It was my way of making her real to me. Even when I hadn’t heard from her in ten, fifteen, twenty years, she was always real to me, the person I told everything to, always there, whenever I needed her.”
“Jen, I don’t know what to say. Except that we’ll figure out what happened to her. I swear I won’t let it rest.”
She was eerily calm, though he suspected there was a lot going on inside her. Then she cleared her throat, and her gaze shifted, and once again, he had the impression that she was acting guilty.
“Um, about that,” she said. “My mother had a secret…I just found out.” She got up and went over to the table. Beside her laptop was a rusty tackle box, charred on the outside, something salvaged from the fire. She handed him a teacup that appeared to contain a handful of tiny stones. “I think these are diamonds,” she said. “In fact, after calling Laura, I’m sure. And I think whatever happened to my mother stems from this.”
Rourke took one of the stones in the palm of his hand while she explained that they had been hidden inside fishing sinkers, the homemade sort.
A chill slipped over him as he considered the possibilities. Mariska was in possession of a hidden fortune, and she had somehow put herself in danger. “We’ll have to verify what this is,” he said. But that chill told him Jenny was correct.
She stood by the table, looking small and lost. “I was so angry at my mother,” she said at last. “I blamed her for leaving me and never coming back. I…don’t know what to feel now.” She folded her arms under her breasts as though to hold herself together.
Here was the thing. Rourke knew for sure he was a son of a bitch, because what he was feeling was a sting of pure lust for this woman. It was nothing new, but here he was, in the wake of tragedy, wanting to take her to bed. He’d done it before, when they thought Joey had died.
And here he was again, reporting another tragedy and still wanting her. Rourke was the Grim Reaper with a hard-on.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jenny asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
Food for Thought
by Jenny Majesky
Come Spring
In Poland, the Thursday before Lent is known as
Tlusty czwartek
(Fat Thursday). When the day arrives, we know springtime is just around the corner. It’s traditional to enjoy Mazurki, which are thin cakes. Each grandmother passes the recipe down to her daughter and so on, down through the generations. The family gathers and shares the Mazurki, and passionate arguments ensue as people choose their favorites. This one nearly always wins the competition.
MAZUREK
1/2 cup pure, unsalted butter
4 ounces baking chocolate, melted
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons milk
2 cups flour
icing made from 1 cup powdered sugar and 1-3 tablespoons of milk chopped walnuts or pecans for garnish
Preheat oven to 350°F. Cream butter; add melted chocolate and sugar and mix well. Stir in eggs, one at a time. Stir in vanilla, salt and milk. Gradually add flour and mix well. Spread in greased 15 x 10 x 1-inch pan and bake for about 20 minutes. Drizzle with icing and sprinkle with chopped nuts. Cut into squares and serve.
Thirty-One
1998
R
ourke’s Saturday-night watch had just started when a call came in—personal. He picked up at the duty sergeant’s desk and stood looking out the window at the bleak, stormy weather.
“Officer McKnight here.”
“It’s me, bro,” said a welcome voice. “Home at last.”
“Joey.” Rourke shut his eyes and thought, Thank God. Joey was finally back. After the mishap that had resulted in a mistaken report of his death, Joey had been sent to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. There, he’d undergone several procedures to save his eye, but nothing had worked. He’d been transferred to Walter Reed and finally honorably discharged.
“Yep, that’s me,” he said. “Otherwise known as ‘Lucky.’”
Rourke sensed the bitter irony behind his words. Joey had lost much that night. His brothers-in-arms, whom he’d loved with unabashed ferocity, as well as his right eye. Not unexpectedly, the incident had changed him irrevocably, and a new hard wariness became apparent in his sparse e-mail messages and phone calls.
“Where are you?” Rourke asked.
“I’m in Kingston, at the station. Next train’s not for an hour. I need a lift to Avalon.
Planning to surprise the little woman, you know? She’s big on surprises.”
Rourke’s mouth went dry. What had happened between him and Jenny that night had been a huge mistake. Mutual grief had stripped away all their defenses, but that was no excuse.
And the hell of it was, he’d do it all over again if he had the chance, even though guilt ate at him every time he thought about it.
Until that night, he hadn’t known sex could be so powerful, a possession of sorts. And he hadn’t known how important that was, or how devastating when it was taken away. He had surrendered willingly, though. The second Joey had called the morning after and they realized their mistake, a sick guilt had frozen Rourke and Jenny, and they’d avoided each other ever since. Neither was sure whether or not Joey had figured out what had happened, but a terrible suspicion haunted them. They’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.
“So whaddya say?” Joey prodded.
“You been drinking, Joey?” he asked.
“Hell, I’m a soldier. A veteran. A one-eyed veteran. Of course I’ve been drinking. How about you swing down this way and give me a lift?”
A thirty-mile drive involved a little more than “swinging down.” Rourke glanced around the station. “I’m on duty. I’ll have to check with the sergeant—”
“Aw, c’mon,” Joey said. “You’re out in a patrol car anyway. You can just cruise down this way.”
“Hang on a minute and I’ll ask.”
“Since when does the great Rourke McKnight ask for permission, anyway?” Joey’s tone turned belligerent. “Usually you just help yourself.” He paused, then added, “Know what? I don’t need a ride after all. Never mind.”
“Joe—”
“I’ll see you later,” he said, and then he was gone.
Rourke scowled at the phone receiver as he hung up. The exchange left him unsettled. He entertained a brief impulse to drop by Jenny’s house to give her a heads-up, but decided against it. Joey wanted to surprise her, and there was no way Rourke was going to ruin that. Okay, he thought. He’d see about getting away to find Joey and bring him home.
Within seconds, however, a call came in and he was ordered to do a knock-and-talk at the Round Table Arms apartments. A neighbor had complained of loud noises from a family fight, a depressingly common occurrence. However, when he checked the dispatch and saw that it was the Taylor household, he shifted into gear. Grady Taylor was a mean son of a bitch when he drank, and there were kids in the house. Rourke hated guys who beat their wives and kids, hated them with a fury that made him far more dangerous than any drunk swinging his fists.
He sped through the driving rain, the cruiser fishtailing on the wet, oily pavement. He reported to dispatch and headed up a flight of iron-frame stairs. Sure enough, the argument was still going on—a man’s gruff voice and a teenage boy’s whiny, belligerent tones. He rapped on the door with his nightstick. The door jerked open.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” Grady Taylor didn’t look the part of a violent man. He was overweight, but his business suit fit well, his tie undone and casually draped around his shoulders.
He didn’t fool Rourke, though. Rourke spotted the violence in his glittering eyes and in the way his hair was slightly mussed and the raw spots on the knuckles of his right hand.
“I guess I need to be asking you that,” Rourke said, looking past Taylor. In the background stood a lanky teenage boy in hip-hop garb—oversize sweatshirt, sagging pants, chains draped from his pockets. The kid was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When he saw Rourke checking him out, he turned away as though ashamed.
“No problem here, Officer,” Taylor said amicably. “My boy and I were just having a little disagreement. Teenagers, you know…”
Shit. Did he actually expect Rourke to nod in agreement?
Yeah, teenagers.
“Looks like the disagreement was with your fist,” he said.
“It’s none of your damn business,” Taylor spat. “Jesus, what are you, twelve years old?
You got no idea what it takes to raise a kid, to keep him safe—”
“He’s not safe here,” Rourke said, then motioned to the boy. “Tell you what. You come with me, and we’ll take a little ride, give you both a chance to cool off.”
The kid didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He grabbed a big coat and walked toward the door, stuffing his hands in the sleeves.
“Don’t you dare set foot outside this house.” Taylor’s voice lashed like a bullwhip. “I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” In a blaze of white-hot fury, Rourke brought the nightstick up and across the big man’s throat, pinning him back against the door. “You’ll what, you lousy son of a bitch?”
Taylor’s eyes snapped with rage and his fists came up. Rourke felt himself pushed to the very edge of his control. He pressed harder, the nightstick against the guy’s throat. Just try me, you fat fuck, he thought. Just push me a little harder….
Taylor’s face turned dark red as he struggled for breath.
“Dad,” said the kid. “Hey, Dad.”
The voice cut through Rourke’s fury and he stepped back, releasing the pressure. Damn, he’d almost…Taylor sagged against the door frame. Rourke turned to the kid, who seemed to have forgotten his bleeding lip. A bright ribbon of blood trickled down his chin and he shook with fright—not at his father, but at Rourke.
“Let’s go,” Rourke said to him. “I’ll give you a lift to a friend or relative’s house, okay? It’
ll be all right.”
The kid was quiet as they went outside into the battering rain and got into the cruiser.
Rourke reported in, then handed the kid a wad of Kleenex for his mouth. He kept glancing up at the apartment, a worried expression on his face. Kids were incredibly loyal to their monster fathers. The boy offered the address of a friend, said he could stay there for the night. Then he rode in sullen silence.
He’s scared of me, Rourke thought.
After dropping the boy off, he’d meant to go pick up Joey, but just as he was pulling away, the radio monitor sounded. Late-model Mustang versus freight train, at the railroad crossing outside of town, just a few blocks from Rourke’s location. Emergency vehicles en route.
Rourke had a premonition before he reached the scene. He felt it like a ball of ice in his gut. Somehow he knew even before he saw the hectic, unnatural glare of emergency lights, the mangled car, the smoke and sparks flying into the night air as rescue workers extracted the victim. Even before he fought his way through the tangle of EMTs and equipment and looked at the victim, into eyes that were glazed with confusion, beyond pain. Joey was being strapped to a narrow backboard, his face chalk white.
Rourke’s heart sank like a rock.
Joey.
He was in such a hurry, he’d borrowed or rented a car and raced home to Jenny. Rourke was a fool for thinking Joey would wait for the train. That was the stupid thing. He should have known and, job or not, should have dropped everything and driven to pick up his friend.
“Joey,” he said, stepping in beside two frantic EMTs. “Hey, buddy, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
Joey’s eyes fluttered. There was blood everywhere, more blood than Rourke had ever seen, dark as an oil slick, mingling with the rain.
“You know him?” one of the EMTs asked. The look on the guy’s face told Rourke to brace himself for the worst.
“Yeah,” Rourke said, reaching for…there was no place to touch. There were tubes and blood everywhere. “Damn, Joey, look at you.”
His mouth twitched. “Rourke. Man, I…sorry.”
“Hey, don’t worry.” Rourke spoke over the swarming EMTs. He felt sick, but somehow managed to smile. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You’re doing good, Joe. These guys are going to help you.”
There was some ineffable quality to Joey’s smile, a glow, almost; clearly Joey knew he wasn’t doing good at all.
“Tell her…” His eyes rolled back.
“Joey—”
He focused again. Moved his mouth but no sound came out. His eyes rolled back again.
“She knows, buddy. I swear, I…” Something changed. A shudder went through Joey.
“Dammit,” Rourke yelled. “Do something. Can’t you fucking do something?”
Jenny was startled by a knock at the door a little before 9:00 p.m. Gram had just settled in front of the TV, and Jenny was wearing her soft but ugly pajamas. She grabbed a sweater, feeling a bit sheepish. It was only nine o’clock at night and here she was in her pajamas, like an old maid. Other people her age went down to the Whistle Stop Tavern for drinks on a night like this, or they were tucking in their kids. She suspected she was the only one in Avalon who was in her pj’s, sipping a mug of chamomile tea and getting ready to watch a rerun of
Buffy the
Vampire Slayer
with her grandmother.
Hugging the sweater around her, she opened the door. There stood Rourke, his cap tucked under his arm, standing with shoulders squared and face forward in a formal military stance. Her heart stumbled.
“Rourke?”
He stepped inside, and she saw something she had never seen before—he was about to break down. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes red-rimmed. His hands were shaking. He was shaking all over. “It’s Joey,” he said.
“Joey? But he’s in Washington, D.C. At Walter Reed. I was going to visit him next weekend—”
“He was discharged.” Rourke cleared his throat. “He was on his way back to see you and there was an accident.”
Her mind leaped to a place of hope—this was another false alarm. It had happened once and could happen again. Somebody had passed on wrong information. If she could just shut her eyes and believe that, everything would be all right. But her eyes, traitors to hope, stayed open and saw the truth spattered in blood on Rourke’s uniform, even on his skin, under his fingernails.