Forgive Me (24 page)

Crystal dreamt she was in French class, except her French class was at the Moulin Rouge and her teacher, Madame Jerrie, was doing a striptease onstage while her high school marching band played “La Marseillaise.” When she awoke, she was on the cold floor of her hotel room's bath. Why in the world was she—

Oh. Right. Too much champagne. Raucous sex interrupted by raucous vomiting.

Her mouth was sandpaper. She filled a cup with water from the bathroom sink, used the first swallow to rinse out the filth in her mouth, then greedily sucked down the rest of the water and another cupful. Ahh.

What time was it? Wasn't Secret Agent Man Michel, Michel Ma Belle, due to pay them a visit at seven
A.M.
?

Crystal took a step away from the bath. The room tipped. Good Lord, she was still drunk. Had there been absinthe?

At least Scott was still on the bed. He was facedown and spread-eagled and naked, but at least he was on the bed.

“Scott…” said Crystal. She prodded at the back of his bare right calf. The muscle jiggled. She prodded again. “Scott…”

She still didn't know what time it was. The curtains were closed.

Where were their phones? Their phones would know what time it was. Their phones knew everything.

“Phones…” said Crystal. She hunted the room. “Phones…where are you, phones…?”

Knock, knock, knock.

Must be seven
A.M.
No need for phones.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Scott…the French spy is at the door…”

She prodded him at the back of his other calf. His leg shifted. She ran her fingers up and down the leg like a spider.

He snapped awake and nearly kicked her in the cheek.

“What? Who? What?”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Is that him?” he asked Crystal.

“I'll check through the peephole while you put on some pants.”

Crystal checked through the peephole: middle-aged Frenchman in a motorcycle jacket. “It's him.”

Scott slipped into his boxers from the previous night. Crystal opened the door.

“Bonjour!”
Crystal exclaimed.

As before, Michel entered without hesitation. Crystal shut the door behind him.

“There has been a change of plans,” he told them.

“Is that good?” asked Scott. “I mean, was the old plan bad? Is the new plan better?”

If Michel minded the fact that Scott was near-naked and Crystal emanated a scent that was half distillery, half alleyway-behind-the-distillery, he didn't comment. He didn't do a double take. He didn't even blink. What a professional. He did, however, elaborate on the new plan.

Upon hearing the plan, Scott and Crystal, not professionals, blinked and then did a double take and then commented as such:

“That's insane.”

“Let's do the old plan instead.”

“That's insane!”

“You're putting our lives at risk.”

“That's insane!!”

“We're not going to do it.”

Upon hearing their comments, Michel promptly disregarded them and replied, “Get dressed. We start now.”

“I don't think you…maybe there's a language barrier here…”

“No language barrier. You are afraid. Everybody is afraid. Shower. Get dressed. Clothes make us feel less afraid.”

While Scott and Crystal got ready, Michel brewed himself a cup of coffee and watched cartoons on their TV. His expression remained static, chiseled. When they were finished, he waited until the commercial before turning it off.

“Look,” said Scott, “it's not that we're not appreciative. We're very appreciative. But we're not…what you're asking us to do…we're not heroes.”

“There are no heroes. Now we go.”

“No,” said Scott.

“Yes,” said Crystal. She turned off the hair dryer. “Yes.”

“But…”

“Scott, we have to.”

“We
don't
have to.
None
of this has been necessary. We've been dancing to their music for days and days—and for what? All I wanted to do is be with you. Last night was the first time we've been able to actually have fun. And we've earned it. We don't owe anybody anything.”

“We can make a difference.” She turned to Michel. “Right?”

“I don't know. I don't care. I am walking out the door now. Follow me or don't.”

Michel walked out the door.

“Scott…”

“Crystal, no…”

“There's a greater good.”

“There's you. That's all that matters to me.”

“And this matters to me.”

Scott closed his eyes. Scott opened his eyes.

“Then it matters to me,” he said.

They met up with Michel just as the elevator doors were closing.

As per the plan, they left the hotel and strolled several blocks north. At this hour, the foot traffic was minimal. Still, they walked slowly. They held hands. The sun was cold, the air unmistakably autumn. They were wearing coats.

Michel was nowhere in sight.

That didn't mean he wasn't there with them. He had assured them he would be there with them.

Scott and Crystal had one more block to go before they reached their destination. They tried to enjoy the centuries-old architecture, the perfume of liquefied coffee beans, the very fact of being in the epicenter of high culture.

They tried.

“Here we are,” said Crystal.

And here they were. The Poste de Police. Across the street from an HSBC. Convenient. A steel barricade and a series of traffic cones stood outside the front door, but they didn't seem to be there to impede anyone.

“Maybe they're street art,” Scott observed.

“Anything's possible,” Crystal concurred.

“That's for sure.” Scott tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So now what?”

“Now we wait. That's the plan. Now we wait until…”

“Until François and/or Mathilde show up.”

“Or the police arrest us for loitering. Or François and/or Mathilde have no idea we've left our hotel room. Or François and Mathilde have stopped caring.”

“Or Mathilde is standing in front of the HSBC and is about to cross the street.”

As in fact she was. And she did. Quite aggressively. Rather than approaching them directly, though, Mathilde took a seat on the curb about ten yards away. She motioned with her head for them to join her. So Scott and Crystal joined her.

“You had one rule,” she said in a conspiratorial half whisper. “One. No contact with the police. What do you think you're doing?”

“How did you know we were here?”

Mathilde shrugged. “I followed you.”

“How did you know we'd even gotten up?”

“Oh. That. We paid a girl at your hotel to tell us when you leave. And where do you go? Is the police station in your vacation guidebook?”

“Who is paying you, Mathilde?”

“That is not of your concern.”

“Two people are dead. You talk tough, but have you ever seen a person die right in front of you? Because we have. Do you even know what's going on or are you and François just a pair of dutiful little soldiers?”

“You know less than you think. Only two people are dead? You have no idea. And yes, François and I are dutiful little soldiers because we follow a cause. What cause do you follow? You have no idea. Your world is so small.”

“So enlighten us.”

Mathilde clucked dismissively. “ ‘Pearls before swine.' ”

“And where's your better half?”

“That again is not of your concern.”

“You know what I think?” said Crystal. “You remind me of my brother Jeffrey. Scott, doesn't she remind you of Jeffrey?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“See, my brother Jeffrey is what you might call a conspiracy nut. Do they have those over here? I bet they do. I know they do, actually, because I think you're one of them. See, Jeffrey thinks the government is out to get him. Well, not him. Not just him. The people. The government is out to get the people and take away their guns and round them up and…spank them? I don't even know. The government, according to Jeffrey, not only shot President Kennedy and is hiding aliens at Area 51 but it also crashed two planes into the World Trade Center in order to justify…stealing oil from the Middle East? Giving a boost to the military industrial complex? Again, it varies. But he believes in these things and he goes to rallies and whenever anyone challenges him on it, what does he say, Scott?”

“He says he's a patriot to the cause.”

“A patriot to the cause. Yeah. And that we have no idea. And that if we knew what he knew, we'd be out there with him. Now, Mathilde, doesn't that sound familiar?”

Instead of replying, Mathilde glanced back at the police station. Her brow furrowed. “Why haven't you gone inside the police station yet?”

“Would you like us to?” asked Scott.

“Where's François?” asked Crystal.

Mathilde got up. But it was too late. Two French inspectors were already hustling out of the station. They had their weapons drawn but not yet aimed, not yet.

Mathilde started to run.

They demanded she stop.

They called her by name.

She stopped.

Meanwhile, Scott and Crystal were unraveling the wires and mikes that Michel had, after turning off the TV, taped underneath their coats. Michel was nearing them now.

“Did we do good?” Crystal asked. “Did she say what you needed her to say? Did we stall her long enough?”

The inspectors were collecting Mathilde and leading her toward the station.

Michel collected the eavesdropping equipment from Scott and Crystal.

“Did we do good?” she asked him again.

He paused, considered her question, and then shrugged.

“And they all lived happily ever after.”

“Xana, I had a heart attack. I didn't suffer brain damage.”

Every fifteen minutes, Hayley's heart monitor shifted from its regular
beep-beep-beep—
proving that she was alive—to an insistent and frankly annoying
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
Well, apparently, Xana had been in the room now for fifteen minutes, because wow, that heart monitor was loud.

“Mind if I unplug it?” she asked Hayley.

“Go ahead.”

Hayley's night nurse appeared. The bottom two-thirds of her face were concealed behind a paper mask. Her hands were concealed in latex gloves. Such was the protocol for all visitors to Hayley's room. Large, graphic-intensive signs outside the door insisted on it. Of the three people in the room, only Hayley had a visible mouth and touchable palms. A clear-tubed cannula ran from her nostrils to an oxygen tank, but this, in Hayley's example, was far from extraordinary.

Without a word, the night nurse pressed a button on the machine and left.

“So the day's almost over and you're not dead,” said Hayley. “Does that mean you're safe?”

“Mm-hm. I'll never die.”

“And you never found out who was after you?”

“The police were kind of hoping they would find me. But they never showed.”

“Maybe the presence of the police spooked them. Maybe they'll wait until you're alone and then go all medieval. That's why I told you to meet up with everyone on your list.”

“And I met with…two of them. But the Serendipity Group has been shut down. As of last night, Jessabelle is in custody. Her French friends gave her up in an hour. So whoever is still out there, they don't have a lifeline.”

“Whoever they are, maybe they don't know that. Whoever they are, whatever grudge they're holding, maybe they don't care that they're alone.”

“I'll be fine,” said Xana.

“Well, sure. Everybody's fine. Until they're not.”

And then silence, silence save for the heart monitor. Because what could be said? The truth had a way of crushing all further discussion.

“You'll be fine.” Xana had a way of refusing to be crushed.

Some more awkward silence.

“You know what hospitals are really good at?” asked Hayley.

“Billing?”

“Making people feel helpless.”

“Even better.”

“No. Let me finish.” Hayley tried to scoot up in her bed. Xana reached down and helped her. Ten seconds of work and Hayley's pores were spilling sweat onto the sheets. But she continued, “It's good, I think, to be helpless. Not all the time. But every now and then. Like, for example, what you tried to do yesterday. Sure, you didn't apologize to everybody, but you apologized a little, and that's good. It's humbling.”

“Humility's not really my thing.”

Hayley's eyes smiled, but her voice had gotten low and lethargic. “Yeah. You're right about that. Oh, by the way, whatever happened to those poor cats?”

“The black one ran away.”

“What about the other one? The orangey one?”

“She might be napping at my apartment…”

“You're kidding.”

“Walker Berno named her Whiskers, but that's so boring. Em wants to call her Citrus. I'm thinking Pothead.”

“You are not going to name a cat Pothead.”

“It'll be a reminder of her roots. We all need a reminder of our roots, now and then.”

After this, Xana stayed only another five minutes or so. They talked about tonight's event at the AA meeting and what unnecessary festivities Em had planned to celebrate Xana's one-year anniversary. At the very least, there would be congratulatory balloons in various shapes and sizes. Of this both Xana and Hayley were certain.

“I'd be there if I could,” said Hayley.

“I'd skip it if I could,” said Xana.

Officer Patemsley was waiting for her outside Hayley's hospital room. He escorted her to the patrol car idling by the curb, where Officer Vance sat listening to an audiobook. From what Xana had been able to discern on the ride from her apartment to the hospital, the protagonist of the book was a young and buxom blonde named Paradise whose vagina talked to her every now and then, espousing wisdom about life and dating and hygiene. The actress who was performing the book gave Paradise's vagina a chipper, hee-hee, Jiminy Cricket voice. It was in this voice that Paradise's vagina was arguing the benefits of starvation over snacking when Xana and Officer Patemsley returned.

Officer Vance kept the audiobook on during the ride to the United Methodist church on Scott Boulevard. Even though they were almost thirty minutes early, there already were a few cars in the lot, including Em's. Across the street, barely visible under the bony shadows of a leprous tree, sat another car that Xana recognized, an older model Buick with two older model detectives inside. She bid a temporary good-bye to her minders Vance and Patemsley—who weren't going anywhere—and ambled toward the Buick.

“Gang's all here, huh?” she said.

“If they're going to strike,” replied Detective Konquist, “this is the most likely time and place.”

Chau added, “We might even stop them. We'll see.”

“And he calls me an ornery bastard. But seriously, we got photos of the McCormicks and a bunch of the others circulated around. You might not see them, but this place is about to have more cops per capita than what's-it-called on wings night.”

“Miller's Tavern,” said Chau. “It's called Miller's Tavern.”

“OK.”

“You've only been there a couple thousand times.”

“I appreciate all this.” Xana leaned in. “But there will be no police actually at the meeting. That still stands, right?”

“Hey, we get it. Confidentiality. We won't come inside unless you call us…provided that you call us if something happens.”

Xana nodded and slapped the roof of the car twice to say good-bye. There would be no more delays. It was time to face the music. Quite literally, she feared. Music and balloons and who knows. A magician? Em knew no limits when it came to celebration.

How had she ended up with a woman so unlike herself? The heart truly had a mind of its own.

Xana descended the steps to the basement of the church. In the main room, Anal Angie was setting up the chairs just so. Rachel the Redhead was by the Keurig. Em was nowhere in sight, but that was to be expected. More than likely, she was coordinating the timer on a volley of fireworks. As Anal Angie was best to be avoided when she was focused on an activity, and as a cup of tea sounded absolutely peachy, Xana sidled over to Rachel.

“Hey, there,” the redhead said. “The woman of the night.”

“Please tell me Em doesn't have, like, a marching band out back.”

“I can't make any promises. I can tell you she's in the bathroom. Regular or decaf?”

But Xana was already helping herself to a pod of rooibos.

“One year,” said Rachel. “Wow.”

“One year.”

The Keurig hummed to life.

“You know, I have a theory about what happened to you that night.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Xana, not really caring. Rachel the Redhead had only been attending the meetings for three weeks but she already seemed to have developed a strong opinion about everyone and everything.

“Well, you swerved into that house, right?”

“So they tell me.”

“What if you were swerving to avoid something in the road?”

Hm. Xana listened a tad more intently, as the water started to percolate.

“What if,” Rachel continued, “for example, there was a dog…not a big dog, but, like, an Alaskan Klee Kai. Ever seen one of those? They're beautiful animals. They're like miniature Alaskan huskies. White and gray fur. So friendly. And smart. Well behaved most of the time, but you got to be careful with the smart ones. You turn your back for just a second and their curiosity will get the better of them. They'll find a way through a hole in the fence you didn't even know was there.”

The water began to pour out, fill the Styrofoam cup. But Xana had forgotten about the cup, about the tea. “Is that the kind of dog you have? A Klee Kai?”

“Dogs like that don't run away often, and they don't run away far, but they do run away. They can't help it. So the best you can do is look for them. Call their name. Wave a flashlight. But there are other people out at night. And what if one of them is so drunk—for no good reason—that she doesn't notice a living animal in front of her car until it's too late and she swerves to avoid the dog in the road and loses control and plows straight into a house.”

“Rachel…” Xana could feel her heart throb against her throat. “Rachel…”

“Now, the owner of the dog eventually finds him. Not that night. The next morning. He's in the woods. Why's he in the woods? Because that's where dogs go when they know they're going to die. She finds him by a stump. His scalp is open. He's still breathing. His eyes look at her. And he's ashamed. And she rests her head against his fur, which is damp with dirt and with blood and…”

Xana moved to hug Rachel, but Rachel took a step back.

No.

Xana took a step back.

“He was the love of my life,” said Rachel.

No.

The throbbing against Xana's throat became a hammer.

She ran toward the restrooms.

“Now I can forgive you!” Rachel called after her.

No.

There was a hastily scrawled note in red ink warning
OUT OF ORDER
taped to the door of the ladies' room. Xana shoved the door open so hard it smacked against the wall.

Blood on the sink.

No.

Blood on the floor.

No.

Em on the floor.

Her scalp was open. So were her eyes.

She was still breathing. She was still breathing. She was still breathing. She was still.