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Finally, he bit, and she gasped. But she lay still.
Her blood was not as sweet as it might have been—she was too wary. But it was still sweet, and she didn’t panic, and when he licked the wound closed and glanced at her, her gaze was clear. Uncertain, but clear. He was relieved. He folded her arms across her belly, wrapping her in an embrace, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She melted against him.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“I don’t expect you to. But do you trust me to look after you if Blake goes free?”
She nodded. He kissed her hair and waited for her to fall asleep.
Rick brought her to Murray’s the next night, and Detective Simpson was waiting for them. Her hands were trembling, but Rick stayed close to her, and she stood tall and spoke clearly. Simpson promised she wouldn’t be charged with any of the petty crimes she’d committed, in exchange for her testimony. The case against Blake went to trial, and Helen was the prosecution’s star witness. Blake was convicted and sent away for a long, long time. Rick was sure he’d never see the guy again.
HE ONLY NEEDED A LITTLE DIGGING—A VISIT TO A PAROLE OFFICE, SOME obfuscation and inveigling, a deep look into an informant’s eyes—to learn which halfway house Blake was staying at, east of downtown. He drove there with a single-minded intensity. He wasn’t often wrong these days, but he’d been wrong about Blake, and he’d failed Helen. Petty revenge wouldn’t make that right. But it might help tip the scales back in the right direction.
The house was back from the street, run-down and lit up, and gave no outward sign of what it was. Rick wondered if the neighbors knew. He parked his car on the curb, stuck his hands in his pockets, and headed to the front door.
The house pressed outward against him; his steps slowed. The place was protected—he wasn’t sure it would be, given its nature, and the fact that people were always moving in and out. Did that make it a public institution, or a home? But here was his answer—this was a home. He couldn’t enter without invitation. By the time he reached the front door, the force was a wall, invisible; he could almost press his hands against it—but not through it.
Well. He’d have to try normal, mundane bluffing, wouldn’t he?
He knocked on the door. A shadow passed over the peephole, and a voice called, “Who is it? What do you want?”
“My name is Rick. I’m an old friend of Charles Blake, and I heard he was here. Can I see him?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes—sorry about that. I just got off work. Bartender.”
“Just a minute. I’ll get him.”
“Mind if I wait inside?”
After a brief, wary moment of waiting, the deadbolt clicked back, and the door opened. A gruff man in his forties stood aside and held the door. “Come on in.”
Rick did.
The living room was worn and sad, with threadbare furniture and carpets, stained walls, a musty air. A bulletin board listed rules, notices, want ads, warnings. The atmosphere was institutional, but this might have been the first real home some of these men had known. Halfway house, indeed.
“Stay right here,” the man said, and walked to a back hallway.
Rick waited, hands in pockets.
The doorman returned after a long wait, what would have been many beats of his heart, if it still beat. Behind him came a very old man, pulling a small oxygen tank on a cart behind him. Tubes led from it to his nose, and his every breath wheezed. Other than that, he had faded. He was smaller than the last time Rick had seen him, withered and sunken, skin like putty hanging off a stooped frame. Wearing a T-shirt and ratty, faded jeans, he looked sad, beaten. The scowl remained—Rick recognized that part of him.
The old man saw him and stopped. They were two ghosts staring at each other across the room.
“Hello, Blake,” Rick said.
“Who are you? You his grandson?”
Rick turned to the middle-aged doorman and stared until he caught the man’s gaze. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?” He put quiet force into the suggestion. The man walked back into the hallway.
“Bill—Bill
! Come back!” Blake’s sandpaper voice broke into coughing.
“I’m not his grandson,” Rick said.
“What is this?”
