Hannah is beside him in the front seat, her meltdown somewhere in the post-thermonuclear phase now, McCluskey wondering which way he should turn at the end of the driveway, left or right?
Yeah, shit couldn’t have gone any better than that, Mikey, he thinks.
He heads left, back the way they came in, seeing O’Sullivan’s bar at the top of the hill, pulling into the parking lot, lights off inside, neon unlit, the clock on the dash reading 9:09, several hours until opening, shame, Hannah could do with something. Shit, he could do with something. Temperature on the dash already reads eighty-five.
He puts his hand on her shoulder, Hannah having reached the deep-breathing stage, just about ready to talk.
Hey, Aitch, he says, giving her shoulder a squeeze. What happened back there—don’t worry about it, OK?
One final breath, her head tilting back. Sorry, Mike, she says, I’m sorry, I just lost it.
Nah, I seen a lot worse at closing time, he says.
She wipes her face. Yeah, well no one forced you to live in New Jersey, she says, letting out a wet snort at the end.
Laughing at your own jokes, Aitch, he says, patting her shoulder three times. I guess you’re all fuckin better then.
King of the world, Mike, she says, putting her hand on top of his. And by the way, McCluskey, you have my permission to run a million miles now. Just drop me off at my friend’s and don’t ever look back, OK?
Nah, he says, don’t worry. I’m Team Aitch all the way.
* * *
SHE CALLS HER FRIEND TO let her know they’re en route, and directs him through town, the place full of climbers with colorful ropes, belts heavy with clips, morning coffees in hand, stark ridge in the distance.
As they pull up beside the house, two girls come running out the front door. The big one’s Katie and the little one’s Lizzy, says Hannah, unbuckling her belt, getting out of the car, and then squatting to receive the girls’ greetings as they fling themselves around her like horseshoes, the girls’ mother standing in the doorway, beaming at the scene.
Say it, Aunt Hannah, squeals Katie, say it, say it.
Say it, pleeease, says Lizzy.
OK then, says Hannah, snapping the elastic of her eyepatch, and then whispering it conspiratorially, Why are pirates called pirates?
And then they all shriek the punch line together.
Because they arrrrr.
Arrrrr, repeats Hannah.
Arrrrr, the girls growl, making pirate arms as each of them covers a tiny left eye with a tiny left hand.
Who’s that man, Aunt Hannah? says Katie, pointing at the car, McCluskey still in the driver’s seat, lowering the window.
He’s a police detective from New York City.
Are you in trouble? says Lizzy.
Nooo, you know I’m a good pirate, right?
I have an arrest warrant, says McCluskey, leaning out of the car. The suspects are about yay high and yay high, he says, his hand jumping Lizzy-tall to Katie-height.
Oh no, says Hannah. Wanted dead or alive! A pair of salty sea dogs.
I’m not salty, says Lizzy, I’m sweet.
I’m not a dog, I’m a cat, says Katie, making kitten paws.
Are these suspects dangerous, Detective McCluskey? Hannah calls over her shoulder.
Yeah, exceedingly, says McCluskey. I gotta handcuff them immediately, he growls.
The girls look at each other, Katie tagging her little sister on the arm and squealing, This one’s chief pirate, as she starts running away, and then they are both running, running and screaming back to their mother.
Hannah stands up and turns to him. Are you leaving, Mike? she says. I told you it’s OK, you can go. Jen’ll look after me.
Nah, I’m coming back, says McCluskey. There’s just this one thing I gotta do, he says, scratching his ear.
I’ll see you soon then, says Hannah.
Yeah, soonish, he says, winding up the window.
* * *
HE DRIVES BACK THROUGH TOWN, Roseborn seeming like a pretty nice hood, decent place to raise a family, nature and shit. McCluskey scratches his ear again, because he can’t scratch the voice, the voice that doesn’t give half a crap about the town, couldn’t care less about family-friendly, because all the voice is concerned with is the right thing to do.
He lowers the window, pulls out a cigarette from the packet in the cup holder and lights it.
Yeah, the right thing to do, that’s a good one, almost as funny as I got your back.
Oh right, you got my back? Doesn’t that imply I’m going in first, then? You know what? How about you got my front here? Or maybe just one of my sides? No, better still, how about I stay here, drink a coffee with my feet up on the desk, and you can take care of whatever kinda shit’s going down?
Only here’s the problemo. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
Jesus, he hates that whiny-assed voice.
Makes a left at the turn, maybe O’Sullivan’s might be charitable enough to be open next time he passes, because what McCluskey has somehow stumbled upon here is one hell of a setup, or what might be known as a five-alarm shitstorm.
And yet the voice is still there. You’re Team Aitch, you stand by her. It’s a little something called loyalty, buddy boy.
When he arrives this time, he leaves his gun under the seat before stepping out of the car, no need for a jacket to cover his holster a second time, and he ditches the thing on the driver’s seat.
Matthew is cleaning dirt from the millstone on the porch, brushing its furrows with a dish towel. Detective McCluskey, he calls out. Welcome back, he says, standing up, wiping his hands on the towel. Come in, come in, Detective, says Matthew, beckoning. Celeste is making pancakes. You like pancakes?