The Eighth Day

Chapter 35

The apartment was a single-bedroom, single-bath gerbil cage. Cream-colored linoleum and carpet, cream-colored counters, cream-colored pre-formed shower, cream-colored latex paint on the walls, and dark-brown hollow-core doors. A barred window offered a view of Woodhaven Boulevard and Queens. Water stains served as the only adornments on the walls.

Empty fast food containers, beer cans, and mounds of rumpled clothes littered the floor. Against one wall sat a futon covered by a discolored comforter. Tangled in the comforter, Sam Harrington groaned and opened his eyes. He rolled onto his back and squinted at the cracked and peeling plaster of the ceiling as he waited for the throbbing in his head to subside. Outside, a car alarm let out a contemptuous wail.

He gritted his teeth, groped for the bottle of aspirin on the nightstand, and knocked over an empty bottle of Jim Beam in the process, which clattered onto its side and thumped to the carpet. A muted light shined through the window. Either early morning or early evening. Sam figured the latter.

He tossed back five pills and swallowed them dry. With a grunt, he threw back the comforter, heaved himself upright, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Once the room stopped spinning, he scratched at his ragged salt-and-pepper beard and shuffled toward the bathroom in his boxers. The overhead light flickered like a dying candle, and half of the ceiling remained dark.

He took a leak and splashed water on his face. His reflection studied him with bloodshot, apathetic eyes from the mirror above the sink. Sam turned off the light.

He slogged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There wasn't much: a package of bologna, a bottle of mustard, a carton of milk, Styrofoam containers filled with Christ only knew what, and a smell like dirty feet.

The doorbell rang.

Sam glanced over his shoulder and back into the fridge. The doorbell rang again. He closed his eyes and let out a deflated sigh.

When it rang a third time, Sam slammed the refrigerator door. "For Chrissake," he said. "Hold on, I'm coming."

He tugged on a pair of jeans, scooped a T-shirt off the floor, and gave it a wary sniff before slipping it on, too.

His visitor pounded on the door. "Sam?" a muffled voice said.

"I said hold on." Sam twisted the dead bolt and yanked the door open.

Shawn Jaffe stared in at him.

Sam slammed the door shut and staggered back, eyes wide and mouth agape. He tried to inhale, but it was as if someone had ripped his breath away and was squeezing his heart in a clenched fist.

"It's not possible," he said.

The door loomed before him. The world swam in and out of focus. At long last, he'd lost his mind. The knob began to turn, and the door groaned as it swung open.

Framed by the darkness of the hallway, Shawn Jaffe took a cautious step into the apartment. The floorboards creaked beneath him.

"My God," Jaffe said, the words a hoarse whisper. "What happened to you?"

Sam blinked at him.

"You look like hell."

On a folding table, next to stacks of dirty dishes smeared with leftovers and a layer of green and gray fuzz, his pistol lay in its holster. Sam shifted his weight and shuffled toward it.

"What is this place? Where's your wife, your son?"

Sam took another step sideways. The pistol loomed closer.

"How long have I been gone?" Jaffe asked.

Sam lunged for the pistol, ripped it out of its holster, and leveled it at the man in the doorway of his apartment. "You're not Shawn Jaffe. Who the hell are you?"