Chapter 2

Nate brushed the dirt from his hands and stood back to survey the row of pink azalea plants in front of Sully's house. The extra key had always been buried inside a small plastic box underneath the third plant, but it was nowhere to be found.

He searched underneath the doormat and ran his fingers along the top of the doorframe, without much luck. A memory of an old hiding place made him carefully inspect the inside of the metal mailbox. He smiled as he felt a key secured to the opposite side of a trap door.

Nate set his worn duffel bag on the spotless white tile as he entered the house. His stomach growled, making the kitchen his first stop. The last thing he remembered eating was a miniature bag of pretzels on one of the multiple flights he took over the last two days. He grabbed the makings of a sandwich from the fridge, along with a bottle of beer.

The simple ham and cheese concoction tasted almost heavenly in his mouth. Chasing it with a long swig of the cold beer elicited a sigh of content.

Leaning across the kitchen sink, Nate peered through the window at the house across the street. A solitary light was on inside, but the building was void of any movement and there were no cars in the driveway. He continued eating as he studied the peach colored stucco siding. His watch read 6:45 pm.

Nate took one last drink from the beer and set it down with a thud. "Here goes nothing," he said to himself.

. . .

Up close, the exterior of the house told a story of years of neglect. The paint flaked in vertical strips off the walls and angled shutters. A large diameter of asphalt was crumbling in the driveway, and the grass in the yard competed with taller weeds for sunlight.

He stopped to compose himself. As he reached to knock, the door opened to reveal a kid with two black eyes and a bandage on his nose.

"Are you Nate?" he asked.

Nate stared down at the stranger. "How do you know my name?"

"You look like your picture, except for the beard. And Sully accidentally calls me by your name sometimes. Did he send you?"

"Yeah, he did," said Nate

"Is he okay? Is he in a lot of trouble? My dad says they're going to sentence him to ten years in prison."

"Whoa whoa whoa, slow down. He's not going to prison. He'll be out soon."

The kid sighed with visible relief.

Nate studied the young boy in front of him. Blond hair, blue eyes. Skinny. The bruises around his eyes were healing, and tinged with an ugly mixture of yellow and green.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Daniel. Danny."

"How old are you?" Nate asked.

"Thirteen."

Nate raised his eyebrows.

"Eleven," Danny corrected. "But it's my birthday next week, so actually twelve."

"Okay. Danny. What happened to your face? And while you're at it, you wanna tell me what happened between you and Sully?"

"I fell when I was riding my bike," said Danny.

"Right," said Nate, "And there was a bump in the road that hit you on the nose exactly in between the eyes."

Danny looked down at the ground.

"Come on, kid, what really happened?"

"I ran away from home," Danny said quietly. "My dad was really mad and he went looking for me in his car. I didn't have anywhere to hide, so I went to Sully's house. He said I could stay until my dad sobered up, but the police came and took me home, and they took him away, too."

Nate digested the news with a frown. "Your dad did that to you?"

Danny nodded.

"Where's your mom?"

Danny looked up, forcing his features into a big smile. "Hey, I made dinner. Do you want something to eat?"

Nate stared at the kid for a couple of seconds, but let the subject drop. "You know how to cook?"

Danny nodded with pride. "Tonight's mac and cheese."

"Thanks, but I have to get back. Maybe some other time." Nate turned to leave.

"Hey Nate?"

He paused, looking back.

"Can you tell Sully I'm really sorry I got him into trouble?"

"Sure," said Nate. "Next time I see him."

Danny smiled. "Okay, see you around."

. . .

Sleep encompassed him as soon as he slumped into the soft, comfortable bed of Sully's guest room. It was the middle of the night back in Morocco and his body was adjusting to the new time zone poorly. He dreamed of orange jumpsuits and a surprise rescue from a concrete cell in the middle of the jungle. The smell of cigar smoke lingered in his senses as he woke.

Nate sat up in bed slowly as the events of yesterday permeated their way into his mind. He made his way to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. The man that stared back at him in the mirror felt out of place. He ran his fingers along the side of his beard, examining the different colors of hair that blended together, including a few patches of grey. It needed to go.

The cabinet behind the mirror had a spare toothbrush and some soap, but no razor. Sully's bedroom was at the top of the stairs, with an adjoining bathroom. Feeling somewhat like a trespasser, but knowing Sully wouldn't object, he opened the top cabinet drawer underneath the sink. A single-bladed straight razor, container of shaving cream, and shaving brush were aligned neatly in the space. He picked up the razor to test its edge. The sharp steel sliced into his index finger, but he pulled away quickly before it drew blood.

The sensation of the shaving cream felt good on his skin. He worked the round brush methodically through the beard as the memory of his first shaving experience resurfaced clearly in his mind.

It was in a dimly lit bathroom in front of a small, round mirror that he had to stand on tiptoes to see. He had waited for Sully to go to the morning market in Cartagena before pulling out the older man's kit. The shaving cream went on messily, somehow even ending up in his hair, but he didn't give up. He placed the blade next to his neck, and pressed down with a little too much force. Who knew Sully kept his razor as sharp as a surgical scalpel? Blood poured from the cut, enough to soak up an entire hand towel and then some. Sully came back to the scene of the crime, and it was the first of many "you're gonna give me a goddamn heart attack" moments.

Nate touched the almost invisible scar underneath his jawline. Sully had sewn the cut up himself. A couple of pinprick injections of lidocaine and three stitches in total.

Today, he was especially careful with the straight blade, taking his time around the contours of his face and finishing on the delicate curve of the chin.

He wiped off the excess shaving cream and cleaned the tools under running water. A smile formed on his lips as he examined his handiwork in the mirror. Much better.

Nate searched the drawer for the last missing ingredient. For some reason, Sully always used a lavender scented after shave. He closed the drawer and continued down the column, peeking into each one for the familiar violet-colored bottle.

The bottom row didn't bring him any more luck, but something else caught his eye. He reached his hand to the back to grab a white pill bottle.

The label read, "Prochlorperazine Maleate." It was prescribed to Victor Sullivan.

He shook the bottle. The sound of a few remaining pills rattled around inside. Nate reached into the drawer again. He pulled out five more pill bottles and stood them side by side on the counter. Dexamethasone. Zofran. Megestrol acetate. Glutamine. Vitamin B12. Most were close to empty.

He frowned at the row of plastic bottles. After a moment's indecision, they were transported into Sully's office, in front of the computer. The whirl of the laptop took an eternity as he waited for the system to boot up. He clicked the icon for the internet and typed in the words on the first bottle.