Authors: Cam Rogers
The conversation behind them shifted tone. Gone was the music of pleased-to-meet-you. Smiles faded from Zed and Aberfoyle’s eyes.
Paul’s voice cracked. “Jack. Plan B.” He hated himself for the sound of it. “If there is one, now’s the time.”
Jack took a half-interested look at the scene behind him: Zed and Aberfoyle, standing face-to-face. Aberfoyle’s three wide-bodies propping up his town car, not concerned enough to even draw weapons. One of them looked at his watch. The other one signaled to a third, who sat in the car, listening to the radio. He got out, handed a heavy paper bag to the second, who took out a pre-loved Beretta with a tape-wrapped grip and checked the magazine.
Jack faced the front. To Paul that was an admission: This was now real. This was happening.
Paul swallowed. “They say … they say he shoots people with silver bullets,” he whispered. “When the coroner finds one the case goes away. The cop who returns it to Aberfoyle gets five grand. They say he keeps the used ones in a jelly jar on his desk.”
Jack kept his voice low. “You told me the same story when we were nine. I’ve still never heard anything that—”
Aberfoyle took a snub-nosed .38 out of his pocket, snapped the cylinder open, checked the contents. The ass-ends of six slugs flashed like mirrors.
“I stand corrected.”
The cylinder clicked shut. The wide-bodies sauntered over to Aberfoyle and Zed. Gravity seemed to be charging them double, but they didn’t care.
Zed nodded a hello. “Mario. Luigi. Princess Peach.”
No reaction from the first two. Princess smiled like a prehistoric fish and held eye contact with Zed way too long.
Paul went white. “Fuck me.”
Jack backhanded Paul in the chest. “Take it easy. Wolves dig panic.”
Paul nodded, a little too quickly.
“All right. Worst comes to worst, over the side, aim for the slope. Legs first.”
“What?”
Aberfoyle’s voice suddenly went up an octave. “The universe responds to clear intentions, girl. Mine is to get what’s mine. What’s yours?”
“Hey, Trouble, c’mere.” Zed beckoned Jack over, introduced him in that New Jersey accent. “This is my friend. His name is Jack Joyce. He is the brother of William Joyce, the scientist. The man who owes you all that money.”
Aberfoyle turned to Jack. “For a smart man your brother is very stupid.”
“Zed?”
Aberfoyle tapped Jack sharply on the side of the head with the silver-loaded .38. “Hey. Over here. You and your brother. You close?”
“He’s an idiot and I want this over with. What does he owe you?”
Aberfoyle had a laugh like bad plumbing. “More than he’s got. More than
you
got. You got a spread. Nice piece a land. Nice house. I’m takin’ that. But so we’re clear: that don’t even cover the vig.”
“The interest,” Zed clarified.
“I watch
The Sopranos,
” Jack said. “So what do we do? No, wait, fuck that. You’re not getting the house.”
“The fuck you say?”
“Give me a figure, I’ll work something out.”
“The
fuck
you
say
?” The .38 was up.
Jack wondered if those kind eyes would be the last thing he ever saw. “I said you’re not getting the house.”
“Mr. Aberfoyle,” Zed interjected, smiling. “You’re a businessman. Let’s business.”
Aberfoyle allowed Zed to lead him a few steps away from Jack. “Boys. Eyes on that one.” Aberfoyle adjusted his jacket, gave Zed what was left of his patience. “Make it good and make it quick.”
“There’s a reason I requested you meet me here,” she said. “It’s the view.”
Paul glanced over the side. His depth perception telescoped hard enough to nudge his balance off-center. “Aim for the slope. Right.” He felt sick, closed his eyes.
“That gun you carry,” Zed was saying. “The one with the shiny bullets. You direct it toward a problem, pull the trigger, and that problem goes away. Click. Bang. Deleted.”
“I like that. I’m takin’ that one.”
“There’s a quote—apocryphal—attributed to Michelangelo. The Pope admired Michelangelo’s sculpture of David. He asked Michelangelo, ‘How did you do that?’ The story goes that Michelangelo replied, ‘I simply cut away everything that doesn’t look like David.’”
“I don’t get it.”
“Look at Riverport. You control so much of it. You didn’t build that control; you used your magic gun to cut away anything that didn’t look like control. Businesses. Careers. People.” Zed held up one finger. “I have a magic gun, too.” Cocked her thumb. “Click click.” She stretched her arm toward the horizon, pointed her magic finger at a lone warehouse close to the waterside. “A year ago your son was DJ’ing at a house party. A girl needed to charge her phone. He let her plug it into his laptop. He synched that phone, downloaded her photos, shared a few choice ones with his friends. One of the photos showed the girl and her boyfriend inside an industrial-grade hydroponic setup. Your boys followed her boyfriend, found the warehouse—the same warehouse my magic gun is pointing at right now.” She looked Aberfoyle in the eye. “Those two kids are dead. No one knows who did it, never will, and you have two more silver slugs in a jelly jar on your desk.”
Aberfoyle’s bottom lip devoured his top, blood vessels reddening around his nose. “Do you believe in God?”
“Click.”
Aberfoyle took a threatening step toward her.
“Bang.”
The warehouse went up in flames. Aberfoyle went from red to white.
“Calm down, Orrie, it meant nothing to you. You’re a child of the fifties. You like cars.” Zed’s magic gun shifted target. “Click.”
“I will fucking end you.”
“Bang.”
The windows of a downtown chop shop blew out, the corrugated roof spewing blackest smoke. Aberfoyle’s phone started ringing. He fumbled it out, stabbed it open, shouted, “I know! Handle it!” He disconnected, raised the .38. Zed kept her eye on Aberfoyle while her gun-finger moved to its third target.
“Don’t you dare.”
Princess snatched the tape-wrapped Beretta from the backup goon and checked in. “Boss?”
“You like boats?” Zed asked.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Click.”
Aberfoyle’s gun was shaking. “Don’t…!”
“Bang.”
On the river a yacht exploded.
“Click.”
“No—”
“Bang.”
And another one.
“Click—”
“STOP!”
Zed looked him in the eye. “To answer your question, Orrie: No. I don’t believe in God. I believe in cause and effect.” And then, “Bang.”
Aberfoyle shrieked as a million dollars turned into a waterborne mushroom cloud. Zed slapped the .38 out of his grip before he could pull the trigger. It hit the deck and went skidding.
“Good-bye, Orrie.” She quickly stepped aside.
Princess got ahead of himself, racked the slide, and fired. Sideways, like he had seen in a movie. Princess was no Michelangelo.
The life of Orrie “Trigger” Aberfoyle was taken in hand by a 9mm slug and together they leaped out a ragged window just above his right ear.
Aberfoyle’s second-in-command, whose job security had just turned to shit, now profoundly miserable, dumped half a mag into Princess.
In a flash of animal panic the third guy, who now thought he was caught in the middle of an elaborate house-cleaning operation, blew away Aberfoyle’s second-in-command.
This last-goon-standing backed away, hyperventilating and wide-eyed, realizing the depth of shit he was in. He waved the gun across Zed, Jack, and Paul, feeling behind him for the car. Zed picked up Aberfoyle’s .38 and blatted off three shots in the goon’s general direction, making sure at least two silver slugs landed in the town car’s bodywork. The goon turned the key, hit the gas, and their immediate problems vanished in a slamming driver-side door and a long shriek of rubber as the town car fishtailed once and tore out of there. The three of them watched it disappear down the road.
Paul’s legs lost their muscle, betrayed him, and he pitched back toward the waist-high rail.
Jack was there, seizing him hard by the arms, keeping him from toppling. Paul wanted to say something funny in that moment, something Jack would have said, but all that came out was “Go Team Outland.”
Zed appeared, calm hand on Paul’s shoulder as she waited for him to get his breathing under control. “Here.” She pressed a single silver bullet into Paul’s trembling hand. She gave one to Jack and kept one for herself. “That’s the future we stole back.”
That .38 slug flashed brightly. “Business school,” Paul said, and closed his hand. “I’m going to business school.”
Jack pocketed his. “I’m starting over. Somewhere else.” To Zed, “Come with me.”
Zed looked at her own, softly smiled, and sent that .38 slug sailing into the sky and out over Bannerman’s Overlook.
Into the Great Mystery.
Saturday, 8 October 2016. 3:33
A
.
M
. Riverport, Massachusetts. Six years later.
The For Sale sign lay on its back in the dewy grass, the house ragged since Zed occupied its rooms. The illuminated skyline behind the sagging roof was a changed thing: smart office blocks, gleaming high-rises, exclusive apartments.
The monolith that was Monarch Tower dominated it all: a Titan’s spear tip of irregularly cut black crystal, lit bright with the burning sign of a geometric butterfly.
Monarch Solutions: many-armed, known by all.
A train rattled along an elevated line that curved around and then through the central business district.
Jack Joyce had been away six years. Yet in that time Riverport had changed almost beyond recognition. The old city was breathing its last beneath all that shiny new weight.
He had picked a cold, miserable night to come back. Thirty-six hours earlier he had been on the island of Ko Samet, about four hours from Bangkok. His boots had been wedged into a white-sand beach, with a chilled bottle of Tsingtao slotted into each one. There had been the silence of the ocean and nothing but the sting in his eyes and the salt in his mouth, as he tried not to think about … Riverport.
Jack stepped away from the cab that had brought him here and shivered. Forty degrees was colder than he’d known for years, and eighteen months in Thailand had left him as tanned as the upholstery of the car he had been leaning against a short time ago. Every Monday for the last year he had told himself he’d leave the next week. But he stayed on. He’d still be in Chiang Mai if Paul hadn’t e-mailed.
I honestly thought Will was out of the woods.
Then came the erratic behavior, the outbursts, and then he threatened me. He’s in worse shape than when we were kids, Jack …
At one point William Joyce had been a genius, Jack was sure of that. His peer-reviewed quantum physics articles had netted him fame, attention, and grants. UMass opened its doors to him. The future seemed incandescent.
I drove by the house. I don’t think anyone’s been there for weeks. I’m concerned he’s living under a bridge.
Has he contacted you?
Will was a legal adult when their parents had died. On paper, custody of Jack had gone to Will. In practice, it had been the other way around: Jack spent his teenage years providing for Will, making sure his brother ate, bathed, and didn’t go off on a mental tangent and walk into traffic. Being Will’s brother was the hardest thing Jack had ever done.
On a brighter (?) note … honestly I can’t tell if this is shitty timing or kismet, but I’ve been hoping to persuade you to come home. I have something to show you—but it’s time sensitive. You need to be in Riverport this week. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a first-class flight—open-ended—back here. Day after tomorrow.
Over time Will’s quirky personality metastasized. He was a sleepwalking genius, convinced he was unearthing questions people hadn’t thought to ask—and none of it made sense to anyone. While Will had spent his days in the barn, tinkering on things that ate years and never worked, Jack had traded his teens for multiple jobs and failing grades.
He still hated himself for having been stupid enough to buy into any of it.
Two birds, one stone?
What I have to show you will change your life. I shit you not.
—Paul
“Hey man.” It was the cab driver. “You okay?”
His name was Nick. He stood about six feet in his high-tops and was friendly in a way that suggested no one had ever not been friendly back. Easygoing, broad-shouldered, with a haircut this side of
Jailhouse Rock
.
Jack hugged himself tighter against the cold and nodded at the driver. “I’m good.”
Sunday, July 4, 2010, had been a big day for Jack. After everything that had happened on the Overlook he had packed a bag, driven to his brother’s workshop, and punched Will square in the teeth. Then he had pointed his motorcycle west and left Riverport with no intention of ever coming back. Yet here he was.
Six years on the road, staying in small towns until he felt people were getting used to him—and then moving on. On some level, he realized, he was doing what Will did: retreating from responsibility, hiding from what he couldn’t handle. He didn’t care. First Jack had lost his parents, and then he had lost his brother.
And then he had lost Zed.
“How does a house go six years and not sell?” the cabbie said. “The land alone must be worth something.”
Nick had done Jack a solid and turned off the meter. His cab was a private operation, unmarked and almost certainly illegal. Jack had exited the airport, loaded his gear into the trunk and was clipping his seat belt shut when Nick had craftily hunched over the ignition to huff into a tube leading to the ignition: a Breathalyzer interlock. “All right,” Nick had said before Jack could second-guess. “Let’s hit that road!”
Jack now checked the cab for dings. It looked in pretty good shape.
“1968 Dodge Charger,” Nick said, noting Jack’s interest.
“Expensive.”
“Dad’s. Strictly a loaner.” Nick handed Jack a tiny enamel cup, hot. It even had a saucer. “Though it’s not like he’s gonna be driving it anytime soon. Diabetes got him in a wheelchair.”