Authors: Glenn Cooper
He stood before a door badly in need of paint. He buzzed several times then hammered it with his fist for good measure. The flat was small and even if Joe was asleep, the racket would have woken him. Disappointed, he tried his mobile.
“Yeah?” the voice was thick and sleepy.
“Joe, open the bloody door!”
“Alex?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean, open the door?”
“I’m standing in your hall, man!”
“Where?”
“Hackney, where do you think?”
“What the fuck are you doing in Hackney?”
“Visiting you, you idiot. Open the door.”
“Won’t be a big help to you, mate. I’m at my
girlfriend’s in Wapping. Joke’s on you.”
An hour later, Alex was standing in front of the proper door. Joe was unshaven and woozy, bare-chested, his sweatpants low on his hips. He hastily put down his coffee mug to hug his brother and ushered him inside.
“Michelle’s not here, mate. She’s got a real job.”
Alex blinked into the bright light flooding in through two huge windows. “Christ, Joe, what does she do?”
The flat was starkly modern with blond wood everywhere and enormous picture windows that took in an expanse of the Thames and the Tower Bridge.
Joe scratched his hairy chest and laughed. “She’s a lawyer. Can you imagine me, with a bloody lawyer?”
“Does she know you’re a psycho?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, she’s onto me. I’ll be back in my shithole in Hackney before long, I expect. Why the hell are you really here?”
“I told you. To see you.”
“Something’s fishy but I’ll get the truth out of you. Have a coffee. Enjoy the view.”
They talked about Joe mostly, about the army. Three tours in Iraq, three in Afghanistan with the 11 DOD Regiment. He’d used up most of his nine lives as a staff sergeant in ordinance disposal. He’d seen it all, done it
all, had mates killed by snipers and booby traps. He had photos on his mobile of Helmand, where everything—the roads, the buildings, the men—were sand-colored.
“That’s me, on the floor, passed out drunk on my last night there. I’m done, Alex. Paid my fucking dues.”
“What now?” his brother asked.
“Mooching off of a rich lady’s a good start, don’t you think?”
London was warmer than Boston and Alex was keen to walk. Joe agreed, as long as the ultimate goal was to wind up in a pub.
They followed a route along the river, the waters slate-colored and whipped by a stiff wind. Joe knew the area better than Alex, if only because his new woman was outdoorsy with some appreciation for local history. They made their way down St Katherine’s Way toward St Paul’s, Joe talking and pointing, a regular tour guide. “See that?” he waved over at the smart three-master tied up in St Katherine’s dock. “That’s the Great Turk, a man o’ war. Nice, eh?” Joe cooed at some of the private yachts moored in the marina and chattered on about the virtues of water over desert.
They turned onto Wapping High Street, which gently followed the course of the river. “This bit here,” Joe
pointed at all the modernity. “In the sixteenth century it was all sailors and whores. Filthy place. I probably would’ve been right at home.” A bit further west, in front of the headquarters of News International, he said, “Did you know, that’s where the
Sun
’s published? Dickie would’ve worshipped here. Sacred ground.”
“I think they do the
Times
too,” Alex said.
“No titties in that one,” Joe said, dismissively.
They arrived at their destination near the narrow alleyway leading to Wapping Old Stairs and the rocky riverbank. The pub, Town of Ramsgate, had been the scene of more dramatic events in history than two brothers catching up. The capture of the bloodthirsty “Hanging Judge” Jeffreys during the Bloodless Revolution in 1688; convicts bound to Australia, chained in the basement, awaiting their pitiless passage. It was filled with nautical bric-a-brac, pleasantly deserted in a lull before the lunch rush. They took their pints to a corner table.
“You ever see Aunt Peggy?” Alex asked. She was the cold woman, Dickie’s sister, who reluctantly raised the two boys.
“Not likely. You?”
“Christmas cards,” Alex said. “That’s about it.”
At last Joe said, “Don’t you think you ought to tell
me why you’re here?”
“I want you to come with me back to the States.”
“I told you
no
before. Why wasn’t that good enough?”
“I’ll tell you the reason.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve discovered something important.”
Joe drank several gulps. “Not surprised. You’re a clever monkey, Alex. If it makes you filthy rich, I’ll take care of your security.”
“I’m not interested in money.”
“No, course not. Spill the fucking beans, will you?” Joe said impatiently.
In a low voice, Alex told him everything, everything except the murders. He described Bliss trips in exquisite detail, talked about their profound effects on people, the effect it had on him. Joe was drinking faster than his brother and stopped him to get another pint. He returned to the table rolling his eyes. “Go on. You were saying?”
“I was about to tell you who I saw.”
“Okay, who?”
“Dad.”
“How’s old Dickie then?”
“You’re not taking me seriously.”
“I am serious—seriously drinking, mate.”
Alex drank some more of his first pint to humor him. “I want you to try Bliss.”
Joe laughed. “No fucking way.”
“You won’t believe it, Joe. It’ll change your life.”
“I don’t want to change it. It’s good enough the way it is.”
Alex took a red paper tube out of his pocket. “Please.”
“You carried drugs on the fucking plane, Alex? Are you crazy?”
“It doesn’t look like anything. Will you?”
“No! I’m a beer man. I’ll smoke a little, but that’s it. No wacky stuff for me. Look, I hope you had some other reasons for coming over here because it’s an expensive way for me to tell you to go fuck off.”
They hung out all day, with Alex taking a nap on the fancy sofa. Before Michelle came home Alex tried to bring up Bliss again but his brother shot him down. Later, the three of them went out for a bistro meal, compliments of the lawyer. She was a nice enough lady, Alex thought, but there wasn’t an abundance of chemistry between her and Joe. They were from different orbits. Joe was right. He’d be back in Hackney soon enough.
“How long are you going to be staying, Alex?” Michelle
asked.
“Not long. A day or two.”
“You’re welcome to stay with us,” she offered. “If you’re happy to kip on the sofa.”
“You know, I’ll stay at Joe’s place if that’s okay. It’s closer to where I’ve got some business to do.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” Joe said. “Least I can do for you.”
It was late when Joe turned the key in the door of his Hackney flat. The place was a mess with dirty clothes and the detritus of a long army career strewn about.
“There’s clean sheets in the closet if you want to do up the bed,” Joe said.
“Any beer?” Alex asked.
“I’ve always got beer.” He pulled two cans from the cupboard. “Last drink of the night. I’ve got a lady in waiting.”
When Joe went to use the loo, Alex calmly emptied a straw of Bliss into Joe’s lager and gave the can a shake.
They talked some more and finished their drinks. Joe was ready to go, still alert, and Alex stalled him, keeping the conversation going, reminiscing about the bad old days after they were orphaned, when Joe used to bash any kid who messed with his skinny brother.
“Fuck me,” Joe said suddenly. “I can’t be that pissed.”
“You all right?” Alex asked, studying him like a specimen.
“I’m knackered as hell,” he said sleepily.
“Lie down for a minute. It’ll pass.”
Alex helped him to his bed and took his shoes off just as he slipped into unconsciousness.
He pulled up a chair and sat beside Joe, watching his face, checking his pulse, waiting for his brother to return.
Joe’s mobile rang a couple of times, leaving missed calls from Michelle. On the third try, Alex picked up and apologetically told her that Joe was passed out from drink. He’d put him to bed. She laughed it off and said it wasn’t every day he got to see his brother. She forgave him.
Before an hour had passed, Joe was back, blinking and smiling.
Some people came out of a Bliss trip talking a mile a minute, uncontrollably voluble. Joe was the laconic sort, a man of few words, and even Bliss didn’t change that.
“Jesus, Alex, you gave it to me, didn’t you?”
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you. I saw Ma. She was so fucking
happy.”
Alex smiled. “I’m sure she was. Will you come with me, Joe?”
He shakily propped himself to a sitting position. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
Thirty-three
Alex was cautious, bordering on paranoid. All the way across the Atlantic he worried that Cyrus O’Malley might have him picked up in the customs hall … or in the terminal … or at his home. So he had Jessie meet them at Terminal E at Logan with a bag full of clothes in the trunk. As he was collecting his things to deplane, he realized wistfully that he’d probably never see his house again. It didn’t matter.
Jessie was waiting at the arrivals hall with a large purple scarf wrapped around her neck and an electric smile. Alex hugged her so hard she couldn’t breathe. She emerged from the clinch laughing and put out her arms to welcome Joe.
“So this is your lass,” Joe said, kissing her on the cheek. “What are you doing with a wanker like him?” he asked playfully.
“I don’t know what a
wanker
is,” she said sweetly. “But I love him.”
“Never mind,” said Joe, hoisting his duffel bag. “To each his own. Show me America then.”
“I need to show you my lab first,” Alex began to explain.
“I need to give you something,” Jessie interrupted Alex as they were getting into the car. She handed him an envelope. “It’s from Arthur Spangler.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s dead,” she said. “His brother found this letter to you in his pocket.”
Alex unfolded the handwritten note.
Weller. Thought I should take the precaution of penning this in case I go too far. As a scientist, you need to know this info. I’ve gotten a good supply of Bliss on the streets and have been experimenting with higher doses to achieve greater effects. 3 mg put me out for a long time but didn’t improve the performance. One way or the other I’m determined to cross that goddamn river! Tonight I’m taking 10x the usual dose = 5 mg. If I don’t wake up, then you’ve got yourself some data on the lethal dose. Cheers!
Art
.
Alex folded the letter into his breast pocket. “I’m going to miss him,” he said. “But I’m happy for him.”
Alex drove from the airport to the medical school, pulled his car into the alley behind his building and stopped at the loading dock. It was 9 P.M. and the alley was deserted. He let himself in with his pass key and led Jessie and Joe up the rear stairs to his floor. Thankfully, all the labs up and down the corridor were dark so they could work in isolation. He commandeered some trolleys in a common equipment room and they wheeled them into his lab.
Alex went around the lab pointing at this computer, those HPLC columns, that rack of tubes and beakers, and Joe and Jessie dutifully unplugged and stacked and carried until all the carts were full of gear. Alex cleaned out his desk, retrieved his notebooks and secured the new bottles of pentapeptide from Mexico. They were finished in ten minutes.
Soon they were in the clear, driving away from Boston, heading toward the highway, Joe sharing the backseat with the equipment.
Past midnight, the car left Route 95 at Bangor, Maine, for a smaller artery. Joe was snoring in the back. Jessie kept stroking Alex’s arm and shoulders to keep him alert.
After a while, he caught sight of a sign for Lucerine-in-Maine, a happily whimsical name that told them they were on track. In half an hour they spotted the turnoff to
Ellsworth and began heading toward the rocky coast.
Jessie was reading from the directions she’d gotten from Erica and had Alex turn at a mailbox with P
ARRIS
clumsily printed on its side in white paint. They drove for a good quarter mile along a winding gravel road until an imposing shingled house came into view. At the front door, Alex killed the engine and declared, “We’re here.”
He was first out and immediately bombarded with wonderful sounds and smells. Seagulls cried overhead and nearby waves rolled and crashed against rocks. The air was cold, clean, and salty. He tried to pick out things in the pitch dark. A light went on in a second-floor window. Erica opened it and called out.
Joe woke with a start, declared he had to take a piss and proceeded to splash the gravel by the rear tire.
“You’ll grow to love him,” Alex told Jessie, his arm wrapped around her waist.
The house belonged to Erica’s parents, long-term summer residents of Bar Harbor. It had been in the family for generations. Over the gabled entrance was a carved wooden sign, WELCOME TO HIGH CLIFFS.
Erica flung open the door in her pajamas. She hugged Alex and Jessie and ushered everyone in to the most beautiful house Alex had ever seen. He instantly felt
comfortable.
A good place to start something important
, he thought.
It was eighty years old, two dozen rooms, built at a time where grace and beauty came from the understated quality of the joinery, the gull-winged sweep of a staircase, the warm succulence of wood grain. The entry hall and adjoining rooms were oversized and filled with furniture from a bygone era of casual seaside elegance. Straight ahead was a great room that ran the entire length of the back of the house with multiple clusters of overstuffed sofas and chairs and a vintage Steinway at one end. At the other end was a stone fireplace, large enough for three people to stand upright in the firebox. Most of the floor was covered by the largest Persian rug he’d ever seen.
“It’s a beautiful house, Erica. Thank you,” Alex said.
“Think there’s any drink about?” Joe whispered to him.