Jake awoke, groggy and confused, to the sound of laughter.
He lay on his side atop a flimsy mattress in a dark, windowless room, illuminated only by the stripe of daylight between carpet and door. The wooden frame supporting the mattress pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder, hip, and knee. The dry, conditioned air smelled of potpourri and oxidized blood.
Right, Jake thought, the futon in the Croziers’ spare bedroom. He never imagined he’d have a weekend so shitty that breaking into a dead couple’s apartment would momentarily slip his mind.
His back was sore. His neck was stiff. His joints popped as he stretched. A yawn escaped him, at which point Jake realized the smoke he’d inhaled yesterday had scratched his throat raw.
Creakily, he climbed to his feet and opened the bedroom door.
The curtains in the living room were flung wide.
Jake squinted in the sudden daylight, and shielded his eyes with a raised forearm, vampirically.
“Oh, good!” Amy smiled. “You’re up!”
“You two wanna keep it down a little? Or have you forgotten that we’re trying to lay low?” His voice sounded like a rusty hinge.
“Don’t mind him,” Amy told Mat, “he’s always grumpy in the morning.”
The two of them were on the far side of the kitchen island, facing Jake. A large mixing bowl, some measuring cups, and a bottle of vegetable oil occupied the work surface, most of them dusted white.
“What’s all this?” Jake asked.
Mat beamed. “We’re making pancakes!”
Jake’s gaze met Amy’s. “Seriously?”
“Not from scratch or anything,” she replied. “Just a mix I found in the cupboard. It’s like a year expired, but still. Seemed a more appropriate breakfast than leftover stir-fry.”
“A mix,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then, to Amy: “You lost a lot of blood yesterday. Shouldn’t you be lying down?”
“Honestly, a little soreness aside, I feel fine. Better than fine, even, as long as I remember not to move my arm too much.”
“No redness? Swelling? Discharge?”
“None.”
“What about fever or malaise?”
“Jake, look at me: I’m fine.”
He absently massaged his jaw. Two days’ stubble rasped against his hand.
Amy cocked her head, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”
“What is what?” Jake replied.
“Oh, come on. I’ve been your partner long enough to know when something’s bugging you.”
“Nothing’s bugging me, exactly. I’m glad you’re feeling better. It’s just… you remember my buddy Tom Stearns?”
Amy seemed puzzled by his apparent non sequitur. “From your time at the academy, right? Works a precinct up in Harlem?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about him?”
“Last week, he had to have a toe amputated, on account of an ingrown nail. Meanwhile, you yank a chunk of derelict building from your arm and wake up smiling.”
“That’s just it. Much as I’d love to take credit, all I did was patch you up. I have a feeling you have someone else to thank for your wound not getting infected.”
Jake eyed Mat pointedly.
The boy reddened and looked at his shoes.
Amy scrunched up her face as she tried to square Jake’s implication. “How—”
“I don’t know, but think about it: Park City’s raided. Mat flees, leaving behind a village full of detainees in perfect health. The perps chase him to Tribeca, where we bump into him. Then, last night, when I offer him the futon, he insists on sleeping in the living room with you—and you wake up feeling better than I do.”
“My partner spins a decent yarn,” Amy said. “Is there any truth to it?”
Mat chewed the inside of his cheek and said nothing.
“If there is,” she continued, “you can tell us—we won’t get mad.”
Eyes downcast, he mumbled something too softly to hear.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said, “what was that?”
“I said my uncle made me promise not to tell!”
Jake and Amy shared a glance.
“Tell what?” Amy asked.
The boy, not falling for it, rolled his eyes.
“Maybe we can guess, so you don’t have to,” Jake said. “Would that be okay?”
Mat shrugged.
Jake adopted a thoughtful expression. “Does it have anything to do with the mystery package you’ve been carrying?”
Mat shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Jake pressed gently. “It’s important that you tell the truth. Even the best medicines can be dangerous sometimes. That’s why doctors have to get permission from the patient or their family before treating them.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m just saying, I know you meant well, but if you gave Amy something last night while she was sleeping—”
“I swear I didn’t give her anything!”
“Look, Mat, I want to believe you, but you just admitted—”
“No, I didn’t.” Mat folded his arms across his chest. “You assumed.”
“Oh, please. That package is the only thing you brought with you from Park City. Before bed, when I asked you what was in it, you deflected. Now, Amy’s made a miraculous recovery, and you’re all kinds of defensive. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Beats me, but I’m telling you the truth.” Mat’s face was a challenge. “Go ahead and open it if you don’t believe me.”
Jake’s temper flared. “You know what? I think I will.”
He crossed the room and snatched the package off the side table. It was small, rectangular. Wrapped in stiff waxed canvas, bound with twine. Jake picked at the knot until it came loose—Mat scowling at him all the while—then peeled back the fabric to reveal a rusty, dented tin that once held tea.
“Jake, c’mon,” Amy said. “If he says there’s nothing in there, there’s nothing in there.”
“Are you willing to bet my daughter’s life on that? Because I’m sure as hell not. If there’s even a tiny chance he’s hiding something that could make Zoe better, I have to look.”
Jake popped the lid and tossed it aside. The tin’s contents were enclosed in a resealable plastic bag, fogged with moisture. He fished it out, broke the seal, and emptied it onto the coffee table.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Vials? Capsules? Syringes? Instead, the bag contained a smattering of photographs and handwritten letters, the former yellowed with age, the latter soft and blurry from repeated handling.
“I don’t understand,” Jake said. “What is this stuff?”
“That’s all I have left of my family,” Mat replied, the bitterness in his voice imperfect camouflage for his pain.
Jake’s face burned with shame. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.
Amy, taking pity on her partner, approached the table and nodded toward the photographs. “May I?”
“Sure.”
She plucked a photo from the table by its edges and examined it.
“Is this your mother?”
Mat nodded.
“She’s beautiful. And the boy beside her…”
“That’s me.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I was four.”
“Who’s the baby on her lap?”
“That’s my little brother, Sebastian.”
“Where’s your dad?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Jail, probably. Growing up, it was mostly just the three of us.”
“Your mom and brother… are they back home?” The question spilled from Jake unbidden. He wasn’t sure he wanted Mat to answer.
Mat’s lip trembled as he shook his head.
Amy squeezed his arm affectionately.
“Dad turned up at my eighth birthday party with a bunch of his buddies, said I was almost old enough to follow in his footsteps, to run with La 18. We left town before sunrise the next day.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“It took almost a month for us to reach the US border. Sometimes, we walked. Sometimes, we hitched. Once, we stowed away in the back of a flatbed truck, hiding between giant spools of wire. In Reynosa, we met a man who said he knew a spot where we could cross. He drove us into the desert, handed us a rubber raft, and told us to start walking north. It was dark out when we reached the Rio Grande. There wasn’t enough room for all three of us on the raft—it was really just a pool float—so Mom decided Sebastian, being youngest, would ride on top, while she and I held on to the sides and paddled.”
Mat’s eyes welled.
“I still don’t know how Sebastian fell in. I just heard a splash, and he was gone. Mom let go of the raft so she could grab him, and the next thing I knew, I was alone. I climbed onto the raft, and shouted after them until my voice gave out, but…”
His chest hitched, but he composed himself.
“I don’t remember reaching the far bank, but I must have, because that’s where Border Patrol found me.”
Tears spilled down Mat’s cheeks.
He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“When I met my uncle Gabriel, I found out Mom sent him letters once a month, and included photos of the three of us whenever she could. He didn’t keep every letter, just the ones he thought were important. He kept every single picture, though. Three months after we got stuck in Park City, our landlord threatened to evict us, so Gabriel asked a neighbor to retrieve them. Then he bribed a guard to smuggle them into the camp. Now I really wish that he was in the pictures, too, because—”
Mat broke down then. Jake put an arm around him, haltingly, unsure if it was welcome. The boy buried his face in Jake’s shirt and cried.
When his sobs abated, Jake said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Mat replied, sniffling.
“Still, Amy was right. I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff like that—but you’ve got to understand, my little girl is very sick, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save her.” Jake paused. Changed direction. “Hey, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want, or if it violates your promise to your uncle.”
Mat shrugged. “Sure.”
“If you’re not carrying some kind of miracle cure, why are the assholes in the black masks after you?”
The boy pursed his lips, as if deciding how, or whether, to answer. He was silent long enough that Jake was certain he wouldn’t. Then—quietly, carefully—he said, “Because of what I can do.”
“What does that mean?” Amy asked. “What can you do?”
Mat didn’t answer. It was obvious he’d said all that he was going to on the topic.
Eventually, Amy forced a smile and said, “Okay, then. Who wants pancakes?”
Both Mat and Jake responded tepidly, but she hurried off to make them nonetheless. Moments later, Mat trundled after to assist. Jake figured two pairs of hands were plenty, so he snatched the Croziers’ tablet off the coffee table, opened its browser, and typed in the address for Hannah’s Bangarang feed.
At the top was a new post, its time stamp an hour or so after he fell asleep.
In desperate need of a vacation, it read. Think I’ll get out of the city for a while.
Jake bolted to his feet, the tablet falling from his hands. It hit the coffee table hard enough to leave a mark.
“Jake, what’s wrong?” Amy asked, alarmed.
“I have to go,” he said. “Hannah and Zoe are in trouble.”