We Are Here (45 page)

David found he couldn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Dawn already knew, and she said the words for him. “He wrote the book I found.”

“Yes.”

“But it wasn’t finished,” she said “There was only half a novel there, and the prose was
terrible
, and …”

“He was still working on it when they died, I guess. He tinkered with it for years. Maybe he would have finished it, maybe not. When I packed up stuff to bring to Rockbridge, I found the manuscript. I didn’t think about it for a long time, but one day I wondered whether I should try to do something with it. At first it was supposed to be something for him, a way of getting to know him better, or … But as I worked at it and changed it and added things and took stuff out, I stopped seeing it as his book and started seeing it as mine. And when I finished it and gave it to you and you said you loved it … I didn’t want to admit it hadn’t been.”

“David, you could have told me.”

“I know. I fucked up. And … I wonder whether Maj coming back into my life has to do with all of that. He bumped into me on the day I met with my publishers for the first time. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

“David, who
is
Maj?”

“He was the first thing I ever wrote, my first big make-believe. I just made him up a little too well.”

When Golzen got to the club he found the street door ajar. From that moment he realized that things were running differently, that something was afoot. Maybe he even started to hope tonight was going to be the night. You follow the signs, unclear though they may be.

Follow signs, until Jedburgh appears.

There was no one behind the bar, though cold blue light shone from the bulbs behind the bottles. Chalk up another hint that all was not business as usual. By now tattooed staff would normally be checking that the beer fridges were stocked, racking backup spirits on the high shelves. Golzen walked across the big empty space to the office.

Reinhart was waiting, arms folded, leaning back against the desk. Golzen noticed immediately that the phone was not in its customary place, but lying in six pieces against the wall and over the floor.

“What happened to that?”

“It broke.”

Reinhart spoke as if the event had nothing to do with him, as though whatever cataclysm had befallen the device had occurred at its own hands and been its own fault. Though trivial—Golzen had seen the man do far worse to foes both inanimate and animate—he found this disquieting. It reminded him of the kind of thoughts that sometimes needled at him from the cloudy depths of his own mind: the thoughts that said everything was a game, and the darker and bloodier it got, the better. The ones that said there was no responsibility, no fault, no damage, no rules. The thoughts that didn’t have the slightest understanding of what those words even meant.

“Who was it?”

“The priest. I don’t know how he got this number, but he’s crazier than usual tonight. Ratfuck insane.”

“Something happened over in Chelsea an hour ago, in the street near his church. One of the friends canceled herself out. She was very popular. A lot of people are upset. He’s probably one of them.”

Golzen considered mentioning that Lizzie had been very close to Maj, too, but elected not to. Since the encounter the day before, Reinhart had been silent about Maj. Golzen was content to let that remain so.

“Whatever. The priest has gone past the point of no return. He needs dealing with.”

“He’s not our only problem.”

“I’m aware that other people are trying to make our business their business.”

“Don’t we need to do something about them, too?”

“I will. Have no doubt. But they’re no threat.”

There was something wrong here. It was as if Reinhart had turned some part of himself up. Some not-good part. “To you, maybe. But to
us
. These people know who we are,
what
we are. They may try to do something.”

“Let them. When the enemy comes at you, the smart tactician does not retreat. He doesn’t even stand and fight unless absolutely necessary. You know why?”

“Why?”

Reinhart smiled serenely. “The enemy is at their weakest at the moment when they advance. They’re off balance, head full of plans and impulses and leaping ahead to their victory … instead of watching what
you’re
doing. That makes it the ideal time to vault straight over them in the direction you were already going.”

Golzen blinked, feeling caught out, as if he couldn’t keep up. “But … what direction is that?”

“You don’t get it. That’s why I am me and you are you. You don’t even realize who the enemy
is
. It’s not these new people, the tough guy and his witchy girlfriend. We kill them, they’re gone. But that’s not the end of it. The enemy is
everyone
, my friend. You must start at your own front door, but after that, there is no end to it. That’s who we’re fighting all the time, and today is Day Zero of the new deal.”

“You mean …”

“Yes. We’re doing it. Right now.”

Golzen’s heart leapt. “We’re leaving for Perfect?”

“Not us, no.”

“But you said …”

Reinhart shook his head. “I said nothing. You didn’t listen properly and so you heard things that were never said. Nobody’s going anywhere.”

“We’re going to Perfect,” Golzen said stubbornly.

“Perfect isn’t a place. It’s a
state
.”

“Like … Colorado?”

“No, you dumb asshole. A state of
being
. You can’t change anything by altering where you are. You have to change
what
you are. That option is unavailable to you because of the situation with your own friend. You should have had the presence of mind to do something about that way back in the day. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look remotely sorry.

“I’m not
going
?”

“No one’s going anywhere. Are you even
listening
?”

“What are you … Perfect is a
place
.”

“Jesus. So tell me—where do you think this place even is? Utah? Texas? Fucking California? You think you were going on some Mormon adventure, prancing off into the wilderness to find the promised fucking land?”

Golzen stared at him. That’s exactly what he’d thought would happen, what he’d believed lay in his future and destiny since the night many years ago when he dreamed of a place where they could all live like normal people. Perfect had been Reinhart’s name for it. In Golzen’s dream it had been announced to him as Jedburgh, and in the confines of his head he still thought of it that way. He’d thought Reinhart believed in it too, but now he was saying something else … and Golzen couldn’t even work out what it was.

“So … what
is
going to happen? When?”

Reinhart bounced off the desk and strode out into the main club room. Golzen hurried after him.

“It’s already started,” Reinhart said. “A broadcast was passed to all available Cornermen”—he checked his watch—“nearly forty minutes ago. It won’t happen all at once. It depends when the chosen happen to get the message. That’s okay. That’s the
other
secret to success in battle, my friend. No events. Only evolution.”

“I don’t … understand.”

“No, you don’t. Let’s leave it at that.”

Golzen became aware of someone coming toward them out of the shadows. “Wait up,” said a girl’s voice.

“Hey,” Reinhart said. “You ready?”

It was the girl Golzen had brought to Reinhart—the ditzy teen he’d turned a few days before. She looked different, though. She was dressed the same, was still the kind of random hoodie girl that no one would look twice at in the street, but there was a new confidence about her. She looked like she had a destination now.

She grinned. “You bet.”

Golzen glared at her. “What’s
she
doing here?”

“I always liked your idea of there being twelve initial warriors,” Reinhart said. “It has a ring to it, you know? Twelve holy ghosts, ha-ha. So she’s doing this thing in your place.”

“
What
?”

“She’s got what it takes. Fingerskills and an accessible friend. You have neither. Maj would have been perfect, of course. He’s a weapon already. He took the step long ago. You’re no good for this.”

“But … but she’s
nobody
.”

“Screw you,” the girl said with amusement. “My name’s Jessica. Or it’s gonna be.”

Reinhart laughed. “That’s my girl. Go and be.”

He tossed something to her. She caught it deftly in one hand and held it up in front of Golzen, taunting him.

A matchbook.

“Later,” she said, and walked quickly toward the street. By the time she got through the door, she was running.

Reinhart chuckled. Then he stopped, just like that, as if tiring of doing an impersonation of a normal person. His face darkened. “There’s a thing I’m going to do,” he said. “Then we need to talk. The fun starts here, but we have much still to do, my friend.”

Golzen’s head was buzzing. He felt sickened, disgusted with himself. Christmas day had come and there was nothing under the tree. There never had been. There wasn’t even a tree. Just lies. Always lies.

“No,” he said numbly.

He turned his back on Reinhart and walked out into the twilight.

I’d run up and down the avenue all the way from 14th to 23rd. I’d searched down it again, this time along every side street to the next avenues. I had the phone to my ear throughout, hitting redial time and again.

I couldn’t find Kristina anywhere. After forty minutes I realized this wasn’t working and I stopped running around like a fool. I thought it very unlikely she’d have gone to work, but I called the restaurant to eliminate the possibility. Mario’s sister answered and tartly said no, she hadn’t seen her and she didn’t want to either, because we were both fired.

“What? Why?”

“She never here. You a fighting man. Mario, he had enough.”

I knew it would have been Maria who made the decision rather than her brother, but I was too wound up to take the problem seriously right now and said fine, but if Kris happened by could they tell her to call me, please. Mario’s sister sniffed and said maybe and put the phone down, which I had to hope meant yes.

I went back up to 18th and rang the bell of Catherine Warren’s house. There was no response, but I saw the drapes move on the second floor so I put my thumb back on the buzzer and kept it there until I saw a shape in the hallway. Catherine kept the chain on but opened the door, a tear-stained child in her arms.

Catherine’s face was hard and set. “Go away.”

“Have you seen Kristina?”

“No. Now go, or I’ll call the police.”

She was so self-possessed, so impregnable, that I couldn’t help myself. “So how’d it go with Lizzie? Not well, by the look of it.”

Her eyes didn’t even flicker. “I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said. “I never have.”

She slammed the door in my face.

Our apartment—or the remains of it—was a possibility, but I believed that however upset Kristina was, she’d have the sense to avoid going back there. I’d seen the look in her eyes as she surveyed the devastation and knew the place was dead to her. She hadn’t liked it much before, and whatever we’d built there was gone.

I realized that despite spending every day with this woman for six months, we remained separate. I knew where
our
places were—the cafés and delis and bars where we spent time—but there was some whole different Kristina-based map of Manhattan, and I didn’t have a copy. I didn’t know where she went when I wasn’t there. She didn’t know where I went, either, and this finally proved to me that we’d never really lived here. Our tracks were faint pencil lines on the city’s plan. It was too big and old for us to make lasting marks upon it. We needed to find somewhere we could start to write ourselves in ink, together, a place where our lives would become part of the object itself—otherwise we were just shades, haunting street corners, passing time.

I kept walking fast and running, trying her phone.

She kept not answering.

I spun around like a headless chicken for another hour—checking bars, calling people we knew from late-night drinking sessions—before I had a better idea. I’d gotten myself way up in Midtown and it took another twenty minutes to get back from there to the place I’d thought of.

Union Square Park was empty. It was cold and dark and the drizzle had settled in. No one would have any good reason to be there—no one with a normal life, anyway. But this is where Kris and I had first encountered the friends en masse and where she’d met up with Lizzie and the Angels. Maybe she’d come here to mourn her. I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of anywhere else.

I finally slowed down—partly because my lungs and legs were aching, and also because I didn’t think I’d stand any chance of finding what I was looking for if I came into the area loud and fast.

I walked down the central path. The grass and bushes and trees on either side of it were empty apart from a few sleeping street people on benches. I got to the bottom and there were others in evidence—but just regular humans, striding between wherever they’d been and whoever they were going to. Each looked like they had sensible lives where things were joined with straight lines and everything had a beginning, middle, and an end. I did not feel a part of that world.

It would take only ten minutes to run to the apartment, but I still believed that would be a waste of time. I decided to give the park one more circuit, just in case. This time I forsook the path and stepped over low hedges, looking around the bushes and under trees—even under the benches. By the time I got back up to the northern section I was beginning to lose hope.

Then I spotted something over in the kids’ playground. It was closed, but two figures, adult size, were standing in the open area between the slides and climbing frames. One had his back to me. He was wearing a shirt and jeans.

The other was a man with short, ginger hair, wearing an ill-matched suit. As I watched, this second guy reached out and put a hand on the other’s shoulder. His face said he knew he ought to be saying something and he had absolutely no idea what it might be. The other guy shook it off and started shouting. I could hear the noise, feel the anger, but couldn’t make out the words.