“I mean, not even Boris does exactly the same thing every minute of every day,” Jack explained. “Sometimes he breaks into the whisky at two p.m., and sometimes he waits until ten.”
“A drunken hotel clerk doesn’t count,” Carla argued. “You probably just aren’t around to catch him drinking earlier in the day.”
At this point, Jack was pretty sure he’d spent enough time around Boris to understand that there were some fluctuations in his routine. It was mostly the same, sure. But he’d get up to use the bathroom at different times. He used alternative greetings when he picked up the phone. Sometimes there was coffee in the lobby when Jack arrived and sometimes there wasn’t.
“I don’t think Boris is trapped in a precisely repeatingtimeline,” Jack insisted. “I’mnot changing his routine. I think he’s still got free will and everything. That’s why the songs change sometimes.” He took a sip of ginger ale and wished it was something stronger. After four evenings in the car with Carla, his nerves were frayed. He liked her—probably more than he should—but he was constantly bored, and right now, sick of arguing.
“Ronnie farts first thing in the morning,” she said, fanning her face with her hand. “Always the same damn foghorn fart. Could wake the dead. Then he wants to know what’s for breakfast.”
Jack stared at her, appalled. “Is he always like that?”
She shrugged. “More or less. I dunno. In the city, we have maids and stuff. Out here, it’s just us, and I guess I’m in charge of breakfast.” She rolled her eyes. “What, you never fart?”
“Uh, I mean, I hope it doesn’t sound like a foghorn,” he said.
She laughed at that, elbowed him in the ribs. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re polite. Can’t make promises about what you do in your sleep, though. I used to date a guy who would scream and kick me every time he had a damn nightmare. Had no fucking idea in the morning.” She rubbed her knee, as if the memory still hurt.
“That’s kind of alarming,” said Jack, wondering how Carla would one-up herself next. “Was he always like that?”
“No, he was pretty nice when he was awake. Only had nightmares occasionally. Still sucked, though.”
Jack gave a sympathetic nod and sipped his ginger ale. An engine droned in the distance. Both he and Carla jumped to attention just as a black station wagon wobbled down the road, dented and ancient, wheezing and puffing smoke.
They sat back again, wordless. There was no real point in expressing disappointment. Carla understood that this was a long shot, even if she wouldn’t admit it aloud.
“Maybe we should go for a hike,” said Jack, eye drawn to the fading outline of the trees, dark against an orange sky. He thought of the body out there and shuddered. Who had buriedher? Was it Ronnie or one of his men? If he asked Carla, would she know? Would she care?
“Why? So you can show me your corpse?”
“Fuck no,” he cried, offended. “I’ll never ask anyone to do something like that again. I shouldn’t have asked Boris.”
“You talk like you’re his friend.”
“Maybe I am,” he said. Shards of irritation wormed under his skin, biting like tiny knives.
She scoffed. “He can’t remember you. You aren’t friends.”
“Yeah, Iknow,” said Jack, a little too harshly. She flinched at the reprimand.
“Look, I’m sorry, it’s just?—”
The roar of an engine cut through the trees. Jack froze, apology on his tongue, bottle clutched tightly in his hand.
Headlights swept across the pavement. Carla reached for the key in the ignition.
Jack would’ve recognized the car anywhere. Sleek, blue, the slightest bit unnatural, even if he couldn’t name the reason. Something about the proportions, perhaps, or the way its paint was dark enough to devour the world around it like an abyss.
“That’s him,” Jack began, but Carla had already slammed on the accelerator. The convertible launched onto the road with a screech.
The sedan didn’t slow, even when Carla honked and waved her arms. Jack gripped the edges of the seat and held on until his knuckles went white.
“You should really use both hands,” he said, shrinking under her glare.
“I’m steering with my knees,” she snarled, and punched the steering wheel. The horn blared.
The driver of the sedan either didn’t notice them, or had no intention of stopping, because the car suddenly gained speed, flying over hills and around curves like a race car on a track.
“Oh, fuck you,” Carla growled. The convertible revved, shot forward.
