“Martha’s cheating on Brett with someone she calls N.”
“Right.”
“N. dies on the Fourth—at least, Martha thinks he dies. She writes of his death in her diary, but then Brett finds the diary, Brett decides this means his marriage is over, he’s free to go.”
“On his mission.”
“Crusade.”
“Crusade.”
“So he leaves. Martha’s confused and upset; she asks me to go out and find Brett. But while I’m out looking for him, the lover turns out not to be dead after all. They reunite, hit Cortez with a shovel, and leave town together.”
“Riding on a dragon,” says Culverson.
“You’re teasing me.”
“I am.”
Culverson widens his grin and drains the tea. In the silence I picture Alyssa and Micah. Where could they have gone? Where’s Martha? Where’s my sister?
It’s too quiet in here, unnervingly quiet: no radio playing from the kitchen, as there used to be, the cook Maurice singing along with a deep cut from Planet Waves. No muted clang of cutlery and murmured conversation from other tables, no humming ceiling fans. It occurs to me that this institution is in its twilight, not just the Somerset but this whole setup: young Palace putting the case to sage Culverson; Culverson pushing back, finding flaws. It’s untenable. It’s like the hospital, everybody doing their best on a project that is ultimately doomed.
“What I’m wondering about is that diary page,” he says. “You’re sure that diary page was the real McCoy?”
“Yes.” I pause. I stare at him. “No. I don’t know.”
“I’m talking about the handwriting,” he says. “You’re sure it was the girl’s handwriting?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Dammit.”
I close my eyes and I can picture it, the block letters on the cinnamon-scented page: HE’S DEAD N. IS DEAD HE’S REALLY DEAD. I try then to hold it up next to the quote, transcribed from St. Catherine and taped up by Martha’s bathroom mirror: IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU SHOULD BE… but I’m uncertain, I can’t tell, and I don’t have that pink page anymore. It’s somewhere in the blockhouse, it’s drowning in the mud of Fort Riley or fluttering out over the ocean like a bird.
“I just didn’t think of it,” I say, appalled that I could have overlooked something so obvious.
“It’s okay,” says Culverson, signaling to Ruth-Ann with two fingers for more hot water.
It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. I toy with the mostly empty condiment jars: ketchup, mustard, salt. A plastic vase sits among them, bits of stem floating in a quarter inch of water at the bottom. It’s hot and dark in here, a couple stray beams of weak sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds. So simple. So obvious. The handwriting.
“I suppose it would be useless to note,” says Culverson, “that there is no point in investigating anything. It’s not like, you find this killer, and he’s locked up and you get a promotion. The office of the attorney general is shuttered. There are literally raccoons living in there.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I know all that.”
“And if your babysitter has really been kidnapped, what are you going to do? Rescue her with that cute little gun that McConnell gave you?”
“No.” I scratch my head. “Actually, I lost it.”
Culverson looks at me for a second, and then he bursts out laughing, and I do, too, and we both sit there cracking up for a second, Houdini staring at me with questioning eyes from where he’s stationed himself under the table. Ruth-Ann comes over to pour our hot water—that’s about all she’s got left, hot water, and there’s something funny about that, too, there really is. And I’m really dying now, pounding the table, making the condiment containers dance and slide around the surface.
“You guys are a couple of lunatics, you know that, right?” says Ruth-Ann.
We both look down, and then up at her. Culverson’s shirt billows around my slender frame like a nightdress. Tufts of graying chest hair poke out over the V-neck of his undershirt. We laugh all over again, about our own ridiculousness, and then Culverson remembers he wanted to tell me about poor Sergeant Thunder, the weatherman, who has been waiting outside on his porch since six this morning, apparently, waiting for the convoy that’s supposedly coming to escort him to the World of Tomorrow.
“I just know the dumb S.O.B.’s going to come over tonight,” says Culverson, “wanting to borrow a cup of everything.”
We collapse in fresh giggles, and Ruth-Ann shakes her head, over at her counter, turns back to the same issue of the Monitor everyone has been reading for a month.
“All right,” I say to Culverson at last, pushing the last small teardrops from the corner of my eyes with the back of my working hand. “I’m going.”
“Home?”
“Not yet. I’ve got a quick idea I want to follow up on, on the Martha thing.”
“Of course you do.”
I smile. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
Houdini gets up as I get up, looks sharply into the corners of the room, stands stiff and straight with head cocked to one side.
“Oh, wait,” says Culverson. “Hold on. Sit. Don’t you wanna see it?”
“See what?”
“The samurai sword, man.”
I sit. The dog sits.
“You said not to ask you about it.”
“Well, yeah, you know. People say all kinds of stuff.” He takes it out from under the table, slowly, one curved inch at a time: a real weapon, glinting in the pale light.
“Holy moly.”
“I know.”
“I said a toy sword.”
“I couldn’t find a toy one.” He tugs the sweaty undershirt forward off his chest. “Listen, Stretch. You go solve your case. I’ll find the kids.”
I try and fail to hide the pleasure that this announcement brings me. I bite my lip, employ the dry and sarcastic voice I have learned, over many years, from Detective Culverson. “I thought you said there was no point in investigating anything.”
“Yeah,” he says, and stands, lifting the sword. “I know what I said.”
4.
“No way,” says Nico’s awful friend Jordan, staring at me in the doorway of the vintage clothing store. “You’re kidding me.”
He’s wearing jean shorts, the Ray-Bans, no shirt, no shoes. His hair is a slovenly mess. A blonde is passed out in a sleeping bag on the shop floor behind him, fast asleep, cheek pressed against the one slim bare arm thrown out from the bag.
“Jordan,” I say, peering behind him into the store, the cluttered bins, big black garbage bags overflowing with wool socks and winter hats. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he says, pressing a hand into his bare chest. “Ésta es mi casa, señor. What are you doing here?” He looks at me in Culverson’s oversized shirt. “Are you here for some clothes?”
“Nico said you were all going to the Midwest.” I can’t bring myself to say “to recon with the team.” It’s too ridiculous. “For the next phase of your plan.”
We’re still standing on the threshold of the store, desolate Wilson Avenue behind me. “These sorts of plans are changing all the time.” Jordan lifts one foot to scratch the opposite calf. “I’ve been reassigned. This is team holding-down-the-fort.”
The blonde girl makes a sleepy mew and stretches, rolls over. Jordan sees me watching her and grins wolfishly.
“Do you need something?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
I step past him, into the shop, and Jordan makes a light tsk-tsk.
“Hey, that’s trespassing, dude. Don’t make me call the police.”