Molting

Hell has emptied into the streets.

That’s the first thought that hits me as I stand outside Ted Polmey’s tower with one hand on my motorcycle and the other trying to remember how breathing works.

Sirens scream from every direction.

Police cruisers box in the block.

Ambulances sit with their rear doors open while paramedics move through the crowd like worker ants cleaning up after some rich man’s apocalypse.

Bikers sit handcuffed along the curb.

Deputies bleed into towels.

Office workers wander around clutching food-truck lunches they never got to finish.

A hot-dog vendor stands beside an overturned cart staring at hundreds of buns scattered across the pavement like he’s questioning every choice that brought him here.

Men in dark suits get carried from Ted’s lobby on stretchers. Pieces of white porcelain cling to their clothes.

Nobody asks about that.

Smart people.

The party is over.

Paradise has discovered you can get a hangover in the middle of the afternoon.

I look at my Harley.

She lies on her side near the parking-garage exit, scraped up and angry. The sidecar leans in the opposite direction, one support bent badly enough to make the whole thing look seasick.

John walks over to it.

He crouches beside the sidecar and grips the twisted brace.

Then he pulls.

Metal groans.

The brace straightens in his hands like warm taffy.

At this point, I barely blink.

“Angels do roadside assistance now?”

John smiles.

He grabs the handlebars and lifts eight hundred pounds of steel upright like it weighs about as much as a beach cruiser.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

He rolls the bike toward me and sets it down gently.

Scraped.

Dented.

But rideable.

Behind him, Captain Charles Henderson stands near the front steps of Ted’s building, surrounded by deputies and detectives shouting into radios.

He looks up.

Catches my eye.

Doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t frown.

Just gives me one small nod before turning back toward the madness.

I’m still not sure whether that means good job or don’t make me come looking for you.

Probably both.

John reaches into his coat and hands me a plain white card.

One phone number.

One word.

PREACHER.

I turn it over.

Blank.

I look at John.

“Not going to get a straight answer, am I?”

His smile widens.

“I’ve never lied to you, Gene.”

“Yeah.” I slide the card into my jacket. “Honesty’s never been your problem.”

John doesn’t laugh.

“Your forty hours begin now.”

I stare at him.

“Forty hours until what?”

“You and Rachel have forty hours to leave Paradise.”

I look toward Ted’s building.

Rachel stands a few feet away in her white dress, watching me.

Barefoot.

Silent.

Waiting.

“And then?” I ask.

“Go west.”

“That’s helpful.”

“California.”

I look west like maybe I can spot it from Queens County.

“California?”

John nods.

“You know that’s a pretty big state, right?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Where in California?”

“When you cross the state line, call the number.”

“That’s it?”

“You’ll be told what to do.”

I rub my face.

“Freaking angels.”

John tilts his head.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

Then arms wrap around my waist.

Soft.

Warm.

Possessive.

I look down.

Rachel presses herself against my back like she’s been riding with me her whole life.

I swallow.

Then look toward Kristy Lee.

She stands beside the sidecar with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

Her eyes move from Rachel’s hands—

To my face.

Not jealous.

Suspicious.

Yep.

This is going to go well.

Rachel climbs onto the back of my bike like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She wraps both arms around me and presses her cheek between my shoulder blades.

Kristy Lee climbs into the sidecar like she’s actively considering homicide.

I squeeze the clutch.

Pain shoots through my broken pinky and up my arm.

I ignore it.

Mostly.

The engine comes alive beneath us.

John steps back.

“Don’t waste the time, Gene.”

I look at him.

“Story of my life.”

Then I dump the clutch and disappear into the smoke.

For the first time in years—

I have absolutely no idea where home is.

Turns out home is Kristy Lee’s apartment.

At least for about four minutes.

Rachel makes it through the front door.

Walks three steps.

Then collapses.

One second she’s standing.

The next she drops like somebody cut her strings.

I catch her before her head hits the hardwood.

Barely.

My broken finger catches under her shoulder and bends the wrong way.

White pain flashes behind my eyes.

I make a sound I’m not proud of.

Rachel doesn’t react.

Her skin feels cold.

Too cold.

Her face has gone pale and waxy, like a body at a funeral that hasn’t gotten the message it’s supposed to stay dead.

Kristy Lee’s voice drops to a whisper.

“Jesus…”

I press two fingers against Rachel’s neck.

Pulse.

Slow.

But there.

I lift her carefully.

“She needs to lie down.”

Kristy Lee follows me into the bedroom.

I lower Rachel onto her bed.

That decision costs me immediately.

Rachel’s eyes flutter halfway open.

She looks directly at me.

Not Kristy Lee.

Me.

“She cannot come.”

I frown.

“What?”

Rachel’s eyes shift toward Kristy Lee.

“If she goes to California…”

She pauses.

Her breath catches.

Then she whispers:

“She dies.”

Her eyes close.

Just like that, she goes back to sleep.

I stare down at her.

Kristy Lee stares at me.

Then at Rachel.

“She wakes up long enough to tell you I can’t come, then passes out again?”

“Maybe she’s warning us.”

“Or separating us.”

Something in my head tells me Kristy Lee is right.

Then Rachel makes a small sound from the bed—

And every warning goes quiet.

I pull the blanket over her.

Kristy Lee watches me do it.

Then she laughs.

Not happy laughter.

The dangerous kind.

“You volunteered my apartment?”

I turn.

“What?”

“My apartment, Gene.”

“She needed somewhere safe.”

“She?”

Kristy Lee folds her arms.

“So Snow White gets my bed without anyone asking me?”

“She’s not my—”

Kristy holds up one hand.

“Don’t.”

I stop.

Because the truth is, I don’t know what Rachel is.

And worse—

Every time she touches me, part of me doesn’t want her to stop.

That scares the hell out of me.

Kristy Lee looks toward the bed.

“I lost my job.”

That shuts me up.

“What?”

“I didn’t show up. I didn’t call. I abandoned the station in the middle of a shift and used half their equipment to throw illegal parties across the city.”

“That last part was pretty impressive.”

“Gene.”

“Right.”

She steps closer.

“I burned every favor I had. Every marker. Every contact. I chose to do that because I wasn’t letting them take you.”

That hits harder than anger would have.

She points toward Rachel.

“But you do not get to volunteer my home to the woman trying to cut me out of your life.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“I’m not good at asking.”

“No kidding.”

She looks around the apartment.

At the records.

The books.

The cheap furniture.

The life she built after becoming someone else.

“That job was ordinary,” she says. “Quiet. Low maintenance. It was mine.”

Her voice catches.

“Do you understand how hard I worked to become ordinary?”

I don’t have an answer.

She grabs her keys from the dresser.

“Where are you going?”

Kristy Lee stops at the bedroom door.

Turns.

For the first time, she doesn’t look angry.

She looks hurt.

“To stay somewhere that doesn’t already have another woman in it.”

“Kris—”

“Advent is coming.”

I blink.

“You called her?”

“I texted her before we got here.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you’d find a way to make this worse.”

Fair.

“She’ll stay with Rachel,” Kristy says. “Don’t leave until she gets here.”

Then she walks out.

I stand beside the bed, listening to the front door close.

Rachel lies beneath Kristy Lee’s blanket looking half dead.

I’ve supposedly saved her.

So why does saving the day feel so much like losing?

Advent arrives ten minutes later.

She takes one look at me and starts signing.

I watch her hands.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means.”

She pulls out her phone, types something, and holds it up.

YOU LOOK LIKE AN EMOTIONALLY CONFUSED GORILLA.

I nod.

“Pretty much.”

She points toward the bedroom.

I show her Rachel.

Advent’s expression changes when she sees her.

The joke disappears.

She sits in the chair beside the bed and crosses her arms.

Guard duty.

I start for the door.

Advent taps the wall to get my attention.

When I turn, she points at Rachel.

Then at me.

Then drags one finger beneath her eye.

I’m watching.

“Good,” I tell her.

She flips me off.

This time I know what it means.

“Right back at’cha.”

When life gets too loud—

I go to Little Ray Ray’s.

RAY’S GYM on the outside.

Church for screwups on the inside.

I walk through the front doors trying to look normal.

Nobody buys it.

Then I see the kid from outside the Marquette.

He stands in the far ring dripping sweat, gloves raised, working the mitts with one of Ray’s trainers.

Still skinny.

Still awkward.

Still wearing a shirt three sizes too big.

Only now—

He looks like he belongs.

I stop walking.

Little Ray Ray appears beside me like he’s been waiting.

“Alphonso Junior,” he says.

“That his name?”

“His father brought him by. Sat in the parking lot for almost an hour.”

I watch Alphonso throw a clumsy combination.

The trainer corrects his feet.

He tries again.

Better.

“Father drag him inside?”

Ray Ray shakes his head.

“Boy had to decide that part for himself.”

“Why’d he come in?”

Ray Ray smiles.

“Because somebody finally told him he mattered.”

That lands.

Hard.

I don’t trust myself to answer.

So I head toward the back.

Toward my lockers.

Plural.

Some men keep family photographs.

I keep contingency plans.

I’ve got lockers like these scattered all over the city.

Cash.

Guns.

Passports.

Explosives.

Different names for different versions of me.

I could disappear fifty-two ways from Sunday.

Funny thing is—

Like the Joker, I’ve only got one reason to stay.

I open the cash locker and fill a duffel.

Enough to rebuild a few houses.

Not enough to rebuild what I broke.

I close the locker.

Stand there for a second.

Every shelf is an emergency exit.

Every bag is another way to run.

For the first time in my life, I don’t know where I’m trying to escape to.

I sling the duffel over my shoulder and head toward the koi pond.

My favorite place in the building.

Water.

Flowers.

Silence.

Peace.

I sit on the oversized bench and watch the fish move through the water.

A moment later, the bench dips.

Little Ray Ray.

Four hundred pounds of wisdom and bad jokes.

He studies the pond.

“My favorite’s the orange one.”

I nod.

“Mine too.”

There are nine orange ones.

We both know that.

Neither of us asks.

Ray Ray looks down at my left hand.

“Your finger’s pointing toward next Tuesday.”

“It’s always been ambitious.”

“You get that looked at?”

“Doctor put a splint on it.”

“Where’s the splint?”

“We had creative differences.”

Ray Ray shakes his head.

For a while, we watch the fish.

Then it all comes out.

Ted.

Ginger.

Abby.

Rachel.

John.

The wings.

The pull.

California.

Kristy Lee.

The fear.

The confusion.

The way my whole life feels like somebody picked it up and shook it like a snow globe.

When I finally run out of words, I look at him.

“Can’t a man just save the day and get the girl?”

Ray Ray considers that.

Then looks down at his belly.

“Boy, if life worked like that, I’d be skinny.”

I laugh despite myself.

Then he gets serious.

“You ain’t dying, Gene.”

“Feels like it.”

Ray Ray shakes his head.

“You’re molting.”

I stare at him.

“That the weirdest thing you’ve ever said?”

“Not even top twenty.”

Before I can ask for the list, the gym goes quiet.

I look up.

Charles Henderson walks through the front doors.

No uniform.

No hat.

Just boots, jeans, and tired eyes.

Half the kids smile when they see him.

The other half wave.

Henderson waves back.

Then walks straight toward us. Ray takes that as his cue to leave.

Henderson sits on the bench.

Looks at the fish.

“Ted’s catatonic.”

I blink.

“Seriously?”

“Doesn’t know his own name.”

That doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would.

Henderson keeps watching the pond.

“Kringle is talking.”

I turn toward him.

“About me?”

“About Ted. Apparently Santa kept an extensive naughty and nice list.”

I smile.

“Always knew he was organized.”

“Backside Lounge got raided.”

I stay quiet.

“Yorkie’s in custody. Three city officials. Two judges. Four dirty cops.”

Another pause.

“Accounts are frozen. Properties are being seized. Half Ted’s organization is trying to make deals before the other half beats them to it.”

Then:

“Empires fall.”

I look at him.

“Sounds like good news.”

“It is.”

His expression changes.

“But your time here is done.”

That hits.

I look back at the fish. An orange Koi circles a white one with a red patch over his eye.

“That supposed to feel good?”

“No.”

Silence settles between us.

Then Henderson says, “Officially, I never saw you leave that tower.”

I look at him.

“You nodded at me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Every useful camera downstairs caught smoke, masks, and two hundred idiots hitting one another.”

“And unofficially?”

He turns toward me.

“This is the last favor I ever do you.”

Not a threat.

Not from Charles.

Just truth.

“If you stay, eventually I’ll have to put you away.”

That hurts worse than it should.

Maybe because I believe him.

Maybe because part of me thinks he should.

Henderson rises.

“Take the chance, Gene.”

“What chance?”

He looks toward the front doors.

“The one most men like you never get.”

Then he leaves.

I sit there for a long time.

Watching orange fish circle the same water.

Wondering whether they know they’re trapped.

Patricia is waiting beside my motorcycle when I step outside.

She looks beautiful.

Like Paradise itself.

My left hand throbs around the duffel strap.

I hold the bag out.

“This should help rebuild.”

She doesn’t touch it.

“Malachi brought what you sent.”

“I know. This is more.”

“We have enough.”

“It’s cash, Patricia. Nobody has enough.”

She smiles softly.

“We’re rebuilding.”

Then comes the knife.

“Without you.”

I swallow.

She steps closer.

“Why don’t you do the same?”

I look away.

She touches my arm.

“There’s a good man in there, Gene.”

Her smile warms.

“Kristy Lee sees him.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m losing everything?”

Patricia thinks about that.

“My grandma would’ve said some bad juju’s got its hooks in you.”

I laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

She hugs me.

Longer than either of us intends.

Then she lets go.

“Be careful, Big Guy.”

“You too.”

Patricia turns and walks away.

I stand there watching my old life leave one goodbye at a time.

When I go back inside, Little Ray Ray tosses me a roll of athletic tape.

“Fix your finger.”

“I liked you better when you were talking about molting.”

He points toward the weights.

“Workout.”

“Or?”

He smiles.

“Keep crying.”

I tape the broken pinky to the finger beside it.

Then I work out.

Every grip hurts.

Every pull sends fire through my hand.

I keep going.

Until my arms shake.

Until my legs give out.

Until my lungs burn.

Until there’s nothing left.

Then I shower.

Lock the duffel in an empty office.

Lie down on a couch that smells like sweat and disinfectant.

By the time I close my eyes, eight of John’s forty hours are gone.

Thirty-two left.

Already feels like none.