Monsters Read online

  5

  The next morning, on the other side of Winthrop, a boxing glove smacked a pad.

  King said, ‘No. Don’t lean forward when you throw.’

  Bill Dunfield was a competent triathlete with four half-Iron Mans under his belt, but he still put his hands on his knees and hunched over all the same. He sucked in air, trying to escape the heart rate zone that unleashed lactic acid. Within a few lungfuls he was back in action, ready to work. King didn’t blame him for emptying the tank early. It was his first boxing lesson. These things take time and experience.

  Moderation in combat sports, where it often feels like you’re fighting for your life, is a strange concept to master.

  Bill finished an exhale. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Try it again.’ He held a pad at head height. ‘As hard as you can.’

  Bill threw a straight right with impressive determination, but heart can’t overcome bad technique. He put all his weight on his front leg in his desperation to add power to the punch. He hit the pad with decent force, but King flicked his left hand out and touched Bill’s exposed chin with the other pad. It was only a light slap but it sent the man stumbling back, shocked and off-balance. When he found his footing he put his gloves on his hips and winced, more at his own ineptitude than the discomfort. He was almost as hard on himself as King. It was an effective character trait.

  King adopted a fighting stance in demonstration, up on the balls of his feet. ‘Dart in and out. And twist at the hips to generate power. Don’t overextend. You only leave yourself out of position.’

  ‘Man,’ Bill said, flabbergasted. ‘I’ve thrown more punches today than I have in my whole life before this.’ A short pause to catch his breath. ‘Shouldn’t we be taking baby steps? Working on hitting harder before worrying about leaving my chin out?’

  King said, ‘The technique comes before the power, before the speed. You of all people should know that, what with your triathlons. Who’s going to finish a half Iron-Man faster: someone with the most determination or someone with the cleanest technique?’

  ‘Technique,’ Bill panted. ‘Every time. I knew that.’

  ‘Of course you did. But you’re fatigued. Fatigue makes idiots of us all.’

  ‘I thought it was “cowards,”’ Bill said. ‘Fatigue makes cowards of us all.’

  King said, ‘It’s usually both.’

  That lit a fire, which is exactly what he knew it’d do. If Bill Dunfield had a defining characteristic, it was that he despised incompetence. Sure enough he slowed his roll, stopped trying to hit the pads as hard as he could. With each smooth swing his hips stretched a little looser, became a touch more mobile. His muscles recovered too, his heart rate steadying and life returning to his muscles. By the end of the session there was more reverberation echoing off the pads than when they first started, even with the difference in fatigue.

  Serious improvement for a debut.

  When King stripped the sweat-soaked pads off his hands and dropped them to the backyard lawn, Bill sighed with relief and fell to his back on the grass. ‘I was about to quit.’

  King said, ‘No you weren’t.’

  He sat down beside Bill. Alice Dunfield had stepped out on the rear porch to watch the session’s end, her mouth upturned in bemusement. She had a hand on her hip and a Gatorade bottle clutched in the other. She raised a pointed eyebrow at King, and he shook his head. He jabbed Bill in the stomach with a straightened finger. The man sat up like he’d been electrocuted. When he saw Alice he sighed and held out his open palms in a gesture of gratitude. She tossed him the bottle across the yard. He drank down two thirds of its contents.

  Alice watched King with unmasked curiosity. ‘Did you used to be a boxer?’

  King shook his head. ‘Only ever boxed recreationally, for fitness. I did some coaching once upon a time. At a boxing gym. That’s about the extent of it.’

  She looked him up and down, rolled the words over in her mind. ‘You’re full of shit, Jason. I saw you hit that bag before.’

  An Everlast bag hung suspended from a metal boxing stand up the back of the yard. King had drilled combinations into it before Bill even slipped on the gloves, demonstrating jabs, straights, uppercuts, hooks. The smack of leather on leather had ripped through the neighbourhood. He’d stopped when he’d realised an extended demonstration would likely lead to noise complaints.

  King kept it jovial so she wouldn’t get to the truth. ‘You suspicious of me, Alice?’

  She smiled. ‘I think you’re a wild man and you’re trying to hide it. Don’t go getting my husband into any fights, sanctioned or not.’

  King jerked a thumb at Bill, who’d lowered himself to his back again, panting. ‘You really think an athletic commission would sanction him?’

  She laughed and went inside.

  Bill sat up when she was gone, looked over. ‘Stop punching things when she can see you. Sooner or later she’ll figure out you hit like a pro heavyweight.’

  ‘I think she already has.’

  ‘She’ll quiz me about it. She’ll ask me what I think you used to do, before entrepreneurship.’

  It was the cover story King had fed them when they’d first met, that he and Violetta had moved from California to Massachusetts so they could raise a family while he ran his tech company remotely. Bill had bought the ruse for a while, but he’d seen through it just before King left for Mexico. Now there was an unspoken agreement that permeated their relationship: make sure Alice stays in the dark. Bill could barely fathom what King had shared of his turbulent past, and the fewer civilians knew about it, the better. Ignorance was sometimes the answer.

  No, King thought. Not sometimes. More often than not.

  They sat that way for a while, side by side, soaking up the morning light. There wasn’t much that rivalled the inner peace following a gruelling training session, and Bill was relishing every moment. King must’ve zoned out, because next thing he knew Bill said, ‘You’re thinking something over.’

  King jerked back to the present. Looked over. ‘Am I?’

  ‘The way you hit that bag,’ Bill said. ‘It’s like…something woke up inside you. Something dormant.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Reasonably.’

  King got to his feet, outstretched a hand to help Bill up. ‘I’ve gotta get back to Junior.’

  Bill straightened his shoulders as he stood across from King, which didn’t achieve much. He was five-eleven and a hundred and seventy pounds to King’s six-three and two-twenty. But he didn’t back down, not even when it was clear King was eager to switch topics. That sort of persistence in the face of the unknown was the type of mentality you couldn’t readily teach.

  Bill said, ‘Just be careful.’

  King eyed him. ‘You’re reaching.’

  ‘I know what I saw. At least, I think I do. I’m obviously not you. But I saw your eyes. Looks like you got an itch that needs scratching.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  Bill shook his head, like it was unexplainable, something ethereal and faint. ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the session. I’ll be on the sofa for the rest of the day.’

  He reached out a hand and King clapped it, pulled the man in for a shoulder bump. Bill went up to the house, and King went down the side passage to the front yard.

  When he was alone, he fought the urge to pull out his phone and call Slater. He wanted to know how the hit list was progressing.

  Like Bill said, the desire had risen when he’d first hit the bag.

  6

  Slater rose at quarter to six.

  In the predawn light he made coffee, grinding beans into the portafilter, slotting it into the Rancilio machine, and flicking it to life. Espresso flowed in twin streams into a small glass, the smooth golden crema unbroken on its surface. He drank it in a gulp, went to the garage, and began his warm-up mobility routine like it was an unconscious habit. By this point, it was. His hips were open and his muscles firing by the time the clock str
uck six. Caffeine hummed in his veins.

  He chalked his hands, running white powder over pre-existing callouses, preparing for deadlifts. He thought he might work his way up to a three-rep max top set. His body felt loose, energetic, strength buzzing below the surface, ready to be unleashed. There were good days and bad days, athletically and mentally. The important part was showing up all days.

  Slater noted that he was alone.

  Then the garage’s side door opened softly, and Tyrell stepped down to the concrete. An Under Armour shirt tucked into Nike compression pants. Bags under his eyes, but the pupils were alive with intensity. Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars on his feet, flat-soled to optimise deadlifts. Ready to go.

  Slater said, ‘It’s 6:01.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Slater smirked.

  They pushed hard. Tyrell wasn’t having a good day athletically or mentally, a tad foggy from the aftermath of his debut with marijuana, but Slater made a point of working him to the bone when he least wanted to. Slater was confident the kid wouldn’t quit — he’d showed up of his own accord, after all — and it was important to understand that grinding it out on the days you feel the worst leads to the largest leaps in mental transcendence.

  You start to understand you can push whenever you want.

  How you feel plays no part in it, not if the discipline’s there.

  Slater, on the other hand, was zoned in. A paragon of relentlessness. His shoulder finally felt a hundred percent and it propelled him forward. He worked his way steadily to a top set, then ripped six hundred and eighty pounds off the floor for three repetitions, a personal best. At his age, with his level of experience, a PR was almost unheard of. He thought he’d peaked athletically years prior, but it’s shocking what consistent programming and three hundred and sixty five days a year of commitment can do. When he battled his way through the final rep with Tyrell screaming in his ear to lock his hips out, complete the motion, he let out a primal grunt at the top. Veins throbbed and his head felt set to explode, but he’d done it. He dropped the barbell, shaking the garage walls, if not the whole house.

  Tyrell burst forward and grabbed his shoulders and yelled, ‘Yes!’ in his face.

  Slater saw stars, vision shrinking to a tunnel, but he still had the adrenaline rush, so he grabbed Tyrell’s shoulders in turn and they yelled in each other’s faces for a second, excitement at a fever pitch. Lifting that much weight off the ground puts you in survival mode. You forget about your problems, about the state of worldly affairs, and all you focus on are your efforts to stay conscious, to not let the blood rush make you faint.

  After that, Tyrell caught momentum and hit a five-rep PR of two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Seriously impressive for his age and weightlifting history (which was minimal). His progress, especially over the last month, had been astronomical. Slater let out a primal yell of encouragement to get him through the final grinder of a rep, and when Tyrell dropped the bar with an exhausted smile they mirrored the previous celebration, shouting in each other’s faces. After cooling down with sets of lower weights they packed the plates and barbell away and went back into the house to refuel.

  Physically and mentally spent.

  Alexis placed a huge bowl of superfood salad on the kitchen table as they came in. Salmon, avocado, tomatoes, cucumber, feta cheese, kale, quinoa. Mountains of each. Slater kissed her gratefully on the forehead before he slumped into a seat. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  She said, ‘It’s my rest day. I’m programmed for a half marathon tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m resting after that effort, so I’ll be your personal chef for the day.’

  She mimed going weak at the knees, winked at him. Then her face grew concerned. ‘The shoulder’s okay?’

  He shook it out. ‘Feels fine.’

  She shot a surreptitious glance in Tyrell’s direction but there was no hiding the nature of their life from the boy. ‘So that means…?’

  Through a mouthful of salmon and kale Tyrell mumbled, ‘Guess he’s going back to work.’

  Alexis looked to Slater for confirmation.

  Slater said, ‘Tomorrow. Not today. I’m not doing anything after deadlifting 680 for three.’

  Alexis seemed reluctant to continue in front of Tyrell, but there was restlessness there. Like there was something she needed to get off her chest. ‘Do you need help?’

  He watched her eyes, analysed them. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Tyrell finished eating and got up, heading for the shower. Before he disappeared he said, ‘Good thing you two didn’t give me a hard time about weed. Y’know, what with talkin’ about killin’ people in front of me.’

  Then he was gone.

  Alexis waited until she heard the shower running as confirmation he was out of earshot, then said, ‘You think we’re doing the right thing for him? Letting him live around us?’

  Slater said, ‘He’s packed on fifteen pounds of lean muscle and passed Harvard. I think he’s doing okay.’

  ‘It’s a double-edged sword, though.’

  Slater had to agree. ‘It is.’

  Her phone rang. She reached across the kitchen countertop and slid it towards herself, glanced down at the screen. Her face paled and she did a double-take. Then she winced.

  He said, ‘What?’

  She lowered her elbows to the bench, massaged her temples, torn as to whether to answer or not.

  He said, ‘Who is it?’

  She lifted her gaze. ‘It’s Ava.’

  7

  The café’s décor was that of a glossy old-school truck stop diner, but in self-aware, nostalgic fashion.

  It was tacky by choice rather than out of necessity, which for some reason allowed them to double their prices. A bell above the door jangled as Alexis stepped inside, loud enough to make heads turn. There weren’t many customers, the café gripped by that mid-morning lull between the pre-work caffeine fix and the greasy lunch break. She scanned the room.

  Ava wasn’t here yet.

  Alexis had rocked up fifteen minutes late, deliberately, to remind Ava who needed who. She hadn’t forgotten the way they’d met. She’d expected and hoped to never hear from the beleaguered woman again. She’d only agreed to meet out of some subconscious curiosity, a desire to know how deep Ava had spiralled after what transpired a month and a half ago. Alexis guessed it had taken less than forty-eight hours for Ava to succumb to the withdrawals and lurch back out onto the street to score a hit. It would’ve been difficult in the aftermath of what happened in Dorchester, but Alexis was under no illusion that she’d wiped out the entire heroin trade in Boston. Working in tandem with King and Slater south of the border, together they’d cut off one head of the Hydra, but there were dozens of cartels fighting tooth-and-nail for a piece of the action. They’d killed bad men and they’d have to be satisfied with that, because black tar would already be pumping through Massachusetts in greater quantities than the month prior. So Ava had most likely relapsed, and now she’d flaked on the one opportunity Alexis had given her to—

  A voice beside her said, ‘Alexis?’

  Alexis looked down. She’d been headed straight past, having already glanced at the booth’s sole occupant and determined her a stranger. Now she looked closer. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Holy shit,’ she said. ‘Are you serious?’

  Ava smiled. She was at least fifteen pounds lighter, transformed from pudgy and slouched to slim and straight-backed, but that was nothing compared to her complexion. Dope ages you prematurely, draws your dry skin into a spiderweb of cracks and wrinkles and pimples, and Ava used to need mountains of orange makeup to cover that up. Now she only wore the slightest dusting of concealer, exposing smooth cheeks and healthy pores to daylight. She’d rid herself of the inverted bob hairstyle, forgoing the bleached monstrosity for a simple ponytail. Turned out she was a brunette all along, smooth brown hair resting underneath the bleach that used to make her hair the texture of cardboard.

  Ava said,
‘Surely I sounded different on the phone.’

  Alexis tried not to stare, but it was impossible to resist. ‘Not this different.’

  Alexis sat down on the opposite side of the booth, folded her hands together, leant forward. Looked into Ava’s eyes. They were alive with vigour. No bloodshot whites, no constricted pupils. The calmness defined her now. She was sitting back, waiting for Alexis to speak, her face barely moving. Withdrawing from dope, she’d been riddled with crippling anxiety, gaze jerking left and right each second, shoulders bouncing up and down, feet tapping the floor. That was all gone, replaced by stillness.

  If Alexis had to narrow the change to a single word: peace.

  She said, ‘You look good.’

  Ava tilted her chin down in humble recognition. ‘I’ve started exercising.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You look like you went cold turkey. Like I told you to.’

  ‘I relapsed,’ Ava said, bowing her head. ‘Right after you left me. I was like an animal trying to get it. I probably would’ve hurled myself at a dealer if they refused me, no matter the consequences. I paid five times street value. But the high wasn’t the same. I still felt hollow even at the peak. So after I came down I told my husband, told my son. Shared with them exactly what I’d been doing those last eight months. I knew they’d despise me for what I hid from them, but I wanted that. Wanted the anger channelled my way. I knew how to use it to motivate myself. I didn’t even think about touching it after that. I’m fifty days clean. Today.’

  ‘Is your family still around?’

  ‘Yes. I was prepared to let them walk away. But they didn’t.’

  ‘How’s your marriage?’

  ‘The best it’s been in a long time.’

  Alexis couldn’t hide her smile. ‘I wrote you off. You should know that. I knew you’d self-implode. I was sure of it.’

  ‘I did. I went straight back to it, like you knew I would. But I guess everything that happened…I couldn’t get the memories out of my head. They changed things. It wasn’t a secret vice anymore. You knew what I was doing, and when I injected I pictured you watching over me. Like some twisted guardian angel.’