Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(58)

If only Vic could drop everything and go up to the Bronx and eat some of Ange’s home cooking and shoot the shit with Rocky, and make the world go away.

Too bad it doesn’t work like that. Not today, and not for him. Never.

“Listen,” he says hurriedly, “I’ve got to call you back, Rock. Sorry. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Aren’t we all. Call me when you can.”

“I will.” Vic quickly hangs up and for a few seconds, stands there imagining what his life would be like if he hadn’t followed this path. If he were, say, a psychiatrist, the way he’d intended to be when he’d first gone to college.

For one thing, he’d be better rested, and closer to home . . . and there sure as hell wouldn’t be a gun in his pocket.

But this is the life he chose for himself; he’s doing what he always wanted to do.

No—what he always had to do.

Jaw set, Vic returns to the living room and hands Nora Fellows a sheet of head shots. “Do you recognize any of these men, Nora?”

Nora looks it over, then gasps and points. “That’s him. That’s the guy on my flight.”

Vic nods with grim satisfaction, his momentary desire to flee all but forgotten.

One step closer.

Something pokes at Mack’s cheek, startling him awake.

He opens his eyes to see a child standing over him. What the . . . ?

He blinks and she’s still there and he has no idea who she is, or where he is and his head is pounding so badly it’s no wonder he can’t think straight.

The child opens her mouth and, without turning her head or moving her gaze away from Mack, shrieks, “DADDY, HE WOKE UP!”

The shrill blast splinters Mack’s skull like a sledgehammer.

He closes his eyes and swallows back a tide of nausea. When he opens them again, the little girl has been replaced with Ben. He’s holding a steaming mug in one hand, a green plastic soda bottle in the other.

“Black coffee?” he asks. “Or ginger ale?”

Mack swallows hard. “Neither.”

“If you puke on that carpet, my friend, Randi will kill me. And then I’ll kill you. So— bathroom’s that way.” Ben points over his shoulder.

“I don’t need—” Mack gulps, sits up, and finds that he’s entangled in a puffy purple quilt. He manages to extract himself, runs past Ben, and makes it to the bathroom just in time.

As he kneels miserably on the tile in front of the toilet, he tries to piece together how he wound up here, at Ben’s apartment.

He remembers calling Ben from home and asking if they could get together for a little while. The last thing he remembers, he’d found his way to the midtown pub where Ben had promised to meet him for a beer. Or was it a drink?

Judging by how wretched he feels, it was both, and many of each. He smells strongly of stale cigarette smoke, too, and he recalls buying a pack somewhere along the way to the pub.

He rinses his mouth with water and spots a tube of toothpaste that has a picture of Barbie on it. He squeezes some of the sparkly pink goo onto his finger and rubs it over his teeth. He hasn’t finger-brushed since his sleeping-around days, before he met Carrie.

Carrie.

He spits out the disgusting toothpaste, which tastes of fruit and flowers, and it’s all he can do not to throw up in the sink. After splashing cold water over his stubbly face, he dries off with a towel.

Today’s newspaper is sitting on top of a closed wicker hamper, the sections in disarray, as if someone had been reading it and put it aside hastily. Mack finds the front page, scans the headlines, then leafs through the section, skimming the news.

Five minutes later, he folds the paper open to a page, tucks it under his arm, and makes his way back to the living room.

Ben is there, waiting. Wordlessly, he holds out the mug and the bottle.

Mack takes the bottle, but he’s not convinced he can stomach even ginger ale right now.

“Drink,” Ben tells him.

Mack opens it and takes a cautious sip. It goes down, stays down.

“Sit.” Ben gestures at the couch. The purple quilt is now neatly folded at one end, a pillow on top of it.

“Ben, I’m sorry . . .”

“Sit,” Ben says again, taking his arm and steering him over to the couch. “It’s okay.”

“Thank you.” Mack sinks onto the couch, the newspaper on his lap, and sips some more ginger ale. It’s not helping, but it’s not hurting, either.

Ben is in a chair opposite the couch, watching him warily.

Is he worried I’m going to throw up on the rug? Or worse?

What the hell happened last night?

What did I do?

Why am I here?

Mack vaguely remembers that he called Ben because he needed a shoulder and an ear.

What did I say?

“Feeling better?” Ben asks. He’s wearing a suit, Mack notices.

“A little better. Are you . . . are we . . . is the office open today?”

“It is, but no one expects you to be there. I’m just going for a little while, to get a few things squared away. You can stay here if you don’t want to go home. Randi and Lexi will be around.”

Mack’s eyes widen—ow, that hurts, everything hurts—and he tells Ben, “Lexi—that was Lexi just now, waking me up.”