“You okay with the dog?”
“Not a problem. Put him in the backyard. Plenty of space for him to run around.”
McNeal poured them each a fresh cup of coffee and served pancakes with maple syrup. He headed out to the backyard and put some dog food in a bowl.
McNeal and his brother walked down onto the deserted sand of Compo Beach.
Peter spoke first, collar up against the chill, hands in pockets. “You look like you’ve lost weight. You’re stressed, man. I can tell. You used to get like that when you were studying for your goddamn finals. Sitting up half the night studying, calling me the following day. You were driving me out of my mind.”
McNeal laughed. “I was kinda driven.”
Peter wrapped a huge arm around him. “Nothing wrong with that.”
McNeal walked on as the sand continued to get whipped up by the wind. He relished the cold breeze off Long Island Sound. “I miss this. The space. The water. The sense of calm. You don’t get that in Manhattan, that’s for sure.”
“Especially in that tiny little apartment you’ve got.”
Jack loved having his brother beside him. It had been years since they’d had time to talk and shoot the breeze, just them. No one else. Not wives. No kids. No dad. Just them.
“I’ve been having flashbacks again.”
“I didn’t realize.”
Jack nodded. “I haven’t had them for a couple of years. All of a sudden, they’re back in the last few days. With a vengeance. Having nightmares too. Don’t know what’s going on with me.” The memories were still there. He still saw his son, dead, in Caroline’s arms. And then his partner lying dead in a pool of blood, gunned down by him.
“I’m guessing being under such acute stress is bringing all those things back to the surface.”
“Maybe.”
“Know what you need?”
“What?”
“A few drinks to forget things for a few hours. How does that sound?”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Can you think of a better one?”
McNeal smiled.
“Any good bars around here?”
“Sure. You’ve just got to know where to look.”
They headed back to the house, put the dog inside, and took a cab to Rothbard’s.
Jack got the first few rounds, tequila shots and beers, before they moved over to single malts. They talked baseball, in particular how shitty the Yankees were this season, but also highs and lows of life and memories of growing up on Staten Island.
“You think Dad’ll ever leave?” Peter asked.
“Staten Island?”
“I mean, I’ve asked him if he wants to move in with me.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Are you nuts?’ That’s what he said. Said he loved Staten Island. ‘Why the hell would I move to Jersey?’”
“Old habits die hard.”
“Better believe it. He’s old-school. He likes what he likes.”
McNeal smiled as his gaze wandered around the gastropub. A lot of well-heeled Westporters enjoying kicking back for a few hours.
“Nice place, by the way.”
“Yeah, Caroline liked it a lot. We had a lot of great Saturday afternoons in here. I was away from New York, she was away from Washington, and it was just us. It was like she could switch off here.”
“You think you’re going to stay here in Westport?”
“I don’t know. The commute is a pain in the ass.”
“I hear you.”
The bonhomie and good cheer continued for a few good-natured hours. The brothers had a few more drinks before they called it a night. They caught a cab back to the house on Compo Beach.
As they approached the gravel drive, McNeal again spotted lights on upstairs.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Peter said, “You definitely turned off all the lights. I saw you.”
“I know I did.”
McNeal paid the cabdriver, who drove off. He drew his gun, as did his brother, before they headed inside. The alarm had again been deactivated. He switched on the hallway lights. It was all just as they had left it.
McNeal headed upstairs, his brother covering him. He saw the bathroom door slightly ajar. He pushed back the door with his gun.
“Oh my God!” Peter screamed.
His beautiful dog was on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own vomit, eyes open. Charlie was dead.
Thirty-Eight
A cotton candy dawn bathed the dark waters of Long Island Sound.
Jack McNeal stood over the newly dug grave at the edge of his backyard as Peter carefully lowered Charlie down into the hole. After a few words from Peter about how much his dog meant to him and his family, he helped his brother fill in the grave with shovelfuls of earth, patting it down with the back of his spade.