, you burgle, he she it burgles. Wearing medical gloves that afternoon too, Nish had examined several of the stoneworking tools, recalling Patrick’s explanations. The bush hammer-yeah, I know, I always laugh too-the bush hammer’s got these spike things in the head, so when you beat metal or stone with it, you get this distressed look. Right beautiful, sometimes. The stone pick, though, that’s the one that scares people, all curved and long and comin to a point: right vicious-lookin. Wicked.

Wicked. Like Paulette, holding the buoy.

Nish imagined discussing this scenario in a workshop. So your protag’s made up his mind. What does he choose? Not the pick. It’s too easy. He swung the bush hammer, finding its range, testing its weight. Then he noticed a particularly sweet detail, good for the bog: a name etched in the handle, letters burned black.

O’MARA.

He laughed.

He dropped the hammer on his foot.

Paulette jerked awake. Nish was yelling-in another room, good, but yelling. Her sweat cooled quickly, and her swollen hands throbbed. How many more lessons before this little stunt ended? So much weight, splitting her open-Come on, Nish, give your balls a chance to fill up-because he would own her. Break her too. Sure. You were free to break what you owned. Paulette understood that.

Nish unlocked the door and limped into the study. Paulette recognized Patrick’s bush hammer. She recognized many things in that moment, as fight-or-flight bowed to dread. Big conversation in a little room: she’d not get to say much. She’d not get to finish the next book. She’d not get to apologize to Patrick about the jacket. She’d not have to worry about long sleeves and pants.

Nish studied her, curled up on the futon, tied fists protecting her face. Speech rapid and pressed, she bargained: never talk to Patrick again, break her lease, move back in, never so much as look at another man-

She took the first blow on her shoulder. Screamed. The second blow, skull, finished it.

Shut her up, at least.

Nish pried the hammer free of Paulette’s head: much less blood than he’d expected. He started rolling up the plastic.

Jesus, Paulette, either you’re gettin heavy or I’m gettin old.

I feel like the proper fuckin stalker here.

By sunset Patrick had called Paulette’s cell eight more times. The Constab had contacted him again, a different officer, this one hinting through wayward questions about violent pasts. Would Mr. O’Mara feel angry, hypothetically, if Ms. Tiller returned to her husband, angry enough to do something about it? Patrick had killed that conversation with a request that anything else the police wished to say to him beyond We found her, Mr. O’Mara, thank you for your help could be said in front of a goddamned lawyer.

He stared up through his kitchen window; trees darkened as the light failed.

He set out shortly after nine.

Nish and Paulette’s neighborhood smelled of barbecued suppers, and Patrick, suddenly hungry, had no trouble sneaking around the back of their house. Or was it just Nish’s house now? How the hell does that work, her leavin, her payin rent while he stays put?

Mature trees and a stone wall kept the yard dark.

Nish’s pickup was backed in, just below the deck. A townie’s truck, Patrick had called it, always so goddamned clean, neither sign of work stainin it. Cautious of creaks, Patrick walked up the steps. On the deck he glanced back at the pickup: empty lined cab. He sidestepped shovels and the old charcoal barbecue; he peered in the kitchen window.

Nothing.

Fuckin foolishness. Go home out of it.

Turning away, he caught movement inside. The door leading to the basement opened; Nish seemed to be hauling some burden.

Patrick squinted.

Nish flicked on a light.

A racket of snow shovels clanging against the barbecue, of a body thudding the deck, of clothespins spilling: Nish cried out. He hit the outside lights, took a good look, and laughed, opening the window. -Jesus, Paddy, ya got no gift for subtlety.

Blushing, Patrick wrenched himself free of the barbecue.

– Door to the deck’s not workin right. Come round the front. We’ll have a drink.

Nish kept Patrick waiting a few minutes, but he was smiling when he unlocked the door. Patrick asked to wash his hands.

– You’ve been here dozens of times. You know where everythin is.

Patrick disliked visiting the bathroom on the upper floor, because he had to pass through the master bedroom. Gives me a chance to look around, though. The sight of the bed, rumpled on one side, neat on the other, made Patrick wince. The bathroom: nothing strange. Nail scissors on the floor, plenty of dust, a few sour facecloths, one toothbrush.

Paranoid much?

Patrick dried his hands on his jeans.

In the living room, he sat on the sofa. Nish gave him one of two glasses of malt whiskey, a three-finger measure.

Might be a long chat.

It was a long chat, and mostly in Nish’s voice: writing, women, writing, Paulette. -I’m not-I’m not complete, without her. It’s that simple. And Paddy, I really owe you an apology. Last night-I couldn’t help thinkin-y’all right, or what?

– I’m after pickin up a stomach flu.

Patrick stood, wobbled, fell back on the sofa.

Nish shook his head. -Man up, my son: that’s twice. No, put that fancy phone of yours on the coffee table.

Patrick did this, feeling agreeable. So obedient: his will and good sense screamed at him, but the noise seemed small, and far away, confined.

– Lie on your front.

– I gotta-

Patrick vomited on a pile of newspapers.

Nish sighed. -Whenever you’re ready.

– Flannigan, ya fuckin drama queen. Whadja use?

– God knows, but it’s easier to buy than weed.

Patrick’s nausea burrowed. He knew quite well that Nish Flannigan, award-winning novelist and former mentor, had just drugged his drink and now tied him hand and foot with bright little plastic collars he’d purchased at an office supply store, likely getting a few pens and ink for the printer while he was at it. Patrick knew all this, but he hardly cared. He no longer had the will to care. He needed the room to stop spinning, so he could remember how he’d gotten there. One goddamned crisis at a time.

Nish shouted from the kitchen. -What’s your through line here, Paddy? Are you tryin to rescue the girl, or are you just tryin to piss me off? Because you’ve definitely pissed me off. I had a trip to a bog all planned out. Revise-revise-revise, is it?

– Wait!

Patrick rolled off the sofa, ramming his shoulder into the floor. He got himself on his back, and he stretched his neck, trying to see into the kitchen. His own weight crushed his hands; his tears sharpened his vision. Nish booted something that rolled into Patrick’s line of sight, something wrapped in plastic. Roll of carpet, maybe. Except his velvet jacket was tangled up with it. So was Paulette’s red hair.

Nish returned to the living room, carrying the bush hammer. He dangled it over Patrick’s face, letting it swing back and forth like a pendulum. Long red hairs, stuck to the hammer with blood, tickled Patrick’s lips. Nish dropped the hammer on Patrick’s chest. Patrick’s next vision: a large can of charcoal lighter fluid and a long tube of matches, the tube decorated with pastel-colored Christmas trees. Patrick wanted to tell Nish that charcoal lighter fluid probably wouldn’t do it, and had he thought it through? Nish arranged mail and newspapers around himself and Patrick. Hands shaking, Nish cursed the lightness of the can. He sprinkled paper and flesh. Patrick, gasping, tried to understand.

Nish lit a match.

Arms tight to his chest, Patrick shuffled out of the burn unit. Patients and visitors waiting for the elevator tried not to stare at his face. He tried not to notice. The hospital, and his injuries, still felt like another country. Queasy, latest dose of hydromorphone kicking in, he took the stairs.

Nodding at the nurses, he sat in the chair beside the bed. Unresponsive, a doctor had told him, injured more by the blow to her head and the smoke inhalation than the burns. Her limbs twitched, and her heart monitor beeped too fast, signs of agitation, or pain. Her nurse frowned. From the bedside table, Patrick picked up a book, a fat novel he’d read many times. He knew it well, yet he had trouble recognizing it. Narcotics blocked him, blocked him and changed him, but other forces worked him too: pain, and, despite death, dread.

The hydromorphone gave him vivid dreams. He dreamt of Nish’s voice and flashing red lights.

Understanding nothing, Patrick read aloud to Paulette.

Her heart rate slowed; her twitching calmed.