McCluskey is sweating even before he reaches the front door.
Stepping onto the porch, he mops the back of his neck with a handkerchief, and he sees the doorbell but reaches for the knocker anyway, swinging it hard three times before taking two steps back, angling his body, gun-bearing side nearest the house.
The temperature is rising by the second, Hannah’s dress already starting to cling to her body, the mounting heat reminding her of another day in August, twenty-six years ago, and when the door opens up, it swings wide, as if thrown open by her father to welcome family or guests, between a rock and Earhart Place.
And there he is, Matthew.
The air rushes into her chest, Matthew Weaver, Matthew dressed as if he is about to head off to church, a fresh white shirt tucked into blue pants, his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, just like Patch, she thinks briefly, and then Matthew glances at her, nothing more than half a look, but he knows who she is, no hint of surprise, almost as if he’s been waiting for her.
McCluskey gives him a few moments to take in the scene, and then a few more, let the suspect be the one to start talking, judge the guy by his first move, but Matthew says nothing, and everyone just stands there, as if waiting for the heat of the sunshine to kindle the conversation, Hannah feeling as if she might burst into flames on the spot.
Eventually McCluskey lets out a brief snort, an amused admission of defeat, and begins. Matthew Weaver?
Used to be, says Matthew.
Oh yeah? says McCluskey. And I used to be a tight end. So what?
It’s Denby now.
McCluskey sniffs disinterestedly. OK then Matthew Who-Gives-a-Fuck, my name’s Detective McCluskey, he says, taking his badge from an inside pocket, holding it steady and a little too close to Matthew’s face, Matthew not altering the track of his gaze, still staring straight at McCluskey.
You can put away the badge, Detective, says Matthew. I know what police look like.
Yeah, I heard you spent some quality time with a few colleagues.
That was many, many years ago, says Matthew.
We don’t change all that much, says McCluskey. Anyway, I’m just saying who I am so you know who you’re dealing with. This visit isn’t exactly official.
Matthew folds his arms, and leans on the doorframe. So you’re telling me I could close the door right now and you’d have to go away?
Whistling a merry fuckin tune, says McCluskey.
I don’t mind talking to you, says Matthew.
That’s great, says McCluskey, I never did learn how to whistle.
Matthew leans forward and laughs. What is this, Detective? The preamble? The softening-up period?
Nah, says McCluskey, this is the bit where I’m assessing your character using my many years of experience dealing with dangerous criminals.
And?
It ain’t good news.
Because?
Because unfortunately I don’t think I can scare you, says McCluskey. You don’t seem like the nervous type.
And why would that be bad news?
Usually you just frighten someone and you don’t have to shoot them.
Shooting me would be an issue, Detective?
Yeah, unfortunately. Unless you’d be good enough to come at me with a weapon—see, I only ever shot this one guy and he’d just killed his wife and baby boy and then came charging at me, head down, with a bloody machete.
I guess kills don’t come much cleaner, Detective.
Right. Luck of the Irish.
So you never had cause to shoot anyone innocent?
Not so far. Bad for the pension. In most cases.
Then I’ll take my chances with you, Detective McCluskey.
McCluskey tucks his fingers into the front pockets of his pants and starts tapping a foot. You understand why I’m here, of course, right?
Matthew purses his lips, bobs his head. I’d say I could probably guess.
Yeah, well this ain’t Family Feud, so I’m thinking I should spell it out, just in case.
I can do it for you, Detective. H-A-N-N-A-H.
Fuckin A, Matthew Weaver. Now just add the words stay away from and we’re good to go.
Matthew unfolds his arms and puts one of his hands in a pocket. And yet there she is, he says. On my lawn.
McCluskey blows out hard, running a hand over his mouth, as if fighting to keep something down. Your lawn? he says. That’s what you said, no? Your? Lawn?
That’s right, Detective. Legally speaking, it’s my lawn.
Right, and I’m legally speaking’s biggest fan, fuckin trust me. However, you can see how it comes across, your choice of property, right? You know, bearing in mind your criminal record.
Matthew raises a hand, holds it over his heart. Detective McCluskey, he says, you have my word that I will stay away from Hannah Jensen.
McCluskey claps his palm to the back of his neck as if swatting an insect, can already feel the sting of the heat. And I should believe you exactly why? he says.
Because otherwise you’ll shoot me, says Matthew. I thought we’d already reached an understanding on that front.
We did? says McCluskey. Well, that’s just great. You see, sometimes I say things and people don’t listen, and I got this foul fuckin temper.
I don’t want to upset you, Detective.
Considerate guy. Who knew this would be so easy?
Matthew lowers his chin, drops his gaze to the ground, and then, looking quickly back up again, says, But if Hannah ever wants to come to see me, of course … He lets the sentence trail away, punctuating its end with a shrug.
McCluskey can feel the heat stirring inside of him now as the sunlight pierces his suit, penetrates his skin, McCluskey feeling like there’s something swarming inside, his voice rising quickly to threat level, Now you listen to me, fuck-hole, I know exactly what’s happening here …
I doubt that very much, Detective.
… no more fuckin games, he warns. I’ve dealt with your type—psychopaths, bullies, whack jobs, lowlifes—every type of fuckin type, you understand? And I win, Matthew Weaver. I always win. And you know why?
But Matthew doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to be listening, just starts to move his head, turning it to look at her, McCluskey slapping the doorframe … Eyes back on me, get your eyes the fuck back on me … turning his head to meet her eye for a second, two seconds … Or so help me, I’ll fuckin drop you right now … and having held her gaze, having taken her in, he opens his mouth, and he says to her, Hannah, I’m sorry.
The words seem to shatter something unseen in the air.
McCluskey stops, everything stops, there is only the chirring of insects.
And then, when Hannah opens her mouth, the words come out loud. Shoot him, she cries, why don’t you shoot him? And then she is running, her anger aflame and unquenchable, running for McCluskey, not knowing why, not even wondering why, and when she gets within reach, McCluskey catches her, wrapping her up in his arms, Hannah struggling against the mass of his flesh, but she can fight for only a moment, and soon she surrenders, nothing left, only McCluskey saying her name over and over, hoisting her into his arms and carrying her off, nothing left.