Chapter Text
McCall had guessed, correctly, that Becky would have no decent whiskey on hand; he’d brought his own. He had stashed the bottle carefully in his trunk to make the drive, half-expecting to be stopped for a broken turn signal or such like, but that hadn’t happened. Nor did the Jaguar give him any more trouble, though Jorge said he hadn’t done a thing to it. Instead, as he opened the trunk to retrieve the bottle, it snagged his sleeve and tore both buttons off his cuff.
He closed his eyes for a moment in sheer resignation, then retrieved the bottle and went upstairs.
Becky greeted him at the door with a warm hug. She looked every bit as bedraggled as he felt. “I brought Scotch,” he announced grimly.
Scott was flopped on the couch, his legs taking up about half of the living room. “Hi, Dad,” he said wearily.
“Come fetch drinks,” Robert answered gruffly, trudging to the kitchen. Three giant steaks were marinating in pans on the counter; aside from that, there was no sign of any cooking. Scotch and steak, that’ll do just fine, Robert thought. The kitchen was impeccably clean, though as tiny as any other New York apartment kitchen. He stood in front of the sink and considered, then reached for the logical cupboard and found the glasses. Six tall glasses, six tumblers, six coffee mugs, all matching, all upside down, all in neat rows. As opposed to Scott’s cupboard, which Robert knew was full of plastic cups from Taco Bell and Burger King, jelly-jar tumblers with cartoon characters, and a couple mugs he’s stolen from Kay’s house. He approved of this girl, Robert thought warmly. He truly did.
Scott ambled into the kitchen as he got down the tumblers. “Is there ice?” Robert asked.
“There wasn’t before, but I can check.” There was. Between the two of them, they managed to get six ice cubes into three glasses, while only losing two to the floor and one into the marinade. Robert opened the bottle and poured.
Mickey Kostmayer appeared in the doorway, completely filling the kitchen. “Yes, please,” he said clearly.
Robert handed him a drink, reached for another tumbler. “Good Lord, Mickey, what happened to your eyebrows?”
Kostmayer scowled. “Gas explosion.”
“On a mission?” Scott asked, struggling with the ice tray again.
“At church.” Kostmayer slugged the drink back and held his glass out for more. “I knew there was a reason I never went.”
They went back to the living room. Becky hesitated when Scott handed her the whiskey, then shrugged and took it. She didn’t drink much, Robert observed, watching her shudder after the first sip. But she went back for a second. Corrupt the child, he thought dourly. Why not? “You look,” he observed, “as if you’ve been through the ringer.”
Becky just sighed.
“Mom’s in town for the weekend,” Scott explained.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Robert answered. “She mentioned coming in for the sale at Macy’s or something.”
“You might have warned us.”
McCall grimaced. “Sorry, it slipped my mind. So,” he said to Becky, “now you’ve met Kay.”
“First thing this morning,” Becky answered mournfully. “In the flesh,”
“Yours or hers?” Kostmayer asked brightly.
“Mine.”
“Ahh,” Robert said, understanding completely. “You really have to get that key back from her, Scott.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“She thinks I’m a whore,” Becky continued sadly.
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Robert lied comfortingly.
Becky just looked at him. It never paid to lie to a psychic.
“It’s not that bad,” Scott assured her. He sat on the arm of her chair, put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s not like she never walked in on me before … um.”
Becky raised one eyebrow at him. “Oh, so she thinks you’re a whore.”
“No,” Robert countered, “she thinks he’s the All-American boy and you’re leading him astray.”
“You’re not helping, Dad.”
“You know,” Mickey offered, “she probably would have forgotten all about it if you’d made her one of those breakfast sandwich things you make.”
Becky’s frown deepened. “I tried that.”
“She didn’t like it?”
Becky shook her head, on the verge of tears.
“Oh, stop,” Scott said. “I thought the firemen were very friendly.”
The two older men laughed out loud. “It’s not funny!” Becky protested, but then she, too, broke into a regretful smile.
“Where was your fire extinguisher, Scott?” Robert chided lightly. “I bought you one last year.”
“I tried it,” Scott answered.
In unison, the four of them finished the thought, “It didn’t work.”
Tires screeched in front of the building – someone braking much too hard. But there was no following noise; whatever they had stopped for had survived the near-collision. “That would be Control,” Becky observed.
“You invited him?” Robert asked in surprise.
The girl shrugged. “He needs a hot meal today.”
“Speaking of which,” McCall prompted gently, “are we going to start cooking soon?”
“Sure,” Becky answered. “Do you want to light the grill before the sun goes down?”
Robert shook his head. “Maybe another drink.” He went back to the kitchen, got himself a fresh drink and one for Control.
“Mom’s never going to give that key back,” Scott lamented. “Especially now.”
“I could change the lock for you,” Mickey offered. “Use the same brand, your landlord would never know.”
Scott and Becky shared a look. “No, that’s okay,” Scott finally said. “It probably doesn’t matter.”
“Suit yourself.” Kostmayer finished his second drink, looked around. “You’re moving in here, huh?”
“Uhhh … we haven’t told my dad yet.”
Mickey shrugged. “I’m sure not gonna tell him.”
Becky stood up – allowing the chair to tip, nearly dumping Scott on the floor – and went to open the door even before the knock. Control leaned on the doorframe with one hand, looking exhausted. A bouquet of roses, yellow, wrapped in yellow tissue paper, dangled from his other hand. It had seemed only fair to buy flowers after his limo nearly flattened the flower vendor. “You,” he said sternly to the girl.
“I-i-it’s not my fault,” Becky protested.
“You,” he repeated, thrusting the flowers at her unceremoniously, “can call me any time.”
She stood back to let him in. Robert met him at the doorway to the kitchen with a drink. “You look like death on toast,” he observed.
“Same to you, old son.” He slammed the drink back, gave the tumbler back to McCall. “More.”
“Yes, effendi.”
“Me, too,” Mickey called.
Robert scowled. “There’s a reason it’s called sipping whiskey, you know,” he informed them. But he retrieved Mickey’s glass and went back to the kitchen. Becky followed him, carrying the roses. She paused behind him, looking upward. McCall followed her gaze to a vase on top of the cupboard. “Do you want me to get that for you?”
The girl gave this serious consideration. “No. Let it wait until after sundown.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Robert snarled impatiently. He stretched up for the vase, snagged the base, and brought it down. Naturally it slipped from his grip and tumbled, splashing into the marinade on top of the nearest steak.
With a sigh of infinite exasperation, McCall retrieved the vase, rinsed it off, and filled it with water.
“Thank you,” Becky said meekly. She was sucking on the tip of her thumb, and at first he thought she was trying not to laugh at him. But when she took the thumb out and examined it, a bright red spot appeared at its tip. She’d stabbed herself with a thorn.
“Leave them,” McCall said gruffly. He put the roses next to the vase on the counter, gathered the tumblers in one hand and the girl with the other, and steered her back to the living room.
It was not a room made to accommodate five grown people. Control had already claimed one end of the short couch, Mickey one of the easy chairs, Scott the other. McCall was going to let the young lady have the other end of the couch, but she solved the seating issue by simply plopping onto Scott’s lap.
McCall delivered the drinks and took off his jacket. He predicted to himself that the splash of marinade was never coming out. His shirt sleeve, buttonless, dangled; he sat next to Control on the couch and rolled his sleeves up.
“What,” Control demanded, sipping this second drink with appreciation, “was this all about?”
There was a moment of silence, until Becky realized they were all looking to her for an answer. “I-I don’t know,” she protested. “I just, I woke up, I knew.”
“Well, what?” Mickey pressed. “Some cosmic misalignment, solar eclipse, what?”
The girl frowned at him. “You don’t really believe all that stuff, do you?”
“Hey,” he protested, “I didn’t believe in psychics until I met you.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I woke up, I knew, I called you.”
“And none of us listened,” Robert reflected gloomily.
“Did you stay in bed all day?” Control asked. Unexpectedly, the girl blushed and ducked her head. “What?”
“They stayed in bed,” Robert informed him gently, “until Kay showed up.”
Control grunted. “Better you than me.” The girl peered up shyly. “You did say something about dinner.”
“Soon,” she answered. She twisted to look at Scott’s watch. “Five more minutes.”
“What happens in five minutes?”
“The sun goes down,” Mickey said.
“And then everything’s okay again?” Scott asked.
“Everything … goes back to normal,” Becky answered. “I don’t know if that’s the same as okay.”
They sat for a moment in tentative silence. Five more minutes; none of them even wanted to move, to tempt Fate with one last hit. “I know what happened to Kostmayer,” Control finally said, to Robert. “What happened to you?”
“I got hit,” McCall announced, “by a flying pig.”
“A … what?”
“A pig,” Robert answered tightly. “A pig flew off the back of a truck and hit my windshield.”
“Oh my God,” Mickey said, “that was you?”
“A … pig?” Control managed to remain straight-faced, but it was clearly an effort – an effort lost entirely when Mickey, and then Scott, began to chortle. And chuckle. And then laugh outright. Then, in the face of his oldest friend’s indignation, Control also started to laugh. Hard.
He laughed, in fact, until his drink tipped out of his tumbler and into his lap. Which only made the others – McCall included – laugh harder.
The sun was down before they stopped laughing.
Becky slid to her feet and went to the kitchen, brought back a dishtowel for Control, kissed Robert consolingly on the cheek. “Somebody go light the grill for me.”
“I’ll go,” Mickey and Scott said in unison. Mickey reached up and touched the tender skin over his eyes. “You go,” he conceded.
Scott clambered out the window to the fire escape, moved the potted plant and uncovered the camouflaged grill. Becky went into the kitchen, opened that window, and passed the steaks out.
Control followed her, stood in the doorway, watched as she put the roses in water, then retrieved a ridiculous array of ingredients. “You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” he informed her. “Raw meat would do just fine today.”
She flashed him a quick smile – an actual smile. “This is the most fun I’ve had all day,” she said. She retrieved the dishtowel from him, hung it up.
“Can I help?”
This time the glance was sidelong and suspicious. “This isn’t going to be like last time, is it?”
Control winced. Last time he’d brought her a class ring. Harvard, ’69. It had come in the mail to his office, on to a severed finger. But he’d only brought her the ring, trying to find the agent it (and the finger) had been attached to. He’d dropped it into her hand and she’d shrieked as if the thing was on fire …
“I promise.”
She was still wary – it didn’t take much of a psychic to know what his promises were worth – but she made room for him at the counter, set a cutting board in front of him, a steamer bowl, a pile of slender zucchini. “Second drawer,” she said, and he found a beautiful high-carbon knife there, part of an ancient second-hand set, all sharper than his wit. Becky busied herself setting up a mixer. “Go ahead.”
Mickey popped into the kitchen as he was about to speak. “Can I help?”
“Yes.” Becky reached around Control, got down a platter and a long-handled meat fork. “Take these out. Don’t let him put the steaks on until it’s hot, and don’t let him overcook them.”
“Got it.” Mickey trotted out.
Control reached into his pants pocket, brought out a Zippo lighter. It was painted on the side with a scantily-clad, dark-haired woman – Bettie Paige. A whimsical thing, really, retro, kitschy. It had been a gift. He held it out to Becky.
“N-no,” she answered. “Put it down.”
He set it on the counter between them, turned to peeling and chopping. Zucchini, onions, tomatoes.
Very gingerly, Becky touched one finger to the lighter. When it didn’t actually jump up and bite her, she put another finger on it. Breathed. “I’m not … I’m not seeing much,” she confessed.
Control nodded, feeling a growing tightness in his chest. Where was she? Why hadn’t she called back? Well, the phones had been so sporadic, but still – a simple flight, Miami to New York, what was she doing in St. Louis, in Boise? Where in the world was she now?
“There’s lot of men,” Becky continued unexpectedly. “And guns. They all have guns.”
Control felt his heart freeze.
“But they’re … they’re … luggage?” the girl went on. “They’re not … she’s not … they’re just carrying them. Hauling them. And gear, duffle bags, uniforms … “
“Guns,” Control clarified, “handguns or rifles?”
“Rifles,” she answered at once. “Long. She’s not scared of them. They’re friendly. She’s just aggravated.” And then, very surprised, “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t realize,” Becky confessed, “you block me.”
“Hmmm?”
Her hands waved a bit. “W-when I’m with Scott, when he’s happy, I can’t, um, see anything. I can’t … read. I didn’t realize, when you worry, I can’t, I can’t see past you. Just now, when you relaxed, I could see more.”
Control frowned at her. Back when Lily was missing, when he was frantic to know if she was even still alive, Becky hadn’t been able to tell him anything at all. Well, now they knew why. Damn it.
“D-don’t,” she protested, sensing the sudden darkness of his mood. “Don’t be cloudy.”
He made himself breathe and relax. “What else do you see?”
“Something about … aboot.”
“A boot?” he asked.
“Not a boot. Aboot. All one word. She keeps hearing it, and she’s …chanting it in her head, aboot, aboot, aboot. Like, if she hears it one more time she’s going to scream. I don’t know what word, I don’t know what that means.”
“It means she’s in Canada,” Robert growled behind them. “She’s all right?”
“Yes,” Control told him with relief.
“Good. Then leave Becky alone. I’m starving.”
“I’m helping,” Control pointed out, waving the knife.
“You’re not helping. You’re distracting her.”
“H-h-he’s helping,” Becky said quietly. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
McCall growled. “Don’t you bully her,” he warned Control. And to Becky, “He’s obsessed. Pay him no mind.”
The girl dimpled prettily. “It’s kind of sweet,” she said, very quietly. It had obviously not even occurred to her to be surprised that Control had a lover.
“Thank you, Becky.” Control raised one eyebrow at Robert. “See?”
“What can I do?” Robert asked.
“Hmmm … beer?”
“You have beer?” he asked.
“No.”
“You want me to fetch beer.”
“Yes?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” Robert accused.
“Yes, she is, Robert,” Control jabbed.
“I’ll send Mickey.”
“Papa,” Becky said, gently, “it’s okay.”
McCall glared at the two of them. “Don’t you bully her,” he warned again before he stomped off.
“I’m not bullying you,” Control said, a bit defensively.
“N-no.”
“Are you ever going to stop stuttering around me?”
She took a deep breath, and managed to get the next words out cleanly, with effort. “Probably not.” She set the mixer to whipping eggs, reached for a pot and a plastic container of rice. Unexpectedly, she patted his hand. “She’ll be in your arms by sunrise.”
“Thank you.”
She took a bottle of curry – unlabeled, homemade -- from the spice rack, sprinkled it liberally over the dry rice. Hesitated, cast a questioning glance to Control. “Don’t stop on my account,” he answered. “I love the stuff.”
Becky shrugged, heaped more curry in, added water, set it to cooking on the stove. Control had finished with the vegetables; she brought out one more onion. “Dice that fine,” she instructed. She took the bowl of vegetables from him, splashed them with olive oil and herbs. Held them out the window. “Scott?”
Scott took them, went back to the grill. “I wouldn’t think you were allowed to have grills here,” Control observed.
Becky shrugged. “You can if you feed the neighbors often enough.”
“Ahh.” And then, “You know, of course, you can’t tell anybody about her. McCall knows, and Mickey, but for her safety … “
“I don’t even know her name,” Becky answered quietly. “And I wouldn’t tell, anyhow. She’s the one you were looking for before, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“If I’d known she was the other one … “
“The other one what?”
“The other one caught up in this … day. Whatever it was. I knew there was someone else, but I didn’t know who.”
Control sighed. Poor Lily. At least he’d had a little warning. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
Becky’s hand strayed back to the lighter. She opened her mouth, took a breath – then shut it without speaking. “What?” Control asked.
“N-nothing.”
“Becky.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “Just …” Then she shook her head, shy. “You don’t need relationship advice from me.”
“For today, I will take any advice you have to give.”
“Um.” Becky fussed for a minute with the mixer. Cream, sugar, cocoa powder. She reached for the lighter again, brushed her hand over the back of Control’s as he diced the onion. “You know the tarot deck?”
“In passing.”
“If I put one in your hands right now, you’d cut it to the Death card.”
The knife paused.
“I-it’s not literal,” Becky added quickly. “It never is. It’s just a, a symbol, the major symbol, for transition. For change.”
The knife resumed. “Go on.”
“It’s about … something over, gone, and something new beginning. You understand that?”
“Yes,” Control sighed.
“You don’t like it.”
“No.”
“She doesn’t like it, either. But …” Hands again, trying to express what her words couldn’t. “It’s already been turned. It’s already in play. What’s ended … has already ended. It’s done.”
“Yes,” Control agreed sadly.
“No,” Becky said earnestly. “There’s new now. It’s good. It’ll be good.”
Control regarded her. “Maybe.”
“It will,” she promised.
He finished with the onion; she stirred it into the simmering rice. “What else?”
It seemed to Control that she stalled for a long moment. Finally, timidly, she said, “A lot, maybe half, of what you think you know is wrong.”
“Excuse me?” His tone was too sharp, and she flinched from it. “Sorry, sorry.”
“’s okay. I don’t … you have the facts right, but the way you understand them is … I’m sorry. I don’t know. Just … she knows things one way and you know them another.” Becky paused. “That might just be a guy thing. I see it an awful lot.”
“Ahhh.” Control didn’t know quite what to make of that statement; it seemed best just to let it pass. “Anything else?”
“That’s all,” Becky reported cheerfully. But she picked up the lighter and closed her hand, and her face darkened at once.
“What?” Control demanded.
“I don’t … I don’t …” She was suddenly frightened. “Not now. Later. I don’t understand.”
“Tell me.” When the girl didn’t answer, Control put down the knife and lightly wrapped his hand over hers and the lighter. “Becky. Tell me.”
“Take it,” she half-begged. “Take it back.”
Very gently, Control pried her fingers loose from the lighter. He kept her hand in his, dropped the lighter onto the counter. “Becky?”
Her fear faded a bit with the contact loss. She leaned closer. “Don’t chase the White Russian,” she half-whispered. “It’s darker than you know, and it will break your heart.”
***
They ate, all of them, until they very nearly couldn’t move. Salad, grilled vegetables and steak, curried rice, crusty bread from the bakery, and an astonishing assortment of other dishes. “Custard,” Becky announced, getting up to get it.
"You cooked enough to feed a small army,” Mickey commented. She paused, looked pointedly at him, at the other men in the room. “Okay, I see your point.”
Becky went and fetched dessert.
“I should go,” Control said tentatively, when his dish was empty.
The girl frowned at him, held out her hand. Control slapped the lighter into it. “You can stay a while,” she announced promptly, handing the lighter back.
“What’s that all about?” Scott asked.
Becky didn’t answer. Neither did anyone else, for a moment. Finally, Control cleared his throat. “I have a meeting … later.”
The boy nodded sympathetically. “You never get any time off, do you?”
“Ahhh … “
Mickey started to chuckle. “I’m, uh, I’ll help clean up,” he announced, and carried his dishes to the kitchen.
“An excellent suggestion,” McCall agreed.
“You don’t have to …” Becky protested feebly. It did no good. The four of them took over her kitchen, in an oddly precise exercise of washing up. She contented herself with packing doggy bags for the three that were leaving, and staying out of the way.
“You know,” Mickey observed, looking into a cupboard, “I’ve seen submarine kitchens that weren’t packed this tight.”
“Um … sorry?”
“He meant that as a compliment,” Robert advised her.
“Yeah,” Mickey confirmed.
“Oh.”
They got the last of the dishes washed, dried, put neatly away. Control headed out first. He seemed a little startled by the full-sized grocery bag Becky handed him. “I don’t really eat a lot of left-overs,” he protested. “Give them to Kostmayer.”
Becky tilted her head quizzically. “They’re not for you.”
“Oh. Oh. Thank you.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Call me.”
“I hope not.”
Mickey left shortly after. He was not at all surprised by the size of the doggy bag; Becky always loaded him up with food. “Thanks, sweetie.”
“Sorry I didn’t get to you earlier.”
Kostmayer shrugged. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. See ya, Scott.”
“’Night, Mickey.”
Which left only McCall. “You sure you’re all right, Dad?” Scott asked, worried as he watched his father wince into his jacket.
“I’m fine,” Robert assured him. “It’ll be sore for a few days, nothing more. It could have been much, much worse.” He glanced around the tiny apartment, gave his son a twinkling little smile. “Can I offer you a ride home?”
“Uh … no,” Scott declined, rather gracefully. “I’m, uh, gonna stick around for a while, I think.”
“Hmmm. Do me a favor, son. Chain the door. She’s still in town.”
“Bet on it.”
Robert bent to kiss the girl on her rather flushed cheek. “Dinner was wonderful. Thank you, dear.”
“Least I could do.”
“And don’t worry about Kay. You’ve gotten off to a rocky start, but she will come around, I assure you.”
Becky shook her head. “That’s going to be a long time coming.”
McCall sighed. “Yes, well. I’ll see if I can’t … help things along. And in the meantime,” he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “you’re still my favorite girl.”
The girl smiled brilliantly. “Thank you.”
“Good night, Scott.”
“Night, Dad.”
Scott shut the door behind his father and turned, put his back against the door and stared at his girlfriend in frank exhaustion. “Well, now what?”
She smiled, sweet and mischievous. “Now do as your father said, and chain the damn door.”
THE END