Free At the City's Edge by Marcus Sakey Page B

had he sat in the dark and tried to cry, and yet
     the tears never came. No tears for Martinez, and none for himself. And now, none for Michael. What kind of man couldn’t cry
     for his brother?
    Jason remembered the morning, cleaning the Beretta. The strange trance he’d felt as he spun it around and pointed its lethal
     eye at his forehead. The siren call of gleaming metal, his thumb on the trigger, the urge to squeeze it. He was tired of failing
     people, tired of infecting them. Tired of moving weightless through the world.
    And inside, the greasy twisting of the Worm.
    Jason leaned forward, his hands clenched on his stomach, fighting the urge to wretch. Gulped deep breaths, then took the bottle
     by its neck, wrapped his lips around it like he was sucking redemption through the rim. Tilted it and opened his throat, the
     liquid splashing hard and hot. He breathed through his nose
as he swallowed and swallowed, picturing the Worm drowning in it, writhing and screeching, its sick flesh slapping waves
     of amber.
    He swallowed until the bottle was empty, and then he let it fall numb from his fingers. CNN had switched to talking heads,
     Rumsfeld spinning vagaries into rhetoric. Jason remembered years ago, shortly after he’d first arrived in country, hearing
     Rumsfeld’s famous line about known-knowns and known-unknowns and unknown-unknowns and thinking that crazy as it sounded, he
     knew exactly what the guy meant, only it wasn’t the war he was talking about, it was life, at least life the way Jason had
     always seen and never understood it, and for a while he sat and stared at the television, let the light wash over him without
     touching him, trying to see a way to make sense of things, to knit the world together.
    By the time he gave up, his mouth was dry and he had the beginnings of a head-splitter. The clock on the cable box read two
     twelve. He reached for the clicker and fumbled around until the television snapped off. Dropped the remote to the table with
     a thud. Unlaced his tennis shoes, pulled off his socks. Rack time. For a moment, he thought of going upstairs to his brother’s
     bedroom.
    No. No way.
    Jason pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, curled his legs under, and put his head down. A long, terrible day. A
     day with no sense to be found. Maybe sunlight would make things clearer.
    He was almost asleep when he heard glass breaking.

July 2, 2005
    Billy’s tongue is between his lips. He’s gripping the hammer wrong, little fingers clenched too far up, and though he whacks
     the nail again and again, it never goes in. On the ground beside him lay five mismatched two-by-fours and a tangle of rope.
    He’s building a tree house, he explained to Jason earlier, and his uncle laughed, and ruffled his hair, and went back to the
     house for a fifth beer. That one is gone, and his mouth is dry for a sixth, but Jason lingers on the screened porch, watching
     his nephew. Billy winds up and swings wildly. The nail pings free and leaps away. He drops the hammer and kicks the tree,
     then hops around on one foot.
    Instead of going to the kitchen, Jason opens the screen door and steps out.
    He shows Billy how to grip the hammer, hand at the base. Drives one ten-penny to demonstrate: two taps to set, three blows
     to finish. Then he holds the board and hands his nephew the hammer.
    When Michael gets home, he finds them in the tree, each to a branch, legs dangling. An uneven ladder runs up the side of the
     trunk. He takes it in silently.
    ‘We’re out of wood,’ Billy explains.
    Michael sighs and walks away.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ Billy looks suddenly nervous.
    Jason shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

    A moment later Michael returns carrying two pine deck chairs. He sets one upside down, reaches for the hammer, and snaps the
     leg off.
    ‘Can’t stop now. Look how much higher you could go.’
    He winks as he hands up the plank.

11. Shades of Red and Blue
    Jason’s eyes snapped open. He sat