Don't Leave Me (17 page)

Chuck said, “It’s not what you think.”

“No move!” the old man said. The double barrels of the shotgun trembled, fixed on Chuck.

“Okay, Dad,” the young one said.

“Talk to them, Chuck!” Stan said.

“This is a mistake,” Chuck said.

“Call cop,” the old man ordered.

The son said, “Would you two sit on the floor, please?”

Chuck felt Stan shaking, put his arm around his shoulder. “Would you tell your father to put the firepower away? We were being chased, we
want
the cops to come.”

The son frowned.

“Call cop,” the father said.

“We’ve been having break ins,” the son said. “So just sit down on the floor and we’ll make the call.” He motioned with his revolver.

Chuck sat, pulling Stan down with him. They parked on the hard floor and leaned against the wall.

“Watch 'em, Dad,” the son said.

The old man nodded once, hard.

“Would you mind having him point that thing at the floor?” Chuck said.

“No floor!” Dad said.

“Might be a good idea, Dad,” the son said. “Just lower it a little.”

“Only little!”

The son disappeared through twin curtains.

And now, waiting, Chuck felt something he hadn’t in a long time. It traced a sharp line back to Afghanistan, and the security patrol that was attacked. In that whole fight, which he could barely remember, one thing did stay with him—an inner tearing. It felt like the sharp talons of a predatory bird, clawing out from inside his ribs.

There was a myth like that, Prometheus. The guy who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man. So Zeus chained him to a rock and a bird pecked out his liver. Only Zeus made the liver grow back, so it could be pecked out again the next day, and forever.

Only this bird was inside Chuck. In everything that had happened so far, the bird hadn’t come back.

Now it had.

At least the dad wasn’t pointing the weapon at Chuck anymore. It was more toward the Hispanic dish washer now, who hadn’t moved at all during the last few minutes.

“Go on, back work,” the dad said to him. Then to Chuck: “You two big trouble.”

“Are we going to be all right, Chuck?” Stan said.

“Sure. When the cops get here, we’ll straighten it all out.”

“I hate being in my underwear, Chuck.”

“Be glad you don’t sleep buck naked.”

“That’s gross, Chuck.”

Gunfire.

The sound of glass exploding.

The old man spun around. The shotgun went off.

More shots from the front, a scream.

Then silence.

The old man took a step toward the curtains.

Another shot exploded.

The old man went down, flat on his back, his head hitting the floor with concussive force.

For a second the only sound was the hot water shooting out of the sink where the dish washer once stood.

The curtains rustled, as if a soft wind were blowing them. And it stopped everything cold in Chuck’s mind, because the soft movement of them looked exactly like the curtains that danced in the hotel room on his honeymoon night. They got a beach view room, he and Julia, and she went outside to the balcony, and when Chuck came out of the bathroom he turned off the lights and there was a single candle in the room. Julia had lit the candle and Chuck could see the curtains—same color as these in the sushi joint—could see them swaying gently, gently, and Julia came back into the room, through the curtains, like a ghost passing through a wall.

But through these curtains in the sushi place came a man. He wore a black workout suit and a ski mask. His right hand held a slate-gray submachine gun.