Long Bright River(112)

The two men turn toward me. Lafferty and McClatchie.

I can tell that it takes Lafferty a second to place me. I’m out of uniform and out of context. I am unshowered and wild-looking, my hair pulled back into a low knot. I’m tired and strained.

—Whoa, says Lafferty. He smiles, or tries to. Obediently, he raises his hands into the air. Is that Mickey? he says.

—Get your hands up, I say to McClatchie, who finally complies.

—Move away from her, I say to McClatchie, nodding toward Kacey.

I don’t like how close he’s standing, an arm’s length from my sister, who herself is leaning against a ledge. I don’t know how far the drop is to the floor of the nave, but I know I don’t want her going over. Below us, there is still the low murmur of footsteps and coughs and voices, nonsensical now, echoing indecipherably.

—Where to, says McClatchie, dryly. He’s even skinnier than the last time I saw him.

—Against that wall, I say, gesturing, with my head, to my right.

He walks to it. He leans back against it. Puts a foot up.

Eddie Lafferty is still smiling at me, sickly, as if racking his brain for some funny explanation, a reason we all came to be standing here together.

—You undercover too? is what he comes up with.

I say nothing. I don’t want to look him in the eye. I also don’t want to look away from him for an instant. I’m not sure whom to focus on: McClatchie or Lafferty. Kacey is standing behind the latter. And I realize, suddenly, that she is mouthing something to me.

Looking past Lafferty’s right ear, I squint at her. Kacey nods toward McClatchie. Her lips are moving, forming words I can’t parse. He’s something. I.

I’m still focused on Kacey’s mouth when I notice Lafferty’s body tense in that particular manner of a police officer about to give chase. And then he charges at me and knocks me to the ground. My weapon discharges once, shattering a section of ceiling, and then it goes skittering across the carpeted floor of the choir loft.

Below us, a woman screams, and then the cathedral goes silent.

Lafferty is standing over me, one foot on either side of my torso. McClatchie leaves his post and picks the gun up.





I lie very still. I’m panting. From the ground, I study the arched ceiling of the cathedral. Dimly, I can make out where the bullet found its mark. A little cloud of plaster dust descends slowly in a shaft of light. The ceiling, once painted celestial blue, is peeling now. A bird’s nest, I notice, occupies the nearest corner.

The shot is still echoing in my ears. Otherwise, the cathedral is silent as a tomb.

I picture my son. I wonder what will become of him, if today is the end for me. I think of the choices my own mother made—and realize, painfully, that I am not so different from her after all. It’s only the nature of our respective addictions that diverged: Hers was narcotic, clear-cut, defined. Mine is amorphous, but no less unhealthy. Something to do with self-righteousness, or self-perception, or pride.

Thomas, I think, uselessly. I’m so sorry I left you.



* * *



—

When a few long seconds have passed, I glance over at McClatchie. He’s clutching my weapon, the one he retrieved from the floor, but he’s not holding it right. It occurs to me, suddenly, that he has no idea what he’s doing. I’m considering how I might use this to my advantage when he suddenly says, to Lafferty, Kneel down.

Lafferty looks at him for a moment.

—You’re joking, he says.

—I’m not, says McClatchie. Kneel down.

With a certain amount of incredulity, Lafferty does so.

—Keep your hands in the air, says McClatchie.

He glances at me where I lie on the ground.

—Is that right? he says to me.

I lift my head. My forehead got knocked pretty badly when Lafferty plowed into me, and I’m still seeing stars. My neck aches.

—You stand up, McClatchie says to me.

I glance at Kacey, who nods quickly, and I comply.

Then McClatchie does something I don’t understand: still aiming at Lafferty, he edges toward me until we’re standing shoulder to shoulder, side by side. He hands me the weapon.

—You’re better off with this, he says. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.

As soon as I take the gun and turn it on Lafferty, McClatchie puts his hands behind his head, takes a big breath of relief. He walks to the railing at the edge of the choir loft, leans on his elbows, and looks out at the church below.



* * *



—

I hear footsteps coming up the staircase behind us. For a tense moment, I aim back and forth between Lafferty and the stairs.

The door flies open. I see Mike DiPaolo and Davis Nguyen emerge, guns drawn.

—Drop your weapon, DiPaolo says to me calmly, and I put it on the ground.

I don’t understand.

I think, for a moment, that it was Lafferty who called for backup, which will make the job of explaining my case much harder.

—He’s dangerous, I say, about Lafferty, and Lafferty starts to protest, but suddenly Kacey’s raising her voice above all of us.

—Did Truman Dawes send you? she says to DiPaolo and Nguyen.

—Who’s asking? DiPaolo says. He and Nguyen are still stiff-arming their weapons, aiming them at all of us in turn. I can imagine their confusion.