The Fever Kill

Chapter Seventeen

Teddy taunted him. Crease didn't mind much. The voice kept him awake.

So he was nuts. There was no other way to explain why he didn't rush to a hospital instead of driving to New York. You had to live with some truths and die with others. The entire ride he considered his options, if he should happen to make it. He could tell the whole story to his superiors and get reassigned to some other dealer or runner. Spend another couple of years on the rim, climbing up the chain and getting in tight with somebody just like Tucco, eventually have another showdown. He could do that.

Teddy was telling him to just give in and go with the cash flow. Morena would help him make it work. They could just take over the business, improve holdings. Tucco had been lazy, hadn't expanded when he should have, allowed too many people to skim. It wouldn't be like that anymore.

When they sent in another narc, Crease should be able to sniff the guy out easily. And even if he couldn't, they wouldn't care about taking him down so long as he gave a few others up along the way.

He took I-91 south through Massachusetts and crossed over into Connecticut. Pockets of intense rain swept across the road like it was clearing half the world away. He wanted to go with it. The sun broke through. I-95 was loaded with family trailers and SUVs and elderly couples out for a New England Drive.

The dead were packed into the 'Stang with him. They whispered loudly and he tried his best to listen, to their advice or confessions, but their chatter drowned each other out. Mary was telling Teddy to shut up. There still wasn't any pain. The wound had stopped bleeding and Morena's scarf made a decent bandage.

Morena had his gun and he'd left his own butterfly blade stuck in Tucco's sweater, but he still had the Bowie, in case he needed it. He didn't know why it comforted him. The dead razzed him about it. Teddy said he was sexually hung up. Mary Burke tried to strangle the bear but she didn't have any luck. Teddy kept on talking.

Crease hit New York and swung it out across the Throgs Neck onto Long Island just as the sun began to set.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to his own house. He didn't fully understand why he was back now. Maybe to fix the screen door. Maybe to ask forgiveness from Stevie.

It was possible. He thought of lying side by side with Joan in their bed and a part of him wanted to let loose with a groan of relief and another part knew it could never work. Her bringing him breakfast in bed. Her calling out to him in the bathroom saying he needed to remember to floss. Her asking all the time, What are you thinking?

The tires squealed as he took the exit too fast, muscling through traffic on the service road until he finally turned into the neighborhood. He let the 'Stang prowl, low-slung and growling as it paced up and down the blocks. Teddy told him to get ready for a surprise.

There was a Taurus just pulling away from the curb in front of the house. Crease caught a flash of a mustached face and shiny moussed hair before the guy slid past and was gone around the corner.

Crease pulled into the driveway and got out. His legs were shaky and a wave of nausea rolled over him, but it was over in a moment. He buttoned his jacket. He got to the door and wasn't sure what to do. He should probably knock, but this was his house. The house of the cop he was, that he used to be. His father told him to walk in. Crease walked in.

Joan was in the living room, bent over the coffee table clearing away an empty bottle of beer, a half-finished screwdriver, and a bowl of chips and salsa. He checked his watch. Seven o'clock. An after work drink with the guy.

Well, he thought. Well.

He smelled fresh-baked pie. From a back room-Stevie's room-came the throb of music. He started down the hall and stopped. He still didn't know what the hell he might say to his son.

Joan stepped over and said, "You don't look well. Your face, you've been fighting. Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need something?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you here?"

He never expected her to ask why. All this time, he'd figured she'd just take him back, feed him meals, swab his wounds, talk his ear off until he hated her. She said, "Crease? Talk to me. What's happened? What's wrong?" She noticed the pants, where his blood had darkened them. "What's all over you?"

He stared into her eyes and he didn't hate her at all. It was a revelation of sorts.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"A friend."

"A friend," he repeated. "Your friend?"

"His name is Ken. He's very nice. He's a guidance counselor at Stevie's school."

So that's where she'd been until midnight after the parent-teacher meeting. And Crease had been telling Reb he was certain that Joan didn't have another man. Out of everything, why had he been so confident about that?

"Crease, why are you walking like that? Are you drunk? Are you sick? Did you throw up on yourself? Tell me what you want me to do."

"Nothing," he said.

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to see Stevie."

Her face hardened. She checked down the hall to see if their son's door was still closed. "I don't think that would be such a good idea."

Crease couldn't believe what he'd heard. "What?"

"Ken says that Stevie has a great deal of repressed rage towards you."

"It's not so repressed."

"All the more reason why, if you're serious about dealing with some issues, we should be in counseling."

He almost agreed. "Joan, I just want to see him for a minute, all right? Then I'll go."

"What do you want to say to him?"

"I won't know until I say it."

The roar of an engine broke the night, swarming the house until the windows rattled. The mad screech of tires tore up the street. Crease parted the blinds. Jesus Christ, it was the Bentley. Sure, if the tech kids could find him in Hangtree, they could find him here.

He had choices to make, and the sense that time was running out filled him with a flood of anxiety. Odd, when you thought about it, since Tucco was now dead. One war was over. Maybe it had been the easiest one to fight. This other one with himself just kept on going and going and would never come to an end.

"Who are those people outside?" Joan asked.

Crease turned and went for Stevie's room, but the door was open. His beautiful boy was standing there staring at him, saying nothing.

He walked to his son. Stevie was afraid and backed up, step by step until he was almost in the kitchen, scowling with his face turning red.

"Stevie?" Crease said. "I just want to talk to you for a minute, okay?"

The boy shook his head, not in response to his father's plea but as if he was trying to deaden noises in his skull. Crease had done it to the kid, passed over his problems. As far as he'd tried to keep away from him, he'd always been close enough to do the wrong thing. The expression on his face was something Crease couldn't put a name to. He knew of no word to cover it. He'd never seen it before, not on anyone. His heart beat savagely in his chest at the thought of what the boy must be going through. He took a step forward and the kid retreated. He took another step and Stevie continued to back away.

"When you were born," he said, "I thought I'd made good in the world. I'm sorry. I expected you to save me somehow. It was wrong of me to put that burden on you."

"Crease!" Joan called. "There are people running up the walk. Who are they? What trouble did you bring to my house?"

The question was, what trouble could he take away? He kept approaching his son and Stevie backed up into the kitchen.

The pie had needed to cool before Joan sliced it, but she must've thought of cutting up a piece for her new boyfriend. Crease could see the guy saying, No no, don't go to any trouble, as she scurried around the kitchen doing what she loved to do best. Treating other people kindly. Being a mother.

The knife was there on the counter and as Crease walked in Stevie went for it.

Knives, always with the knives.

Most people think of an eight-year-old as a baby. Little. Weak. But Stevie had some weight and real muscle to him already, and he was full of intent. He had a lot of rage built up inside him all right, his own fever burning. The kid was sweating. Crease tried to find something to say but everything that ran through his head sounded even more foolish than all the things he'd already said to his son.

Last time he'd tucked Stevie into bed the kid had a teddy bear propped in his arms. Teddy would lean over and look at the pictures with him. Crease would kiss Stevie goodnight and kiss Teddy goodnight too. The boy would giggle and tell him to kiss Teddy again, and Crease would.

Now, Teddy wanted blood, the kid had his vengeance to visit upon his father. The hardshell hadn't taken long to grow on him. How hard was it to read fairy tales to your baby boy? It ought to be natural. If you can blunder that you can blunder anything.

His thoughts were scattershot, winging all over. He thought of how much he had loved his own old man before the downfall. It should be worth something but it wasn't, not a thing. He had a lot to say to Stevie. Warnings, prophecies, suggestions. Guidance. Counsel, cautions, instructions.

He moved in and Stevie lashed out with the knife. The kid was fast. Crease barely got out of the way in time.

He tried again and Stevie tagged him good. The knife ripped through Morena's scarf and stuck into the same place where Tucco had shanked him.

The pain blew out the top of Crease's head.

He couldn't even scream, just let out a deep, choked up yelp. It was the kind of noise you made when your kid pretends to shoot you on the front lawn and you play dead for him.

His father had gutted him when he was a kid, and now his son had done the same thing. There was a nice balance to that, despite the agony. He couldn't help but feel like he deserved it, that the universe just wanted it this way.

Stevie thought he'd done all the damage himself and started to shriek as his father's blood poured onto the kitchen floor. Crease went down, first to one knee, then both. Then he flopped over onto his back.

He looked up at the ceiling and saw that it was stuccoed. He'd lived in the house for almost five years and never realized that.

He'd been wounded in the line of duty two, three times early in his career. It was one of the ways to advance, to collect the medals. He could take some heat, but Stevie had really put the bite on him. Blood and bile pulsed between his fingers as he tightened his hands over the wound.

He realized, with sudden, overdue clarity, that when Morena mentioned being pregnant he should've gone and just busted Tucco and returned home to Joan and Stevie. If for no other reason than to ask their forgiveness, to explain himself as best he could. He should've held his son and fought past the fever, reached the boy with quiet, honest words. Going back to Hangtree, it got him nothing, meant nothing in the end. Funny how you only recognize diversions for what they are when they're over, when you finally see how you've wasted your time.

Joan stepped into the kitchen and started screaming too. Behind her came Morena and Cruez. Joan turned and looked at them and started shouting. It was kind of funny, really, the two worlds colliding. Joan didn't think to call 911. She loved him but she loved being incapable and sorta ditsy even more. She ran in and started hugging Stevie, trying to put her hand over his eyes, the two of them howling. Maybe it should have made Crease feel cherished, but he just wanted them to shut the hell up. She dragged their son to the far side of the kitchen, as far away from Cruez as she could get, cringing from the man-monolith.

Morena stepped in, her face blank, already in charge. She grabbed a dishtowel, leaned over him and pressed it hard against his belly. It hurt like a son of a bitch now, but he liked her hand on him, the fierce power of her body up against his. She'd followed him four hundred miles, riding his tail right to his front door.

"You don't want to die," she said.

"No," he told her, "I don't think I do."

"Hold on."

Maybe it was love, maybe not. Whatever it was, he appreciated having her here now. He tried to hold her close, to put his palm across her belly and feel the baby, but she was moving again.

She shouted at Joan, "Get more towels. Call an ambulance."

"Who are you?" Joan screamed. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Move! We need the towels!"

"Get out of my house!"

Stevie broke from his mother and stepped closer. The kid was pale and panting and sweating. From the floor, Crease held his hand out to his son. The kid stood there crying, which might be a good sign. Crease wanted to tell him to quit picking on the little kids, there was no reason to be shoving girls around, he was going to have a baby brother or sister soon. He had to learn to be nice, to pick his battles, to lay off the weak, to slap down the hoods and degenerates. Stevie stared at him. Cruez came around and started to eat the pie with his fingers, grunting with pleasure. Joan continued whimpering, and she was weaving side to side but she wouldn't come any closer. Morena had snatched up the phone but didn't know the address and she was yelling at Joan to tell her, but Joan wouldn't or couldn't do it. Teddy told him he was finished. Crease made it to his feet and stumbled to the table where he sat heavily. The table had been so white and he was getting it dirty fast. He managed to light a cigarette but felt too tired to even take a drag. He held his hand out to his son again, hoping the boy would take it soon.

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The Last Kind Words

Tom Piccirilli

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