THE LONGER HE SAT in the rickety chair in that cold room, the more Dave realized that what he'd thought was a hangover this morning had merely been the continuation of last night's drunk. The true hangover began to set in around noon, crawling through him like tight packs of termites, taking over his bloodstream and then his circulation, squeezing his heart and picking at his brain. His mouth dried up and sweat turned his hair damp, and he could smell himself suddenly as the alcohol began to leak through his pores. His legs and arms filled with mud. His chest ached. And a wash of the downs cascaded through his skull and settled behind his eyes.
He didn't feel brave anymore. He didn't feel strong. The clarity that just two hours ago had seemed as permanent as a scar left his body and took off out of the room and down the road, only to be replaced by a dread far worse than any he'd ever experienced. He felt certain he was going to die soon and die badly. Maybe he'd stroke out right here in this chair, slam the back of his head off the floor as his body shook with convulsions and his eyes leaked blood and he swallowed his tongue so deeply no one could pull it back out. Maybe a coronary, his heart already banging against the walls of his chest like a rat in a steel box. Maybe once they let him out of here, if they ever did, he'd step out on the street, hear a horn right beside him, and be flat on his back as the thick treads of a bus tire rolled up his cheekbone and kept rolling.
Where was Celeste? Did she even know he'd been picked up and taken down here? Did she even care? And what about Michael? Did he miss his father? The worst thing about being dead was that Celeste and Michael would move on. Oh, it might hurt them for a small amount of time, but they would endure and start new lives because that's what people did every day. It was only in movies that people pined for the dead, their lives freezing up like broken clocks. In real life, your death was mundane, a forgettable event to everyone but you.
Dave sometimes wondered if the dead looked down on the ones they'd left behind and wept to see how easily their loved ones were getting along without them. Like Stanley the Giant's kid, Eugene. Was he up there in the ether somewhere with his little bald head and white hospital johnny, looking down at his dad laughing in a bar, thinking, Hey, Dad, what about me? You remember me? I lived.
Michael would get a new dad, and maybe he'd be in college and he'd tell a girl about the father who'd taught him baseball, the one he barely remembered. It happened so long ago, he'd say. So long ago.
And Celeste was certainly attractive enough to get another man. She'd have to. Loneliness, she'd tell her friends. It just got to me. And he's a nice guy. He's good with Michael. And her friends would betray Dave's memory in a flash. They'd say, Good for you, honey. It's healthy. You have to get back on that bike and move ahead with your life.
And Dave would be up there with Eugene, the two of them looking down, calling out their love in voices none of the living could hear.
Jesus. Dave wanted to huddle in the corner and hug himself. He was falling apart. He knew if those cops came back in now, he'd crack. He'd tell them anything they wanted to know if they'd just show him a little warmth and get him another Sprite.
And then the door to the interrogation room opened up on Dave and his dread and his need for human warmth, and the trooper who entered in full uniform was young and looked strong and had those trooper eyes, the kind that managed to be impersonal and imperious at the same time.
"Mr. Boyle, if you could come with me now."
Dave stood up and went to the door, his hands trembling slightly as the alcohol continued to fight its way out of him.
"Where?" he asked.
"You'll be stepping into a lineup, Mr. Boyle. Someone wants to take a look at you."