Fire in the Blood Page 8
Coop posted himself against the wall near a full-length window overlooking the churchyard. Outside a group of young Money Clubbers stood beneath a bare tree, their faces lit by cigarettes and phone screens. Looking past them, Coop followed the city’s profile as it tapered toward the sky. He felt a shiver, the barest apprehension of a great and unimaginable formlessness: the shape of his new life.
A sudden thump rattled the wall, making Coop spin toward a door as it slammed open and a thin stranger came charging into the reception hall. He looked to be in his thirties but with long hair gone prematurely gray. Like the rest of the Money Club he was dressed in expensive black wool, but the suit was cut too small for his frame, showing pale, bony wrists and a sprouting neck.
The man scanned the room with urgent blue eyes, then reached for the nearest footman.
“Can I help you with something?” said the caterer, a handsome kid with gelled black hair carrying a tray of cups. “Some coffee?”
“Mrs. Bellante,” said the stranger. “Where is she?”
“Excuse me?”
“I knew her daughter. The deceased,” said the man, lowering his voice. But not so low that Coop couldn’t hear.
After getting a helpless frown from the kid, the stranger’s head snapped back toward the throng of guests, searching intently. Coop was struck by his total lack of situational awareness; not noticing as the young caterer slipped off, or even how closely Coop, just a few feet away, was now watching him.
Without warning the stranger plunged into the gathering, forcing aside the other guests, a spectacle reminding Coop of seabirds; the Money Club bobbing and murmuring to one another, the newcomer landing among them like a shrieking gull, leaving flutters of disruption in his wake.
Coop tracked the man’s trajectory to the far end of the hall, where Mrs. Bellante stood with several mourners beneath a large rose window, the group bathed in a fragment of purple light. Coop ranged around the edge of the crowd, angling to get closer.
The stranger kept on elbowing his way toward Mrs. Bellante, leaving mutters and disapproving glances in his wake. Kay’s mother saw him coming, and Coop watched as her eyes flashed up and she began to excuse herself, but the man had already moved into range, flinging himself into the circle of mourners. Mrs. Bellante held up a finger but the newcomer was already speaking, his face both plaintive and intent. Coop wasn’t near enough to make out details so he tried easing his way deeper into the crowd. He didn’t notice the figure blocking his path until he heard his own name:
“Specialist Cooper?”
Standing in front of him was a heavyset man with a worn face. A crumpled paisley tie hung from his collar, and his charcoal blazer was mismatched with a pair of navy slacks.
“Yeah?” said Coop. He looked toward Mrs. Bellante, but his eyes were dragged back by the flash of a gold foil shield, Coop’s spine going stiff as he read: Detective Melody, 55th Precinct. NYPD.
“It’s pronounced Me-low-dy,” said the stocky cop. “Lotta people mess that up.”
Coop took the card. He searched his uniform for a place to put it, his mind running wild. Had someone already reported him missing from K2?
“Very sorry to catch you on this solemn occasion,” said Melody. “But I’m wondering if maybe you had some time to talk while you’re in town?”
“Talk about what?” said Coop, unable to restrain a tone of alarm.
“Maybe I’m operating on bad information,” said Melody. “I took it to understand you called the precinct, a few days back?”
Right. Coop let out an embarrassed breath. During his week at K2 he had tried calling the NYPD to fill in the details left out of the Red Cross message.
“I’m sure you have questions,” Melody continued, lowering his voice respectfully. “Given everything you’re doing for us over in the sandbox, least I can do is tell you what we know.”
“Thanks,” said Coop, feeling weirdly moved—here was a deference he’d never gotten from a cop before. Was it the uniform? Or because he was now connected, however thinly, to the Bellante family?
“I have an office up at the Fifty-Fifth, but if you want, we could even talk now.”
“Now,” Coop repeated, his eyes shifting over the cop’s shoulder, where he could just make out Mrs. Bellante huddled with the stranger.
“Sure,” said Melody. “I mean, normally we wouldn’t do this kind of thing at a service. But if I were you, I’d want to know what happened.”
What happened—the phrase catching Coop in the throat. He looked directly into Melody’s face and felt his jaw twitching, fought the desire to flex open his mouth. Of course he wanted to know. He needed to know.
“Besides,” said Melody, “I can’t imagine you’re in town for long.”
The last sentence sounded more like an order. Coop glanced around at the crowd, caught Theo making his way toward Mrs. Bellante and the stranger. He felt the detective’s bulk planted squarely in front of him.
“Sure, let’s talk now.”
“Okay,” said Melody. “Maybe you want to step outside, someplace a little quieter?”
On his way out Coop noticed Theo and the stranger standing close together now, with Mrs. Bellante excusing herself. Theo listening and nodding, but with his eyes pointed at Coop. Watching him leave with the detective.
* * *
—
Coop and Melody went out into the winter air and stood huddled on a plot of frozen lawn in front of the church.
“I saw the thing in the newspaper,” Coop began, then stopped. He sniffed loudly, pulling himself together. “I’m wondering if you can spare me the bullshit.”
Melody nodded. “Your wife died in the hospital.”
Coop felt his jaw begin to work.
“She never regained consciousness after the accident. The car…” Melody pointed at his face, indicating an upward angle of force. “It fractured her skull.”
Coop found he couldn’t stop nodding, his head bobbing like the old priest’s.
The formal reality of Kay’s death settled upon him. She had been taken to a hospital, reports had been made. Her death had been processed. In his head it was no more real than the funeral, but his body spoke differently; nerves firing, a clenching in his chest, quivers through his lips and around his eyes.
“So who did it?” said Coop. “Who was driving?”
Melody shook his head. “Based on the brake skids, we think it was an accident.”
“Right, but I’m asking if you know who did it,” Coop snapped, surprising himself with the accusatory tone of his voice. He felt powerfully, righteously enraged. It was thrilling to scold a cop.
“Look,” said Melody, “all I can say is, the investigation is ongoing, so I’m not at liberty…” The detective seemed to catch the red in Coop’s eyes. “Mr. Cooper, I understand, but we don’t share those kind of details with anyone until we know something for certain.”
“Can you at least tell me what she was doing up there?” he asked.
“What I gather, it was a house visit. For the clinic.”
“The clinic.”
“Next Start, the rehab place?” Melody angled his head and gave Coop a long look. Like he was surprised he had to explain.
And Coop saw he’d made a mistake, revealing how little he knew about Kay’s apparent job, or anything else having to do with the life she’d made since leaving Fort Bragg. Buried at the bottom of Coop’s rucksack was a plastic bag filled with Kay’s postcards, but nowhere among these could he recall any mention of a new job.
“That reminds me,” said Melody. “A detail I’m hoping you can clear up: You two are married. And you’re stationed in North Carolina, right? But she’s got an apartment up here, in the Bronx.”
“It was complicated,” said Coop.
“Sure.” Melody put his hands inside his pockets.
“Maybe you can help me understand.”
Coop crossed his arms, feeling pinpricks of alertness up his spine.
“You know,” said Coop, “I think maybe this isn’t the best time to talk.”
“About what?” said Melody, his eyes narrowing.
Coop avoided the hard, questioning stare. He suddenly felt very stupid. Melody had never seen him as a member of Kay’s family. He just saw a clueless grunt; a deviation in the short life of Katherine Bellante. Which made Coop wonder, why had he been brought out here in the first place?
“I’ll make sure to call if I have any other questions,” said Coop, turning his back on Melody and walking away, he didn’t know where.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The lawn was quiet as Coop made his way around the church. His all-weather black trench coat was still in the reception hall and Coop wondered if he could fetch it without running into any Bellantes. The empty, fatal grandeur of the ceremony had left him drained. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Kay’s family. It was over.
As he tromped through the snow, Coop thought about Melody’s questions. About Kay and why she had left their home on Fort Bragg. In the first months of Coop’s deployment, Kay had sent him a postcard almost every week. She was one of those people who had kept a diary since she was a girl, and the postcards were excerpts she chose to share with him. But then came a month when there was no mail from her at all. Coop wasn’t worried; if anything the gap in correspondence was a guilty relief, since he rarely found time to write her back. When he finally got mail from her again, it wasn’t a decorated postcard but a simple white envelope stuffed with a seven-page letter. The short version: Kay said she was leaving North Carolina and moving back home to New York. She needed to “try and get clear about some things” and wasn’t sure what that meant for their relationship, but she knew that she would always love him.
For days Coop stormed around the FOB in a helpless, confused rage. He couldn’t make sense of it. They’d always had fights, but now some new distance had risen between them, and for the life of him Coop didn’t know how to cross it. Worst of all, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t call Kay and ask what the hell she needed to get clear about, or why she was leaving—the satellite phones at Forward Operating Base Snakebite weren’t for personal use.
Twice he sat down to write her back, but never finished the letters. And then, during a furious nighttime walk to the edge of the base, Coop had crumpled Kay’s letter and hurled it into the burn pit. He never wrote back to her, and she hadn’t sent more letters. Then came the Red Cross message, and the news that he would never see her again.
Coop was so absorbed he almost didn’t notice the lone figure standing at the margins of the churchyard. A man in a hooded parka, just outside the fence, his silhouette framed against the ornamental spikes. Something in the man’s posture triggered a heightened vigilance in Coop, and he found himself backstepping into shadow.
The man glanced up and down the street, then with both hands grasped the railing of the fence. He vaulted it with a neat little hop.
Now the man crossed the churchyard, his path weaving between panes of light from the reception hall windows. As the man neared the rear steps he drew a long envelope from his pocket. Coop saw that the outside of the envelope was marked in thick black handwriting, but he couldn’t read the words. The man bent forward to place the envelope on the steps, then pivoted, moving back toward the fence with a furtiveness that made Coop say: “Hey.”
The man took off, kicking up snow.
“Hey!” said Coop again.
Even as he started running Coop knew it was a lost cause. His parade boots had no tread and the dress uniform was too snug for him to find a good pace. But still he slipped and staggered after the hooded figure, who was already at the fence, parka flapping as he neatly cleared the spikes. Coop followed, trying to tuck his legs, but one boot caught the ironwork and he pitched forward, slapping the sidewalk with both hands and skidding before he scrambled back to his feet—only to find the hooded figure was now just a few steps away, facing toward Coop and gripping a small, sickle-shaped knife.
Under the hood Coop saw a pale scrunched face and animal eyes. He heard the man’s quick breathing, but he kept looking at the bright metal edge, and with it Coop felt the doom of trespass, the superstition against crossing the wire alone.
The figure stepped toward him and automatically Coop’s arms came up into a defensive posture, both palms open, the rear hand guarding his neck. He shuffled in reverse, trying to find distance. The man took another step and Coop scanned the sidewalk, looking for something he could use to defend himself. A remote voice told him he should be more afraid, that he should reason with the man, explain that whatever this situation was, there wasn’t any need for a knife. Instead Coop began to bounce on the toes of his parade boots. His gaze quickened, flashing between the knife and the eyes under the hood.
The stranger stood in front of him, nearly motionless, but Coop saw the man’s fingers tighten around the hilt of the crooked blade. A look of consideration passed over the man’s face, and he bared his teeth. Then he checked the street in both directions and dropped the hand with the knife, concealing the weapon against his thigh, before turning and jogging away. He paused once to shoot back a glance and then rounded a corner and vanished.
* * *
—
Coop sucked air through his nose while he endeavored to get his shit together. Blood hammered in his ears. He knew he was breathing too fast but couldn’t get enough air. Instead of climbing back over the fence Coop decided to take the long way. He found himself limping a little. A new tightness had surfaced behind his left knee, radiating all the way down to the bottom of his foot and up into the muscle of his ass. Worse was the pang of shame arising in his gut. Knife or not, Coop had let the man get away, and he felt a rising, sickly suspicion of his own cowardice. At the same time he began to wonder about a more humiliating possibility: What if he’d made a mistake by chasing the man in the first place? Coop had walked halfway around the church when he suddenly remembered the envelope, but when he came back he found the steps empty. If not for the confusion of footprints in the snow, Coop would have wondered whether the chase had really occurred.
* * *
—
The funeral guests were departing when Coop made it back to the main entrance of the church, and he found himself pushing against the crowd, slowly making his way back toward the chapel. Dimly he registered flickering eyes and frowns of concern. There was a mirror in the entryway and Coop saw his face was bright red and his collar had gone dark with sweat. He rubbed his hands together, freeing the granules of rock salt that were still embedded in his palms. His mind whirled but Coop held to a single imperative: he needed to make a report. Surely someone could make sense of the runner with the envelope and the hooked knife. He considered looking for Detective Melody but decided instead that he should try to find Theo. Coop wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he had a sense the Bellantes wouldn’t appreciate him going directly to the police.
Back inside the hall Coop found the caterers busy scooping up porcelain and stray napkins, folding up tables and chairs, and drawing shut the heavy curtains. The Bellantes were nowhere in sight. He went into the altar room and saw that Kay’s coffin was gone. Suddenly Coop realized he’d never been informed of the details of his wife’s burial.
One of the caterers helped Coop find his coat. He went back outside and watched a line of black cars pulling away from the church. Coop began to shiver and a great fatigue settled over him. The last hour spun through his head, the flashing metal of the messenger’s blade and the bronze gleam of Kay’s casket, the Bellantes and their secrets, the detective, the thin man with the long gray hair who had said he knew Kay. All of it icy and impenetrable and somehow ancient, like the great stone fortress of the church.
* * *
—
He was crossing an intersection at Archer Street when Coop noticed a sleek black car pulled up against the curb, its engine running. The car was a black Maserati coupe, and the dome light was on. Coop halted at the street corner. Sitting behind the wheel of the Maserati was Kay’s cousin Theo, and crammed in next to him was Detective Melody.
He began to drift toward the car. Getting close he saw the two men were studying a single sheet of paper. Sitting flat on the dashboard was a long manila envelope marked up in thick black pen.
Theo looked up, and abruptly Coop lost both of them in the white glare of the Maserati’s high beams. He shielded his eyes with one hand. The passenger door opened and a hazy, round-shouldered mass dislodged itself from the vehicle.
“What’s going on, chief?” said Detective Melody. His voice was cheerful but Coop saw his head turning left and right, checking the street. A gesture of caution, weirdly reminiscent of the knife man.
“I was just walking,” said Coop. His eyeballs throbbed against the harsh xenon lights. Meanwhile Coop’s head spun off toward darker places, trying to make sense of what he was sure he’d seen.
Coop pointed north, toward East Tremont. “Am I going the right way? I was hoping to find a cab.”
Melody came away from the car, easing the door shut. He approached Coop, stepping into the harsh glow of the headlights, then turned back toward the Maserati and made downward patting motions in the air.
“You trying to blind us out here?”
The high beams went off. Blinking against the floating afterbrights, Coop saw Theo still behind the wheel. He didn’t make any motion to leave the vehicle, and in front of him Coop saw the dashboard was now empty. No manila envelope.