The Red Hunter(40)

No story. I’m just the cat sitter.

Somehow, I’m not buying it.

I didn’t write anything back, and neither did he. I stared at the canvas that hung on the wall across his bed, an angry swirl of red and black, bold strokes thick on the canvas. What’s your story, Nate Shelby?

? ? ?

AFTER A COUPLE HOURS OF my particular brand of unsleep, I rose and dressed, headed to Paul’s. The morning air was cool, the sun a yellow ball, as I made my way up Broadway toward the East Village. It was just after seven, and the streets and coffee shops were already packed, traffic already heavy on Broadway. But once I turned at Eighth and crossed Third, it grew quieter. The East Village sleeps in, always, like Truman Capote said, has the aura of desertion.

Inside the foyer with the eternal black-and-white tile floor of all old New York buildings, I retrieved Paul’s mail. Then I hoofed it up the stairs, hearing blow dryers and television shows, someone laughing—sounds wisping through doors like smoke. At the doorstep, I paused and looked down at his copy of the Daily News. He should have retrieved it by now. My heart gave a little pump as I pushed inside. I expected to find him in the kitchen. He’s an early riser and always gets up and gets dressed, retrieves the paper, and makes himself a cup of coffee. Always. But the kitchen is empty, the apartment quiet.

“Paul,” I say, walking down the hallway toward his room.

The nurse, Betsy, would have left last night at ten. They would have called if something were wrong then, if he’d seemed off or needed a treatment.

“Paul.”

I paused with my hand on the doorknob and knocked. When there was no answer, I pushed inside. He was on the floor, halfway between the door and the bed, still in the sweatpants and tee-shirt that pass for pajamas. I dropped to my knees and leaned in close to hear the rasping of his breath. He reached for me and gripped my wrist.

“Zoey,” he said.

“Don’t talk,” I said, grabbing the phone in my pocket and dialing 911. When the dispatcher picked up, I asked for an ambulance, gave Paul’s address.

“Please,” he said. “Be careful.”

His eyes stared into the middle distance, and his breath was coming in painful rasps.

“It’s okay,” I said. “They’re coming.”

I called the super, Mr. Rodriquez, and told him to wait for the EMTs to arrive and let them in downstairs. I knew I’d left the apartment door ajar. I grabbed a blanket from Paul’s bed and covered him. I lifted his head onto my thigh and held his hand, listening to his breathing, rocking, tears streaming down my face.

“Don’t leave me,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me here.”

The milky light washed in from the window beside his bed, the minutes pulling and yawning, his breathing, his hand in mine, time standing still until I heard the clamor of feet on the stairs in the hallway.

The past mingles with the present, another day, another moment watching people I love suffer.

? ? ?

WHERE IS IT?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The money you took. A million. We know you took it.

No. You’ve got bad information, man. Look at where I live. You think I have a million dollars?

When they lifted the bag from his face, and my father saw me, all the color drained from his cheeks. He struggled against the bindings that kept him lashed to the chair, knocking the chair against the floor. My mother was motionless on the ground, but she was staring, her eyes blinking furiously.

You’ve got this wrong. I swear to God. I swear there’s nothing. You think I would let you hurt my family for money. The last word was a roar.

That’s when the stranger cut me the first time, drawing the blade along the side of my face, just under my jawline. It left a scar you can’t see but from a certain angle. My fingers find it often. I’m sure I screamed, but I don’t remember anything except the warm sluicing of blood down my neck.

How much is your daughter worth to you?

? ? ?

CRASHING, BANGING OUTSIDE PAUL’S DOOR right now.

“Where are his meds?” The EMT. He had dark skin and a bald head, earnest, alert eyes, looking at me. His crisp white shirt strained against the big muscles in his arms and across his chest. The name on his tag read: Carter. “Miss, did you hear? His meds?”

“Yes.”

I listed them off.

“Emphysema?”

“That’s right.”

“Where’s his tank?”

I looked around. Where was it? Why didn’t I look for it right away and put his mask on? But it wasn’t there. Not by or under the bed.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s always right here.”

They lifted him off of me and onto the stretcher. “I’ll get the medications,” I said moving over to the bedside table.

“Bring everything with you. Are you coming in the bus?”

“The bus.”

“The ambulance?”

“Yes.”

Paul was grabbing for me, panicked. He was trying to say something. But they had already put an oxygen mask on him.

“It’s better not to talk right now, sir,” said the other EMT. “Just try to relax.” Carter. Bedroom eyes and a full, pouty mouth, a nice lilt to his voice, an accent I couldn’t place.