Long Bright River(62)

But his haircut is familiar, as is his orange jacket.

—Dock? I say.

I’m shivering now. My knees are knocking. Perversely, I’m embarrassed. It’s cold in here, I want to say. I’m shaking because I’m cold.

—What the fuck are you doing here, he says.

—Looking for you, I say.

I’m improvising.

He takes one step forward, slowly.

—How did you find me, he says.

—I asked around, I say. You know. I know people out here.

He gives out a sound that’s like a laugh, but painful. He puts a hand to his side. I wonder if his ribs are broken.

—What are you carrying? he says.

I hesitate, just for a minute. There’s a very, very small chance that I might convince him I’m armed. And that this might let me make my escape. But I don’t know if he is, and therefore it might be foolish to bluff.

—Nothing, I say.

—Raise your hands, he says.

When I’ve done so, he comes toward me and lifts up my shirt. Then looks down the waistband of my pants. He places his hands all over me. I stand there, feeling helpless.

—I should kill you, he says softly.

—I’m sorry? I say.

—I should kill you, he says, for what your family did to me.

I go very still.

—I don’t understand, I say.

—I don’t understand, says Dock, mockingly. Imitating me.

—One thing Kacey always talked about, he says, is how smart you were. She might have been mad at you. But the way she talked about you, you would have thought you were Alfred Einstein.

I look down at the floor. I stay silent. But it takes all of my strength not to say, Albert.

—So I’m not sure I believe you, Dock continues, when you say you don’t understand.

I keep my eyes on the floor. I am trying to be as unchallenging as possible. One thing they taught us in the police academy that I have found useful, actually, is how to use your body to convey what you cannot say with your words alone.

Dock points to his face. Look up, he says. Look at me. This wasn’t a fair fight, he says. Does this look like a fair fight to you? If you see Bobby O’Brien, you should tell him to watch his back.

Bobby.

I close my eyes. Remember the strange look that passed over his face, upon learning Dock’s name at Thanksgiving.

—I apologize sincerely if my cousin did that, I say. You should know that I rarely talk to him. We aren’t close.

He scoffs. Right, he says.

—We’re not, I say. If he did that to you, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.

Dock pauses, assessing me.

He shifts a little. Scratches his head.

—Why do I believe you? he says at last. It’s weird, but I believe you.

—That’s good, I say, lifting my head just a little. Glancing up. Then lowering it again.

—Huh, he says, as if surprised.

—Still, he says, you tell him that if you see him. Tell him not to come around the Ave. There are a lot of people here on my side of things.

—I’ll convey the message, I say.

He laughs again. Then grimaces. Put your hands down, he says. Your arms must be getting tired.

—What are you doing here, he says.

—Looking for Kacey, I say.

I’ve run out of reasons to lie.

He nods. You love her? he says.

I stiffen.

—She’s my sister, I say, carefully. And she’s also a citizen of the district I patrol.

Dock laughs again, a little. You’re weird, he says.

Then he says, Listen. Get out of here. I don’t know where she is. I’m telling you the truth.

—All right, I say. Thank you.

I don’t know if he is. I do know I want to leave unharmed. I can still feel his hands on my body. It gives me a crawling feeling, the need to get into a shower.

Before he can change his mind, I walk toward the door and into the hallway. But as I’m about to descend the stairs, he calls out again.

—Mickey, he says.

Slowly, I turn around. Dock is backlit now, framed by the window, a shadow. I can’t see his expression.

—You should be more careful, he says. You’ve got a son to think about.

My muscles tense, as if preparing for a fight.

—What did you say? I say, slowly.

—I said you’ve got a son, he says. Thomas, right?

Then he sits down on the mattress in the corner and lowers himself painfully until he is prone.

—That’s all, he says.

He closes his eyes.

I leave.





Dock’s voice as he said my son’s name, Thomas, echoes in my ears. If it was meant to be a threat, it worked.

I sit in my car, contemplating my next move. It’s obvious, I think, that if my cousin Bobby is the perpetrator of the attack on Dock, then he knows more than he was letting on at Thanksgiving. And yet it’s also obvious that he’s not prepared to tell me any of it.

My only chance, I think, is to surprise him in some way, or get information about him secondhand.

Without much optimism, I text my cousin Ashley.

Do you know where Bobby’s living these days?



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