"Says Officer Drink-'n'-Drive."
"I had three beers in three friggin' hours."
"I know," Jake said. "It's pitiful how you nurse those things. Big guy like you."
Harley chuckled, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, as Jake sat down on the sofa and took a long swig of his Corona. His gaze wandered to the window and he found himself staring at the frame and sash and sill, hating how dry the wood was and vowing to repaint in the spring if he couldn't afford to replace them altogether. The wind gusted outside and the resulting draft made him shiver, as if the storm had reached right into the house and traced its fingers along the back of his neck. There were half-a-dozen blankets scattered around the family room thanks to that draft. Most of the time he found it just a part of the house's charm, but not in a storm.
Not with the snow falling outside.
"You never answered my question," Harley said.
Jake didn't pretend that he hadn't heard or didn't understand the reference.
"You've had three girlfriends since I've known you," Jake said. "It seems easy for you, jumping in and out of relationships like that. You start one up, get all intense, and then it falls apart for one reason or another."
Harley shrugged. "You find out things about each other or you just realize you don't like the woman as much as you thought. Or she doesn't like you. That's the way it goes, man. Trial and error."
Jake nodded. "I guess. But it seems effortless for you. For me … I don't know, it's just too much damn work. Yeah, it's nice to have someone. Have things to look forward to. And I'm gonna go out on a limb and say I like sex. Sex makes me the kind of happy that I usually only manage to be in dreams."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he glanced at Harley, thinking his friend would mock him, but Harley's intelligent eyes were wide and thoughtful.
"Anyway," Jake went on, "I had a couple of long-term girlfriends in high school and maybe three relationships since."
"But?" Harley asked.
Jake tried to find the words. Glancing around the room, he spotted the boxes of new hardwood flooring in the corner and something clicked in him.
"This house," he started. "You've been in most of the rooms and I'm sure you've seen the pattern. The stairs are new but the railing needs replacing. The back bedroom has half a new floor. The bathroom down here has all new fixtures but the tile for the floor is in boxes."
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that. It's kind of weird having to stand on broken-down cardboard boxes while I piss."
Jake raised a hand. "There you go. I like the project, y'know. I bought this place so I could work on it, but why can't I finish anything?"
"Maybe-"
"Rhetorical question. I know why."
"And?" Harley asked, draining the last of his beer.
"I think I love the idea of the house more than I love the house. When it's all fixed up-when it's what I imagine it's supposed to be-what happens then?"
Harley leaned forward in the creaking chair, set his empty Sam Adams bottle on the coffee table, and pointed at him.
"You're saying that's why your relationships don't work? You can't be bothered to work at making them better because you're worried they'll disappoint you in the end?"
Jake sipped his beer, mulling it over.
"It sounds shitty when you say it like that, but yeah. I guess that's what I'm saying."
"That's pitiful," Harley said.
Jake laughed out loud. "Asshole."
There was one girl Jake had felt different about, but they'd been closer to best friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. Really, Miri Ristani was the only person he had ever felt understood him after Isaac died. They had understood each other, really. After all, they had been together that night, and Miri's father had been among those who had gone missing in the blizzard and turned up dead days later when the snow started to melt. He and Miri had both lost people they loved to the storm. And when Jake talked about the figures that Isaac had seen out in the snow, the hands that had dragged Isaac out the window-dragged him to his death-Miri had really seemed to believe him.
At least back then she had. They'd been kids, of course, and the older they'd gotten, the less either one of them felt comfortable talking concretely about that night and the more they were both willing to just nod and go along when people talked about the many tragic accidents that storm had caused.
Jake had stopped talking about what he'd seen. Part of him had even stopped believing the evidence of his own eyes … but he had never really forgotten, and sometimes he dreamed that he stood at an open window watching terrible, slender, icy figures dancing in the falling snow. In his nightmares they knew he was watching-he felt it-and he waited as if frozen for the moment they would turn and look his way.
Miri had understood, even after they had stopped talking about it. But she had left Coventry soon after her high school graduation five years earlier and never looked back. Never even sent him a letter. Jake missed her, but even if she showed up on his doorstep with a six-pack and threw herself on his mercy, he didn't think he could forgive her.
He and Harley had become good friends, but Jake wasn't ready to talk to him about Isaac … or about Miri.
Harley stood. "All right. I'm done psychoanalyzing you for tonight," he said in a terrible German accent. "At our next session, we will discuss your resentment toward your parents."
"Can't wait," Jake said, rising to see him out.
They said their good nights, Harley promising a rain check on L.A. Confidential. They had bonded over a mutual love of movies, good food, and New England Patriots football. Jake hated the boozy, frat-house-swagger mentality that a lot of football fans had. He was happy to have a friend who would have a few beers and yell at the TV with him while they watched the game, but didn't need to get drunk and bump chests at every touchdown. In the year or so that they'd been hanging out together, Harley had fast become one of his closest friends. He felt comfortable with the guy, and that was uncommon for him.
As Harley went out to his car, using an arm to wipe thick, wet snow from his windshield, Jake stood in the open door and watched the storm churn and eddy across his property. The trees were heavily burdened but they still bent with the wind. With the snow turning to sleet there wouldn't be much more accumulation but the roads would be frozen and treacherous tonight, and tomorrow's commute would be a total mess.
"Hey!" he called. "Watch it driving home, okay?"
Harley had opened the car door and now he paused before climbing in, bathed in the yellow light inside the big old Buick.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll be careful."
The massive policeman folded himself into the front seat and yanked the door shut. A moment later the Buick's engine growled to life and Harley began to back out of the driveway. The headlights washed over the house and yard, illuminating the tree line at the edge of the property for a few brief moments.
In among the trees stood a human silhouette, a small man or a child lost in the storm. A dark outline, immobile, watching his house.
"What the hell?" Jake said, taking a step out onto his front stoop before he realized he had only socks on his feet.
Wetness soaked through the cloth and he stepped back inside the open door, taking his eyes off the silhouette for a brief moment. When he glanced back up, Harley's taillights were vanishing up the road and the woods were too dark for him to tell the difference between one tree trunk and another, or discern whether the silhouette he'd seen had been a person at all, or just a trick of the shadows.
In spite of the wet snow that whipped at his face and arms and dampened his clothes, he stood inside the open door and squinted into the storm, watching the trees for some hint of motion that could not be explained by the urgings of the wind.
Giving up at last, the chill sinking deeply into his bones, he turned to go back inside. A gust blew against the door and for just a moment he thought he might have heard a voice on the wind, saying his name.
He froze there with the door three inches from closed, his hand unmoving on the knob.
Then he laughed softly and shook his head.
Over the years he had often thought that one day he would be able to endure a snowstorm without being haunted by the memory of his brother's death. He still hoped that would be the case, but it was clear that the day hadn't yet arrived. The storm seemed to resist as he closed the door, shutting it out. The dead bolt made a heavy, satisfying thunk as he turned the lock, and Jake found that he liked that sound.
He liked it very much.
SEVEN
In the gun safe on the top shelf of Doug Manning's closet, snug beside his Glock 19 and two small ammunition boxes, there lay a key ring. Each of the seven keys bore a set of initials written in black Sharpie marker, indicating the name of the person whose front door could be opened by that key. Whenever a customer at Harpwell's Garage had been foolish enough to leave his house key on the ring while his vehicle was being worked on overnight, Doug took the key to Jameson Hardware after hours and had a duplicate made. He had copied a dozen keys so far, and he, Franco, and Baxter had already used five of them to gain entry to houses and steal whatever valuables they could lay their hands on.