Which is probably why he had come up here to deal with his father and the mausoleum of scotch and cigarettes and demented, black canvases. It was with a heavy, foul-tasting twinge that he realized that all the things that had gone on between him and his father were of no value any more. Not to him. Not to his father. And certainly not toward gaining any sort of closure. The door had slammed shut when the first threads of his father’s mind had begun to unravel.

What was he going to do? He needed help. Kay would be here this afternoon. But he needed a different kind of help than she could offer, as much as she’d try. He needed someone with a little distance. Someone who wouldn’t care if this was easy or tough on him. Someone pragmatic. Someone who could handle his old man. Problem was, with the exception of his gallery owner, Jacob had successfully driven everyone who had ever cared about him away. Every friend. Every publicist. Every—

Jake pulled his iPhone out and thumbed through the menu. It took a few seconds to find the number, but it was there, three months back. He sat there, the windows open, his thumb poised above the send button. Would Frank care enough to come or had Jacob burned that bridge as well?

He pressed send.

There was the sound of computer chatter, a low throaty whisper of static that sounded like the voice of the Devil played at seventy-eight RPM, followed by a series of clicks that Jake knew were satellite connections being made. It took almost half a minute until the phone at the other end began ringing, a series of double chirps that sounded strange, foreign. After fifteen or sixteen rings, a voice that belonged in a public service announcement against the dangers of smoking answered, “Frank Coleridge.”

“Frank, it’s Jake.”

Frank didn’t prod Jake with phony cheer, he simply took another drag on the cigarette that Jake knew was plugged into his face and said in that singularly unique voice, “What do you need, Jakey?”

“It’s Pop.”

“The—” there was a rasping sound, like someone tearing a dry leaf in half, as Frank took in a lungful of smoke—“fire?”

“You heard?”

“Yeah. Found a note on my door this morning. Neighbor left it.”

Jake rolled his eyes and remembered the nine sacks of mail at the hospital; it was amazing how the fame monster affected people.

Frank continued. “I’ve been out—” another long pull on the cigarette—“hunting. Just got back to the cabin.”

Jake scrolled through his mental filing cabinet for a second, trying to align Frank’s statement with his knowledge of state regulations. “What’s in season in September?”

Frank let out a dark arid laugh. “Nothin’s in season, Jakey. Had a bear kill a foal. Tracked him to high country. Old sumbitch with a bad leg. Only thing he could kill would have been that foal. Maybe a human child. Had to get him before that started happening. I was gone four days.”

“What did you get him with?”

Frank responded with a low laugh. “Lead poisoning. How’d your old man set himself on fire?”

“From what they know, he had oil paint all over his hands. Maybe he was lighting a smoke, maybe he was trying to throw another log on the fire.”

“He torched bad?” This was followed by another tearing leaf.

“His hands are gone. Lost three fingers and they’re not sure if he’ll be able to keep the rest. He was flailing around and ran through one of the plate-glass windows. Cut himself pretty bad.”

Frank whistled. “Without his hands, without his painting, the best thing that could have happened to your old man would have been if a big sliver of glass would have taken his head off. Without painting, not much of Jacob Coleridge is left. And what is, is pretty broken.”

“Frank, I could use your help. I need someone who’s honest. Someone I can trust. Someone who’s pragmatic.”

There was another pause as Frank took in some smoke, coughed one short rattle, and said, “Who says you can trust me? It’s not like your old man and I got along all that well.”

Jake closed his eyes, and dropped his head back onto the leather seat. It was a good question. It was more than good—it was valid. “Frank, cut the shit. I trust you and I don’t trust anyone. I need to deal with Dad’s life and with what’s happened to him. You wouldn’t believe how he’s been living.”

“Worse than before?”

“I found keys, paperbacks, and sod in the fridge. The house is an ashtray. There are empty bottles all over the place. The rooms are crammed with crap. Some of them are locked and I haven’t been able to get them open. The studio is bolted shut. There is a barricade in the bedroom.” Then he just stopped. If that hadn’t painted reason enough, nothing would. Besides, he hated feeling like he was asking for something almost as much as having no one else to ask.

“You have anyone else helping you out?”

“Kay is supposed to come up from the city but with this storm heading our way, I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed in New York.”

“What kind of storm?” The question was calm, serious, and showed that Frank was obviously dragging his ass in the television-watching department.

“Category Five Cape Verde. They’re advising evacuation at this point. I wouldn’t be surprised if it came to a forced evacuation.”

Frank whistled and even that sound was dry, brittle. “Another Express.” The New England hurricane of 1938 had gone down in the books as the Long Island Express. “Stock up on water and batteries. Or better yet, get out, Jakey. Get your dad airlifted if you have to. Get him on an ambulance. Go home until this blows over.”

Jake wanted to listen to Frank, but the monkey in the wrench was the woman and child skinned up the beach. He had to be here. It wasn’t a question of choice. “I can’t, Frank. There’s other stuff I got going on.”

Frank’s voice grew distant, flat. “Work?”

“Yeah, work.” It happened again, he wanted to add.

“If you stay, put a survival kit together. Something that will keep you hydrated and fed and maybe even dry for a week if things get as bad as Katrina. The one thing on your side is that you are above sea level. Put a bag together. Handgun with extra ammunition. Seal a bunch of toilet paper in Ziplocs—nothing worse than wiping your ass with a sock. Good solid knife. A Ka-Bar or dive knife. Something you can use for a tool. Antiseptic ointment. Sutures. Gum.”

Jake closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried not to be dismissive. Frank was a pragmatic man, which is why Jake needed his help.

Frank had never been married but had always carried on long—and more or less monogamous—relationships with very distinctive women his entire adult life. Some younger, some older, some wealthier, some not. And the relationships had all seemed solid, pleasant. But the inevitable announcement would come that she had left during the night. A brief period of a little too much booze and not enough self-control would follow, and soon another striking woman would begin appearing at his side. Not long after Mia’s murder, Frank had moved away from Long Island. To hunt more. Spend more time with Nature. But Jake knew that he had moved to get away from the memories of all the good that had once been here. He had ended up in the Blue Hills of Kentucky.

Since the brothers were no longer talking, Jake had lost touch with his uncle and things had stayed broken until all those years later when Jake woke up in a quarter inch of cold shitty water on the kitchen floor. He had somehow found Frank. And asked for help.

Jake never forgot that Frank had saved his life. And he was so unused to asking anyone for help that he felt guilty about asking for it now. “This is Long Island, not Zimbabwe.” There was a fondness in his voice that he didn’t have for his own father. He spoke to his uncle a few times a year, mostly when the job was getting to him and he needed to get an outside perspective on the world. Jake had an enormous amount of respect for the man. “I’m a shooter, not a shootee.”