The Great Below

The Holiday - Part 1

"Can we...to stop, please?" Raul hoped he had chosen the right moment. Nick had just climbed back into the car with a gas station coffee and a cigarette in the same hand, then used the other to drive the seat belt home.

"If you've got to pee, this is your lucky day. We are stopped."

"One stop more, please." He waited. Nick took a swig of the coffee, then went hunting in the center console for his sunglasses. The morning sun fell at a sharp angle, illuminating the entire truck stop in a peach-fuzz glow. They'd stopped at the intersection of Weber Road and I-55, where fields spread out behind them on three sides.

"Don't say your casa."

"The work is no more, and is day important."

"It's an important day, Raul," Nick corrected him, with the bored tone of someone who'd explained this several times before. "The noun goes last. What's so important about today?"

It didn't matter that they'd shot a drunk on a pleasure cruise off the shore of Lake Michigan not three hours before, or that Raul had packed all of their equipment like souvenir trinkets into suitcases just so they could inconspicuously disembark; he still turned shy at Nick's prodding. "It is the day to give thanks," he said.

Nick frowned, shimmying in his seat until he could retrieve his cell phone. "So it is," he replied. "I was wondering why there wasn't any traffic on the highway."

"So...one stop more?"

"You win, Raul. One more stop."

It was out of their way, but Nick took the interstate an extra half hour to Plainfield, a sprawling expanse of farmland that looked about as exciting as it sounded. They cruised the proud little two-lane Main Street, a seemingly endless row of tan brick shops and restaurants. At the edge of town, the wooden fences turned to chain-link, gardens to 'beware of dog' signs. Raul was quick to direct Nick to the far end of his street, where they might not be noticed. He reached into the backseat for one of the cases.

"Let's make it quick," Nick told him.

Raul uncapped his scope and perched it against the dash. When he got the distance and the focus right, he could see straight through the plate-glass window into his own living room. All he could see of his daughter Alma were her head and shoulders as she played on the carpet. He imagined cartoons on the television in the far corner. His wife had combed Alma's hair into two tiny pigtails that curled under in black ringlets. He waited, watching, and thought that he could see the leg of Maria's pants and her bare feet through the kitchen doorway. It was hard to tell.

"You know," Nick said, "If you wanted to knock at the door and say hola, I could look the other way."

Maria would be hard at work in the kitchen, even at this hour. Chopping vegetables, preparing the pork roast – she had a large family that would start coming over by lunchtime. If he concentrated, he could conjure the smell of homemade pumpkin soup. "No," Raul murmured.

"She'd be happy to see you."

Raul turned behind them, to slip the scope back into its case. He had indulged himself in the occasional fantasy of returning home. He gave it the Hollywood treatment: Maria in a dress and big costume earrings, springing out past the screen door to take hold of him. Alma, dropping her toys to welcome him with her sweet little baby-toothed grin. He didn't like the impending reality of going home, of not knowing how they would react to him. Even in his most elaborate fantasy – Maria was wearing red lipstick and smiled until the skin around her eyes crinkled – something was never quite right. There would be hugs and the exclamations and then, as their excitement began to wane, a tiny glint in her eye, just a hint of distrust, and Raul would remember that he was a murderer. "It is okay," he told Nick. "I only want to look."

Nick drained the cheap coffee and shifted the car into drive. "Why do you do this to yourself, man?"

"Because, it is important day," Raul said with a weak smile. "And I am full of thanks."

#

Alex teetered at the top of a four-rung stepladder, hanging Thanksgiving decorations in the cafeteria. As far as thankless jobs went, this one took grand prize. There was nothing authoritative about decorating, and nothing masculine about harvest-gold tissue paper balls. But those were what Raul had chosen when he'd been permitted to make an extra trip to the party store a week ago.

It was a waste. Two-dozen men eating a meal together for what? A sense of family? Camaraderie? Alex couldn't think of anything – other than killing people for money – he had in common with his co-workers. This wasn't the sort of mandatory activity he would have expected from Dominic, but still they persisted, year after year. Awkward gaps in conversation, arguments over who served and who would clean up, and this time, Octavia and Victor in the same room.

The smell of roasting turkey wafted from the small, industrial kitchen, where Billy and his fellow lifers prepped the food. They took a certain pride in owning the kitchen on important days, and rumor had it that Billy's time in prison when he was younger translated into a lot of time for reading and learning, which turned into a passion for cooking. Billy rested against the stainless steel serving bar, where he removed the rag he'd tied over his bald head and wiped his face with it.

Victor emerged from the back of the kitchen hauling a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. Alex hadn't realized that he had also been put to work, which was unusual for an employee so new, and wondered if Victor hoped to fall in with the lifer crowd. He placed his bucket near the first table and started scrubbing. Even though there was distance between them, Alex felt a little less safe on top of his ladder. He stepped down, grateful that the last harvest-gold ball had been hung, and folded the ladder shut. "Victor?" he asked.

Victor didn't look up, just kept scrubbing in long, lazy strokes. "What do you want?"

"I'm helping Nick design a test for Octavia. Something to prove she can do the job."

Victor chucked the sponge back into the bucket. "She can't do the job."

That's the right attitude – keep talking like that and she'll be dead. "Some information from you could improve her chances."

"I don't give anything away for free."

"So you won't help?"

Victor moved to the next table in the row, forcing Alex to follow him. "It just depends on how much you want her to pass."

"You should want her to pass. She's your girlfriend."

"Is she?" Victor asked. He scrubbed with renewed vigor, sending droplets of water in every direction.

"What do you want for it, then?"

Victor thought a moment. "I want a drink."

"Great."

"I want to go out for a drink."

Alex's shoulders slumped. "I can't take you outside except for jobs."

"Then I guess you don't want this information."

Alex paused, resting the folded ladder against one leg. There was an upside. Taking Victor out for a drink at the right time would remove him from Thanksgiving dinner. It was, at least, an improvement. "If I take you out for this drink, that's all it is. You talk, I listen, and then we come right back here."

Victor extended his soaped-up arm for a slippery handshake.