Rage Against the Dying

Twenty-five





I left Carlo with his first cup of coffee at five the next morning, took the Pugs along for the drive, and set out expecting to pick up a groggy or hungover Zach. But he seemed to be neither. He was moving much faster than I’d seen him move in years, with not quite a bounce to his step, but almost as if there really was such a thing as closure and he had arrived. It made me wish again that I could believe that Floyd Lynch was guilty.

There was a twenty-four-hour breakfast café on the way to the airport and I ran in and got us a couple of coffees and Danishes and continued to the airport.

I had a hard time getting a read on Zach’s state of mind because he was involved with drinking his coffee while holding both Pugs in his lap. The male was contented to lay stretched out along his left leg while the female balanced on her hind legs on the right and looked out the window. Occasionally she would turn and lick Zach’s unresisting nose, asking him if he agreed that all this was swell. Usually the Pugs would sleep in the backseat but today they seemed to sense, even if I could not, that this man needed a pack around him. The Danish went uneaten.

Zach finished his coffee and put the empty cup in the holder between us. Then without unsettling the Pugs overmuch he managed to get his wallet out of his trouser pocket, remove a card with the phone number and address of Desert Peace Services, and put it in my glove compartment. He saw my weapon there but didn’t comment.

“They said they would have her, the remains, next week,” he said, calmly taking care of business.

I could tell the same old Zach was in there somewhere because we were beginning our third time through this part of the conversation. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hold on to them for a time when you can come back? We could scatter them together, Zach.”

“No, I’d rather end it here,” he said. As he spoke, he absentmindedly coiled and uncoiled one of the Pug’s tails.

I had grown accustomed to the little nerve in my neck sparking whenever he spoke in terms that used phrases like “end it here.”

“Zach, just because we found Jessica doesn’t mean, I mean you can still call me anytime. You got that?”

He caught his breath once, hard, and that was that. In a little while we were pulling up to the terminal at Tucson International. He told me where to let him out, and insisted—pleaded—that I not get out of the car to hug him good-bye. He opened the door while I helped extract the Pugs from his body and put them in the backseat. He pulled his small carry-on out of the trunk and waved me to go. I pulled away and when I glanced in the rearview mirror he was standing on the curb watching me.