Read Online Cold Night (Jack Paine Mysteries) by Al Sarrantonio - Free Book Online
Authors: Al Sarrantonio
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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you. You're all he talks about."
"What does he say?"
"What do you fucking think he says? He talks about what happened to you. He talks about what he did."
"Isn't there any way to make him forget?"
"How? He shot his own fucking brother in the head—and he thinks you hate him for it. How are you going to make him forget that? Did you forget it?"
They walked back to the house. They stacked some wood against the wall and went in.
The phone rang, and Jack picked it up.
"Jack," his father said. It was a stranger's voice. It was as if pain itself was talking, using the old man's voice. "Dad, what is it?"
"I'm going," his father said.
"Da—"
"Mizar and Alcor, Mizar and Alcor in the handle of the Big Dipper. Two stars, Jack. Brother and brother."
"Dad, what the hell's wrong?"
"Forgive me, Jack. Love your own brother. Oh, Jesus—"
There was a sound over the phone that was louder than anything he had ever heard. His mind went on fire. For a moment he thought the phone had exploded in his hand. Then he knew what the sound was—he had heard it in the Army. He had heard it that day in the police station, when his father had raised his hand—
He screamed "No!" into the phone, and then he kept on screaming.
"Oh, Jesus."
He sat up on the couch. He had sweated right through his shirt and jacket. There was a dull ache behind his eyes; it was as if the projector was still on and the pictures he had seen were still there after the lights had gone up. His palms were wet.
He rose and went to the window. It was still midday. There was some sun but mostly there was just gray where he looked down toward the street. Gray sunlight.
He wished he had Rebecca Meyer with him. But the thought turned sour in him immediately. He was glad she wasn't with him.
Gray sun. The day would go on and then the world would darken to gray night. Tomorrow the sun would come up and the world would be gray again.
He went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. It went down his throat like bile, sticking to the roof of his mouth instead of washing down the bile that was already there. He nearly threw the glass but instead placed it very gently on the counter. He walked to the bedroom.
The closet was still open. He saw that there was a dress that Ginny had left. It was white and black, white with large black dots on it. He didn't recognize it. He could not remember ever seeing her in it. Had he ever really looked at her in anything? He couldn't remember. There was that one sweater, the one a little like the one that girl on the bus was wearing, a shade of rose that was neither red nor pink. It was the first time he had looked at Ginny's breasts. The sweater wasn't tight but still it showed her breasts off through the wool. That was the second time he had seen her. What had she worn the first time? He didn't know.
He turned from the closet and sat on the bed for a moment, his hands heavy on his knees. Then he moved one hand to the small table beside the bed. There was a long drawer, and he slid it open, pulling it all the way out until the weight of what was in it started to push the drawer down and threatened to pull it out of the table.
There was only one thing in the drawer. He took the gun out and let it sit in his hand. It had the weight of a dead bird. It was cold and blue, the blue of metal. He closed his eyes and it still felt like a bird in his hand.
He remembered a time when he was drunk, before he had given up drinking. He had been at it all night, had started after getting off duty. This night it had done nothing but sharpen what was in his head. He had taken in so much Scotch that it meant nothing to his body. The one part of his mind that he wanted the liquor to kill had become sharp and bright as lightning. Bobby Petty had driven him home and then left. He knew that Petty hadn't been drunk because Petty never got drunk, and because he had started to get on him for drinking so much.
After Petty left, he sat at the kitchen table,
"What does he say?"
"What do you fucking think he says? He talks about what happened to you. He talks about what he did."
"Isn't there any way to make him forget?"
"How? He shot his own fucking brother in the head—and he thinks you hate him for it. How are you going to make him forget that? Did you forget it?"
They walked back to the house. They stacked some wood against the wall and went in.
The phone rang, and Jack picked it up.
"Jack," his father said. It was a stranger's voice. It was as if pain itself was talking, using the old man's voice. "Dad, what is it?"
"I'm going," his father said.
"Da—"
"Mizar and Alcor, Mizar and Alcor in the handle of the Big Dipper. Two stars, Jack. Brother and brother."
"Dad, what the hell's wrong?"
"Forgive me, Jack. Love your own brother. Oh, Jesus—"
There was a sound over the phone that was louder than anything he had ever heard. His mind went on fire. For a moment he thought the phone had exploded in his hand. Then he knew what the sound was—he had heard it in the Army. He had heard it that day in the police station, when his father had raised his hand—
He screamed "No!" into the phone, and then he kept on screaming.
"Oh, Jesus."
He sat up on the couch. He had sweated right through his shirt and jacket. There was a dull ache behind his eyes; it was as if the projector was still on and the pictures he had seen were still there after the lights had gone up. His palms were wet.
He rose and went to the window. It was still midday. There was some sun but mostly there was just gray where he looked down toward the street. Gray sunlight.
He wished he had Rebecca Meyer with him. But the thought turned sour in him immediately. He was glad she wasn't with him.
Gray sun. The day would go on and then the world would darken to gray night. Tomorrow the sun would come up and the world would be gray again.
He went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. It went down his throat like bile, sticking to the roof of his mouth instead of washing down the bile that was already there. He nearly threw the glass but instead placed it very gently on the counter. He walked to the bedroom.
The closet was still open. He saw that there was a dress that Ginny had left. It was white and black, white with large black dots on it. He didn't recognize it. He could not remember ever seeing her in it. Had he ever really looked at her in anything? He couldn't remember. There was that one sweater, the one a little like the one that girl on the bus was wearing, a shade of rose that was neither red nor pink. It was the first time he had looked at Ginny's breasts. The sweater wasn't tight but still it showed her breasts off through the wool. That was the second time he had seen her. What had she worn the first time? He didn't know.
He turned from the closet and sat on the bed for a moment, his hands heavy on his knees. Then he moved one hand to the small table beside the bed. There was a long drawer, and he slid it open, pulling it all the way out until the weight of what was in it started to push the drawer down and threatened to pull it out of the table.
There was only one thing in the drawer. He took the gun out and let it sit in his hand. It had the weight of a dead bird. It was cold and blue, the blue of metal. He closed his eyes and it still felt like a bird in his hand.
He remembered a time when he was drunk, before he had given up drinking. He had been at it all night, had started after getting off duty. This night it had done nothing but sharpen what was in his head. He had taken in so much Scotch that it meant nothing to his body. The one part of his mind that he wanted the liquor to kill had become sharp and bright as lightning. Bobby Petty had driven him home and then left. He knew that Petty hadn't been drunk because Petty never got drunk, and because he had started to get on him for drinking so much.
After Petty left, he sat at the kitchen table,
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