Misplaced (87 page)

B
y
design
,
h
e
lef
t
th
e
downstair
s
i
n
it
s
dilapidate
d
condition.
Sour-smelling
buckets,
hoists
snaking
along
the
ceiling,
and
a
couple
of
2,500
gallon
stainless-steel
tanks
all
stood
as
they
had
fift
y
y
ear
s
ago
.
Butte
r
di
d
no
t
tolerat
e
muc
h
sunlight
,
s
o
the
window
s
o
f
th
e
firs
t
floo
r
w
er
e
purposel
y
smal
l
an
d
situated
high in the
w
alls. This suited his purposes.

Rathe
r
tha
n
suffe
r
th
e
rus
h
o
f
claustrophobi
a
tha
t
often
accompanied
the
closing
of
the
ele
v
ato
r
’s
scissor-gate,
Mieley
climbed the stairs.

In
the
expansi
v
e
space
of
the
second
floor
loft,
he
’
d
left
the
pitch-pin
e
floorin
g
in
t
ac
t
an
d
furnishe
d
hi
s
sanc
t
uar
y
with
the
best
Manhattan’s
estate
sales
had
to
offer.
E
v
ery
purchase
carried
a
vision.
One
day
soon,
a
news
personality
would
ask,
“Isn’
t
thi
s
piec
e
America
n
V
ictorian
?
It’
s
quit
e
lo
v
ely
.
How
di
d
yo
u
acquir
e
it?
”
O
r
be
t
te
r
y
et
,
“Mr
.
Mieley
,
ho
w
di
d
yo
u
de
v
elo
p
suc
h
exquisit
e
taste?
”
W
it
h
grea
t
satisfaction
,
h
e
would
repl
y
tha
t
hi
s
appreciatio
n
o
f
fine
r
thing
s
ha
d
no
t
com
e
fro
m
his
farme
r
parents
,
wh
o
di
d
no
t
w
an
t
hi
m
i
n
thei
r
business
.
“Hah!”
he cried out, the loud crack of his voice surprising him.

H
e
soo
n
finishe
d
unpackin
g
an
d
ease
d
ont
o
th
e
bed
.
Almost
immediately,
an
acrid,
metallic
smell
filled
his
nostrils,
and
the
ghastly
vision
of
Elias
sabotaged
his
need
for
sleep.
He
w
ent
to
the
antique
chinoiserie
cabinet
for
a
bottle
of
vodka.
It
w
asn’t
cold,
but
he
drank
until
he
had
obliterated
the
sickening
smell
that
had
w
edged
itself
inside
his
brain,
and
then
let
go
of
the
bottle.
It
fell
to
the
floor
with
a
dull
thud.
It
felt
good
to
close
hi
s
e
y
e
s
and
,
thoug
h
i
t
w
asn’
t
y
e
t
dark
,
h
e
fel
l
int
o
a
dee
p
sleep.

Thre
e
blast
s
fro
m
th
e
kin
d
o
f
bel
l
use
d
b
y
fir
e
stations
startled
him
a
w
ake.
Co
v
ering
his
head
with
pillows,
he
w
aited
for
it
to
stop
tormenting
him,
but
it
did
not.
Scrambling
out
of
bed
,
h
e
ra
n
t
o
a
windo
w
wher
e
h
e
spotte
d
tw
o
me
n
outside.
They
wore
navy
suits
and
flinty
expressions,
and
did
not
look
like the sort to gi
v
e up and go a
w
ay.

Barefoot, he hurried downstairs.

“Mr.
Mieley?”
the
one
closest
to
the
door
said.
“I’m
Agent
Gibson from ICE.
W
e
’
d like to talk to you.”

“Just
a
minute.”
He
blew
into
his
palm
to
check
his
breath
befor
e
crackin
g
ope
n
th
e
door
.
I
t
smelle
d
lik
e
a
distillery
.
“What
the heck is ICE?”

“US
Immigration
and
Customs
Enforcement,
sir.
W
e
’
re
here
to talk to you about Max Cotts.”

“I need to see some identification.”
Whe
n
a
badg
e
w
a
s
pushe
d
throug
h
th
e
opening
,
Mieley
studied it and reluctantly opened the door.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“W
e
’
ll explain, but you need to come with us.”

“I hope Max hasn’t gotten
himself into trouble.”
Th
e
sharp-feature
d
agen
t
wit
h
perfec
t
salt-and-pepper
hai
r
obser
v
e
d
th
e
peelin
g
w
all
s
an
d
heav
y
la
y
e
r
o
f
grime
impassi
v
ely.

“
I
nee
d
m
y
shoe
s
an
d
w
allet,
”
Miele
y
muttered
,
an
d
disappeare
d
upstair
s
t
o
splas
h
hi
s
fac
e
wit
h
col
d
w
ate
r
and
put
on a
clean shirt.
In
the
mirror,
the ghost of too
much vodka
dance
d
behin
d
hi
s
e
y
es
.
Woul
d
the
y
notice
?
h
e
wondered.