Like a Knife (2 page)

He hid in the basement, working on a bench for the picnic table in the yard. He was glad to have something to occupy his hands and mind. Something besides his late-night visitor, or the concern in Rachel's face.

A few minutes before ten he brought the melon out to the playground. Children gathered to watch him cut it up. Every pair of eyes seemed to accuse him. Yesterday he would have said he was over that. But today the guilty sickness had reappeared, like the dream. Like Shelley. Last night, his old life had swooped down out of the darkness, and he had opened the door and said, Come in. Was he crazy? It had taken him six years to get free. To numb himself enough to forget. Now, in the space of one night, it had all flooded back.

Which meant no one was safe.

As if his thoughts had sprung from his head and become real, a small hand edged toward the blade he'd just put down.

"Don't touch that!" He smacked away the little fingers.

Snatching the knife, he cut himself in the process. Blood beaded up in the web between thumb and forefinger, and he froze. A boy burst into tears.

Rachel ran over. "Shh, Joselito." She picked up the sobbing child. "What happened?"

Sorry. I'm sorry.
But he couldn't get the words out Closing his fist over the cut, he finally found his voice. "He... he went for the knife." His face heated with embarrassment.

"Shh, it's okay, Nick didn't mean to scare you." The words were for the boy, but she was looking at Nick, those gentle eyes looking straight at him. "He doesn't understand. His English is still pretty weak."

Nick hesitated as the other children surrounded them silently, watching this new scene unfold. Then he leaned over and spoke.
"Lo siento, nino.
I'm sorry, but knives are dangerous.
Los cuchillos son peligrosos."

At the sound of his native language, Joselito stopped crying. He and Rachel looked at Nick in amazement. To cover his sudden uneasiness, Nick blurted, "You still need the TV?"

Eyes wide with surprise, Rachel nodded. "In about ten minutes." He felt her gaze burn into his back all the way to the door.

He headed straight for the basement, washing his hand in a small sink stained with paint. The blood bloomed around the wound, bright and red. Seeing it, he felt his world tilt a little, as it had in the yard. But it was a day for unbalancing-first the dream, then Shelley, then the scene with Rachel. He plunged his hand under the icy water, so he couldn't feel the sting of the knife. This was what it was like to die. First the cut, then the blood, then nothing. Nothing at all. He watched as the blood turned pink, swirled around the drain, and disappeared.

A few minutes later he guided the TV into a classroom and placed it in front of a bulletin board covered with pictures drawn on the backs of recycled computer paper. Greenbar paper, the universities and corporations who donated the stuff called it. Pale green stripes on the side filled with> calculations, clean white on the other. It was the only kind of drawing paper the kids in Rachel's school used. He touched one brightly colored picture that still had the perforated strip of holes attached.

A sudden flash of movement caught his eye, and his gaze shifted. Through the window, he saw Rachel chase a laughing Joselito around the schoolyard, the boy's earlier trauma apparently forgotten.

Don't look.
But he couldn't help himself.
You can't think about her. You have to come to work, do what she asks, and take the bus home at night No thoughts on the day, no feelings about anyone.

No feelings at all.

But his control was slipping. In odd moments he'd catch himself picturing the way she walked, her stride long and confident. Or the way she smelled-clean, like soap. At night, the feel of her stole over him. The way she shook his hand when she hired him, her straight, slim fingers and smooth, cool skin. And that grip, that momentary sense that she would never let him go. Something came over him then, something so piercing and suddenly familiar, it was like a dead thing rumbling to life. Panicked, he shut it down only to have it come back. But now, watching her through the window as she played with Joselito, wistfulness seeped through him.

Stop it.

But he couldn't. Six years ago, a huge iceberg had frozen in his chest, and now it suddenly cracked and split as it thawed inside him.

* * *

By six-thirty Nick was shoving a dry mop down the hallway outside Rachel's office, reaching for any excuse to linger.

"No, I can't wait,"he heard her say. "I've got twenty kids, and they get snack twice a day. I know you're shorthanded, but I can't explain a work slowdown to a five-year-old."

He leaned against the wall, his arm wrapped around the long handle. He could push that mop all weekend. He didn't want to go home. He didn't know what he would find there. Shelley, maybe. The dream, probably.

He could go to the gym. The punishing physical workout was a refuge-the only time his mind turned off completely. But he didn't go to the gym. Instead, he walked to Rachel's office and stood in the doorway as she impatiently flicked the braid off her shoulder.

"Look, Mr. Ganetti, I'm grateful that Grand Union is making a donation, but if I can't get it delivered, what good is it?" She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Just tell me how to get there, and I'll pick it up myself. Yes, I understand the cases are heavy, but-"

"I'll go with you."

Rachel glanced up and saw him standing in the door-way. "What? What did you-"

"I'll help you pick it up."

"Wait, Mr. Ganetti, just a minute-" She covered the receiver with her hand and studied him. "We'll have to go tonight. If I don't pick it up tonight, he's going to dump it"

Nick let out a slow, tense breath-what was he doing?-and nodded.

"Problem solved, Mr. Ganetti. Just tell me how to get there." She put her thumb and forefinger together and signed okay to Nick. "Thank you, Mr. Ganetti-from me and the children." She slammed down the phone and fell back into the ancient swivel chair behind her desk. "God, what a pain! But beggars can't be choosers."

She gathered up her keys and wallet. The office was a tiny cubicle, Just big enough for a scarred wooden desk and the wobbly executive chair Nick had fallen asleep in. A door led to a larger supply closet, but Nick knew it was mostly filled with recycled greenbar paper. Looking around, he had to admit supplies were thin.

"I'll meet you but front in ten minutes," Rachel said. "Oh, and Nick-" She stopped him with another golden smile before he could turn away. "Thanks."

* * *

Shelley Spier scurried down a deserted street in Long Island City, her heart beating fast enough to fly. On either side of her empty warehouses reached up to the sky, blocking out the moon. Broken windows and boarded-up doors stared down like huge faces with blind eyes. A shiver slithered down her back.

Why in God's name had they decided to meet here?
So Rennie wont find you.

But Rennie was everywhere. She could feel him peering down from the warehouses, following her every step. Suddenly a car zoomed by, and Shelley jumped as if it were Rennie himself. Rattening herself against the side of a building, she watched the car disappear into the shadows.

You're being ridiculous.

She knew it but couldn't help herself. Goose bumps pricked her arms. If Rennie caught her now, a beating was the least of her worries.

Don't let him catch you, then.

No, she wouldn't. She was almost home, almost free. Rennie would never hurt her again. He'd never hurt anyone she loved again.

But first she had to get to the meeting place.

Heart still pounding, eyes searching every empty window, she continued up the street, the click of her high heels echoing on the pavement.

At last she saw what she'd been looking for. On the other side of the road and half a block up, the building with the huge
H
painted on its side.
H
for
haven.
For
hello,
for
help.
She remembered joking about it days ago when they'd finalized their plans. Now, as she stood in the darkness smelling the rank odor of the East River that lurked beyond the decaying warehouses, the letter shouted simply "here." A liquid feeling of relief washed over her.

She was here. She was safe.

She stepped off the curb, looking over her shoulder. What was that? Was someone following her? Crossing the street, she peered into the shadows behind her, ears intent on the slightest sound. But all she heard was a cat in the garbage can. Laughing at her skittishness, she faced the welcoming building and heard the sudden squeal of tires behind her.

Her heart leaped in her chest. She twisted around to pinpoint the car's direction but headlights blinded her.

She didn't even have time to scream.

It took Nick and Rachel three hours and four trips in Rachel's VW Beetle before they finished transporting the cases of graham crackers and fruit punch from Grand Union's warehouse to St. Anthony's. Afterward, she grabbed a pizza and drove to the marina in Bayside, where she parked beneath a streetlight close to the dock.

In the distance, glittering lights outlined the Throgs Neck Bridge, which dominated the night sky. A few feet away, tethered boats rustled in the water of Little Neck Bay. Nick got out and stretched; he'd be sore tomorrow, but the physical activity had been as good as any workout. And as mindless.

Rachel opened the pizza box on top of the VW's front end. The aroma of tomatoes and garlic wafted out and mingled with the smell of water from the bay and exhaust from the highway nearby.

Nick eyed the dull red hump of the late sixties Beetle, now faded to the color of a much-washed flannel shirt. Where had she gotten this heap?

Once, he could have picked her up in a limousine and taken her anywhere. Le Cirque, Tavern on the Green. If she wanted pizza, there was Sam's in Brooklyn, where the sauce was made with fresh tomatoes and the cheese homemade. He'd never had pizza like that anywhere else except Italy.

Regret faded when she bit into a slice of pizza and, laughing, pushed the melted strands of cheese off her chin and into her mouth.
Such a pretty mouth.
Brown eyes sparkled mischief, and another shard of ice melted inside him. What would she do in a limousine anyway?

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Must have been pretty good to set you off, Mister Nicholas-Never-Smiles Raine. Look at you-you look like the cat who just swallowed the canary."

Was it true? Was he smiling? God, he was.

He leaned toward her. For a single, startling instant she was close enough to kiss.

Go ahead. You want to, and you haven't wanted to in a long time.

She blushed, and their eyes met.

Starlight mingled with lamplight, and the whole of it bathed Rachel's face in a warm glow. The light made it seem as if her skin were lit from within.

His heart stopped.
Beautiful So beautiful

A breath away, the laughter died in her eyes.

As if in a trance, he saw his hand move to cup her face. In a moment he'd be kissing her.

What are you doing, Nick?

"You have cheese on your chin." He wiped it off, trying not to like the feel of her, too much. He glanced away, toward fee half-eaten pizza. Toward the water, where the boats glimmered in the bay. Anything but her.

"Thanks," she said softly. "And for helping me out tonight."

He nodded, still not looking at her. "Do you do this kind of thing often?"

"What kind of thing? Pizza in the moonlightr

A flash of embarrassment went through him, but he turned to find a teasing expression on her face. "I meant Ganetti, donations..."

She laughed wryly. "Oh, all the time. You're looking at the beggar queen of St. Anthony's preschool. Donations, grants, loose change ..."

"Doesn't the church help out?"

"Some." She nibbled at the slice of pizza. "The space comes rent-free, but parish resources are stretched. "There's a group on the Parish Council that would like to shut us down so they could rent out the space-rent I can't afford right now." She chomped thoughtfully. "Can't really blame them. Too much to do and not enough to do it with."

"That's because you won't settle for what you can get. You care too much," Nick said.

She smiled ruefully. "Now you sound like Felice. Rachel to the rescue, like I run around in tights and a cape." She shook her head. "Believe me, I'm no superhero. If I was, I would've already figured out a way to rescue the preschool. Caring just conies with the territory. It's what I do. My job."

Her job. He'd crossed paths with lots of do-gooders- social workers, counselors, cops-but he'd never met the real thing... until Rachel. "Begging for handouts, home visits, late nights. I don't see anyone else doing those things."

She shrugged. "Kids are so helpless. Someone has to look out for them until they're old enough to do it themselves."

"And that someone is you?"

"Why not?"

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked like a Sunday-school teacher with her open face and guileless eyes. What was she doing struggling with the world's bruised and battered?

"The better question," he asked quietly, "is why?"

Rachel hesitated. Along the dock, black water cradled the boats, making them thump and swish under the sly wedge of moon. She listened in silence, knowing she was being evasive. But it was always hard to tell people who she was. "Look, my mother was ... my mother was killed in front of me," she said at last. "Shot. In a robbery." She took a breath and plunged into the rest. "Perhaps you heard about it. Her name was Paula Goodman."

He turned to her in surprise.
"The
Paula Goodman? You're David Goodman's daughter?"

Rachel said dryly, "I guess that means you know all the particulars." She wasn't surprised'. After all, who didn't know the details of her mother's murder and the subsequent founding of the Safer America movement by Rachel's father? The story was public legend.

"I didn't realize he had a child," Nick said.

Rachel threw him a pale smile. "Neither did he most of the time. Too buay selling that new world order." The old bitterness began to engulf her, but she wasn't about to get into a long sob story about her father. She changed the subject. "You know that boy today, Joselito... it was really great the way you spoke to him."

He shrugged, and she could tell the praise made him uncomfortable.

"I didn't do much."

"Yeah, but you did it in Spanish." She tore into another slice of pizza and peered at him, wondering how far to push. "He's Peruvian, so that's all he understands right now. His parents were anthropologists. They were living in the highlands, studying Andean culture, when they ran into the Shining Path. Ever heard of them?"

Something happened to Nick; a subtle kind of withdrawal she'd seen him do before. One minute he was there, and the next he'd drifted away, this time gazing out over the night as if he could see through it. "Yeah, I've heard of them," he said softly.

"They gunned down his parents like animals and left Joselito to watch them bleed to death. His only relative was an aunt who lives here."

An icy misery bit into Nick, and with it came flashes of memory. The improvised airstrip hacked out of the jungle. The ground meeting his feet as he swung down from the belly of the plane. He heard the thickset mestizo shouting rapid orders, the crack of a crate pried open, the first testing rattle of machine-gun fire.

All at once, he was opening his apartment door again, letting the dark thing that was his past inside. Hands suddenly clammy, he looked around for signs of Rennie. They were out in the open, easy targets. Instantly he scanned the cars parked nearby, looking for tails, for anything and anyone that shouldn't be there.

"It's been very hard for Joselito," Rachel was saying. "He lost everything. His parents, his country, even his language."

Her voice brought him back to the present, and to her bright eyes, which were turned so expectantly on him.

"He needs a friend," she said.

He understood what she was asking. But friends like him were the last thing that little boy needed. He wiped his hand on a paper napkin and forced calm into his voice. "Are you finished? We should go."

She sent a shrewd glance his way, a look that saw more than he cared to show, but in the end she only smiled. "I guess it is late." She finished,the last of her slice and began gathering up the remains of their meal.

Uneasiness flickered low in his gut as he took the trash to the can. Irrational as it was, he couldn't escape the notion that Rennie was out there, watching. And the last thing Nick wanted his old boss to see was Rachel beside him.

While Nick cleaned up, Rachel slid behind the wheel of her car, watching him through the windshield. Something had happened a moment ago, something that brought wariness back to his face. She was tempted to ask about it but stifled her natural impulses. He wasn't one of her kids, and she wasn't his confessor. Besides, she knew from experience that wounded creatures heal in their own time. But she couldn't resist one tiny piece of information, so when he got in the car and she pulled away, she risked a direct question.

"Your Spanish sounded good. Where old you learn?"

She sensed another withdrawal, but when he spoke, his voice was offhand, almost indifferent. "Traveling. Spain, South America."

"You were raised here, weren't you-in New York?"

"I grew up all over the city. I never knew my parents. When I was thirteen, I met someone. He... he kind of adopted me."

"That was nice of him. You were lucky."

He smiled, and it was-tinged'with something. Irony? Chagrin?

"Yeah," he said, "real lucky."

Ten minutes of directions led her to tbe front of his house. A streetlight caught the home in its soft beam and surprised her. Somehow she had imagined Nick in much more meager surroundings.

"Do you rent it?" she asked.

"I've got a room around back. In the basement."

She nodded. The basement. Of course. "Well-thanks for the help. Snack for another few months."

She glanced over and caught him looking at her. Shadows of moonlight drifted through the windshield, dappling him, and she drew in a sudden breath. How striking he was, all lines and angles like a sculpture. The skin stretched tight over his jaw, cheekbones high and taut. Her gaze traveled down to his neck and throat, to that place where his skin disappeared into the cloth of his tightly buttoned shirt. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to undo the button at his throat and free him. She fastened her hands on the steering wheel, afraid they might fly off and do something without her.

"Well... guess I'll... see you tomorrow."

''Thanks for dinner."

She nodded. "You earned it. Anytime you want to help out, dinner's on me."

Nick looked away, the tight coil inside his chest twisting tighter.

"What's the matter?" she teased. "Can't stand my company?"

Shelley's battered face rose up, and he hoped to God neither she nor Rennie were waiting for him. "I've got troubles, Rachel. Things inside that won't let go. Things I've done. People I've... disappointed."

"You haven't disappointed me," she said gently.

A rueful feeling shot through him. "Not yet, anyway."

Rachel peered at him from across the gearshift, wondering about the secrets he was hiding. "Everyone sins, Nick. You ask for forgiveness, you make peace with yourself, you move on."

"There is no forgiveness for some things."

"Then you learn to live with them."

"I'm trying." He gave a short, mocking laugh. "Christ, I've
been
trying. I just can't seem to get the hang of it."

She touched the back of his hand, her common sense gone in a rush of sympathy. "Maybe you need help. A friend."

He looked down at her hand. Her slim fingers rested lightly on top of his, and he was tempted. God, he was so tempted.

But the prickle at the back of his neck told him Rennie was near, hovering like the dream, a black vulture, waiting, watching. Nick got out of the car. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Loping down the drive, he rounded the corner and waited out of sight until the sound of her engine faded. Then and only then did he slowly unlock his door and brace himself for wh|at was inside.

Noth|ng. No one. His place was as quiet and sparse as it always was, as if Shelley's visit had been a mirage. The bed was tucked into the sofa, his coffee cup dry in the dish rack, the towel he'd packed with ice for her bruises folded neatly over the edge of the sink.

Relief flooded him, leaving his knees a little wobbly. He plopped down on the couch without bothering to open it into the bed and slept dreamless.

In the morning, he woke with a strange sense of hopefulness.
Maybe you need help. A friend.
Rachel's words made his pulse race, his ears buzz. His body ached from lifting the cases at the warehouse, but as he rubbed his chest, it felt as though his heart was waking up, the tired blood circulating once more.

By the time he got to St. Anthony's, the sky was high and blue, and he decided to finish fixing the hole in the fence. Joselito and a group of kids stood around and watched, but for once, their closeness didn't bother him. Maybe Rachel was right, maybe things would work out. The past was over, he had a new life ahead of him, if only he could reach out, learn to feel once more.

"Nick." His heart thumped at the sound of her voice, as though he were sixteen again. Before he could stop himself, his mouth curved into a wide grin. He looked up.

She stood over him, tense and unsmiling. "The police are looking for you," Behind her, two uniforms walked toward him.

He went cold, the sight of the cops like frost in spring.

Rachel asked, "Do you know a Shelley Spier?"

Tongue stuck in his mouth, he couldn't answer. The police eyed him. "Nicholas Raine? Would you come with us, sir?"

It took only a few minutes to cross the ground, but it seemed like hours. Kids froze, teachers stared. The whole world slowed. He passed Rachel, her face pale, heard the blur of Shelley's name from the cops. They took him right up to the police car, put a hand on his head to push him in, and closed the car door behind him.