Pariah

TWELVE

At Doyle’s request, he drives Rachel home in her car. He tells Amy to ride in Daddy’s car with Nadine, and waits for the whines. Instead he gets a ‘Yay!’ So much for being pleased to see him.

Doyle takes his eyes off the road for a glance at Rachel. Little more than a murmur or two has escaped her lips since they left the hospital.

No biggie, he thinks. She’s been through a lot. Me, I got plenty to say. I just can’t find the words.

‘You okay?’ he asks.

She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps staring straight ahead.

‘This is hard for me, Cal. I haven’t experienced anything like this before. It’s scary.’

‘I know, babe.’

‘I don’t know what the hell is happening to us. Who could do something like this?’

‘I really don’t know. But I’m gonna stop him. Okay? I’m gonna get this sonofabitch.’

They lapse into silence again. Doyle can sense a pressure building up in his wife.

‘You said you’d call me.’

A few simple words, but Doyle knows there’s an avalanche of emotion waiting just behind them.

‘I know. I tried. I couldn’t get through to you. Obviously you had no cellphone, and-’

‘When? When did you try?’

Be careful here, he thinks.

‘Earlier this evening. It’s been kinda hectic today.’

‘I understand. What with the death of Tony Alvarez and all.’

Shit. This ain’t gonna work out well.

‘You heard about Tony, huh?’

‘Yes, I heard. Eventually. You want to hear how my day went? I spent the morning trying to come to terms with what happened to Joe. Then I spent the afternoon doing exactly the same thing for Tony. And for most of this evening it looked as though I would have to do it all over again. Only this time for you, Cal. For you.’

‘Look, I’m okay. We’re both okay. He was just trying to frighten us, that’s all.’

‘Well, he did a damn good job. I’ve been worried ever since you told me about Joe. And when I heard about Tony, you know what my first thought was after I got over the shock? I thought, Christ, I need to call Cal. I need to find out what’s going on, check he’s okay. Because that’s what wives and husbands do, Cal: they check on their loved ones when bad things are happening around them. And then I thought, No, why should I call? He should be calling me, just like he promised less than twenty-four hours ago. He should care enough to pick up the telephone and pass on a few reassurances to his wife and daughter that he’s not wearing wings just yet.’

Her words are broken by sobs, and she brings a hand to her mouth to stifle them.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hush. It’ll be okay.’

‘Don’t shut us out, Cal. Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Remember that.’

He just nods then. He has an answer, but he knows she’s not ready for it. Not yet.

They park the cars and congregate on the front stoop. It’s clear to Doyle that Nadine has detected a frostiness in the air that has nothing to do with the icy December weather. When Rachel invites her in, it’s voiced without conviction. Doyle can almost see the subtitle that says, Don’t you dare say yes to this invitation. Nadine reads it too, and declines despite Amy’s pleading. She says her goodbyes to each of them in turn, promising Amy that she will come to see her rabbit when she gets one, then gets in her car and drives away.

In the apartment, all conversation is between Doyle and Amy, or between Rachel and Amy. Anxious to restore the third side of the triangle, Doyle follows Rachel into the kitchen. She keeps her back to him as she opens and closes cabinet doors.

‘Rach.’

‘I have to fix something for Amy. She hasn’t eaten yet, and it’s already way past her bedtime.’

Her voice is flat, emotionless — her way of telling him how mad and upset she is.

‘Rach.’

‘Can you get Amy in the shower, please?’

He stays in the doorway for a while, watching Rachel and wondering how she manages to keep her back aimed in his direction no matter where she moves to in the room. Eventually he slips away.

He coaxes Amy away from the TV, bribing her with a ride on his shoulders that he feels he’s not making as much fun as it usually is. He helps her undress, and talks her into carrying her dirty clothes to the hamper. He struggles to push all of her strands of hair under a Clifford the Dog shower cap, then lifts her into the shower and heads back to the kitchen.

Rachel is warming something up in a pan on the stove. Her arms crossed, she watches the pan like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. Which maybe it is to her right now.

‘Amy’s in the shower,’ he says, because he needs to say something even though it does nothing to make him more interesting than the pan.

‘Thanks,’ she says over her shoulder, still not turning, still not facing him.

He leaves her to her thoughts and goes into the bedroom. He starts to do what has to be done.

In the background he hears Amy singing a nursery rhyme. Something about cheeky monkeys and what they get up to on a bed. She can hold a tune too, unlike either of her parents.

He continues with his task, but remains alert to the distant drone of family life. He smiles at Amy’s usual complaints when the shower is turned off before she’s had a chance to flood the floor. Later, he hears the chink of cutlery against plate as she eats, her mother constantly reminding her to take another mouthful. He hears the trip back to the bathroom, the garbled chatter of Amy as she speaks through foam while getting her teeth brushed.

These noises, devoid of interest to anyone else, are precious to Doyle. They represent normality. He bitterly resents having them stripped from him.

Five minutes later Rachel enters the room, a monotone sentence already on her lips. ‘You should say goodnight to your-’

She stops then, as she takes in what she did not expect to see.

‘What are you doing?’

Doyle straightens up, drops a clumsily folded shirt onto the bed. ‘I’m packing, Rach.’

‘Why?’ she demands, the question tainted with hurt and anger.

‘I have to get out of here.’

‘Bit of an over-reaction, wouldn’t you say? I give you one little bit of criticism-’

‘No. Rach. You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with what you said to me earlier. You were totally right about that.’

She gestures at the suitcase on the bed. ‘So, then, why?’

‘I don’t have a choice. In order to protect you, I have to leave. Simple as that.’

She shakes her head. A tiny movement of both disbelief and negation.

Doyle says, ‘Rachel, what happened in the hospital tonight was a warning. The sicko who wants to hurt me was showing us what he could have done for real, to you and Amy. He’s already proved he has no qualms about killing people. We’ve got five dead bodies already. I don’t want to see any more, especially members of my own family. That’s why I have to go, so he’ll leave you alone.’

‘What if I don’t want you to go? What if I think the best way for you to protect us is to be here, by my side? Does my opinion count?’

Doyle sighs. ‘That note the nurse gave me? It wasn’t the first. Whoever’s sending them keeps telling me that anyone I stay in close contact with is in danger. For whatever twisted reasons, he wants me on my own.’

‘Why? I don’t understand.’

‘Me neither. All I know is that I can’t stay here, because he’ll come here too. With me gone, you’re safe.’

She lowers her eyes as she considers his words. When she lifts her gaze again he sees her sadness.

‘How long, Cal? How long are you going to be away?’

He shrugs, then counters his uncertainty with a smile of optimism. ‘We got a lot of people on this. He can’t keep this up for long. I might be moving back in tomorrow night. Keep my side of the bed warm.’

She tries a smile, but it’s a half-hearted attempt that tells him she’s not convinced.

‘Let me say goodnight to Amy,’ he says.

As he brushes past her she touches a finger to his arm.

‘Cal?’

He stops and looks into eyes that are now brimming with tears.

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she says.

He takes her in his arms then, presses her whole body against him, wishing he could carry this closeness with him when he walks out the door.

Rachel asks, ‘Where will you go?’

‘A hotel. Somewhere I don’t have to mix with people.’

‘That’s a pretty lonely existence. That’s not you, Cal.’

‘It’s for one night. A couple at the most. I’ll call you all the time, I swear.’

She runs a finger under one eye, catching a tear. ‘You’d better, if you know what’s good for you.’

He takes her face in his hands, plants a big kiss on her mouth. ‘Give me five minutes.’

He leaves the bedroom, walks across to Amy’s room. She’s sitting up in bed, looking at a book about something called a Gruffalo.

‘Daddy!’ she says when he walks in.

‘Hi, pumpkin. You ready for sleep yet?’

‘Oh, no. But I am a little bit tired. Is it late now?’

He perches himself on the edge of her bed, and she wriggles over to make more room for him.

‘Yeah, it’s late. I’m going to bed myself soon. I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’

‘Catching bad guys?’

‘That’s right: catching bad guys. And it’s going to keep me so busy, I might not even be able to come home for a day or two. What do you think of that?’

She shakes her head emphatically. ‘Not good. I don’t want you to stay away, not even for one day.’

‘I’ll come back home as soon as I can, honey. I promise. Meantime, you be good for Mommy, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she says, begrudgingly. ‘And then maybe when you come back, you can bring me a rabbit?’

‘We’ll see,’ he says. He takes the book from her, tucks her and her toy bears into the bedclothes, then leans over and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Amy.’

‘Night, Daddy.’

He rises from the bed, steps toward the doorway and the light switch.

‘Daddy!’

Amy is sitting bolt upright in bed again, as if awaking from a nightmare.

‘What is it, hon?’

‘Tomorrow is my dance show. I’m getting a medal. You have to be there.’

Shit! The show. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘I, uhm, I’ll do my best, honey, okay? I’ll try to be there, I really will.’

‘You promised.’

‘I know, Amy, I know. Let me see what I can do, okay?’

But he knows he’s not going to be there. And as he repeats his goodnight wish and turns out the light and closes the door, he feels like a complete heel. He feels like the sort of father he swore he would never be. Like his own father, the bastard.

He knows how much little things like this mean to a child. In the grand scheme of things it’s nothing; to a six-year-old girl it’s everything. The empty seat in the theater tomorrow will create a bigger emptiness in her heart — one that he may never fill. He knows this because of all the holes that were opened in his own heart as a kid. They never close over, not fully.

For that alone — never mind all the other things — Doyle swears vengeance. You want to break my daughter’s heart, then go ahead. Just know that when I catch you, I’m gonna tear out your own heart and make you eat it, you fuck.

For what he can afford, the Cavendish Hotel near Union Square seems decent enough, although the reception staff are none too happy about a booking for an indeterminate number of nights, what with all the Christmas shoppers swarming into town at the moment. In the end Doyle stretches himself to a three-night reservation, extracting in return (inequitably, it seems to him) a verbal agreement that the hotel staff will do their utmost to keep the room available for longer if required.

His room is clean, the carpet isn’t too threadbare and the bed isn’t too concave in the middle, but Doyle can’t settle. Things aren’t where he expects them to be. The smells are different; the noises are different. He’s not used to a bathroom without a window, and a view from the bedroom that’s fascinating only if you have a thing for bricks. Worst of all, he’s alone. He cannot reach out for the warmth of his wife in the bed next to him; he cannot lift up his daughter and smell the shampoo in her hair.

Doyle throws his clothes into drawers, then calls Rachel on the phone. He lies about how comfortable he is here, and understates the truth about how much he’s missing his family. After the call he kills some time reading the hotel information brochures, then murders another hour or so staring at the flat-screen TV. It just makes him wonder how long it’ll be before living in a box like this drives him insane.

Despite his tiredness, he is bursting with a high level of contained energy. To release it, he does some sit-ups and push-ups, then takes a shower. But still he feels like a caged lion with claustrophobia.

When he can stand it no longer, he escapes his room and goes in search of the bar.

The bartender is a swarthy Greek called George. Doyle asks him if the hotel has Guinness on tap, but they don’t.

‘Okay, make it a whiskey. Irish. Be as generous as you like.’

When it’s poured, he raises the glass. ‘To absent friends.’

He knocks it back, slams the glass down on the counter. ‘Hit me again, George,’ he says.

And keep on hitting me till I’m numb.