The Rabbit's Hole

by Brian Christopher Shea

  “After spending a little time with her on that stakeout, I thought maybe I’d get the nerve to ask her out,” Jones said.

  “Simmons?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah. I mean she was attractive and single. Best prospect I’ve had in quite some time,” Jones said.

  “You forgot the deranged serial killer part,” Nick said, cracking a slight smile at the thought.

  “Everybody’s got their faults.” Jones’s chuckle erupted into a hearty laugh. “I wish I had winged her. Then maybe I could’ve visited her in prison.”

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you my friend.” Nick gave Jones a slap on the back.

  “I wouldn’t be able to do this job if there wasn’t,” Jones said.

  Nick knew there was truth in that statement and nodded his agreement. Maybe I’m too far gone? Maybe I’m closer to Simmons than a guy like Jones? Nick thought, reflecting on Cheryl Simmons’s exposure of his other side.

  Anaya’s screams filled the room and Nick jumped up from his seat. A robotic voice followed, “What bends but does not break? What weeps but does not cry?” Then followed by the loud crack of a whip. Another scream from Anaya and then the soft murmurs of her voice, “Please no more. My baby.”

  It abruptly ended, leaving Nick in a tragic state of utter delirium. He looked at Jones searching his face. Hoping his friend heard it too. Hoping he wasn’t losing his mind.

  Cavanaugh boomed from the other side of the room, “Sorry, I found it in her pocket.”

  Pete Cavanaugh walked toward Nick and Jones holding a small black remote.

  “Looks like she had pre-recorded the events that took place in this room. It was set to play. So all she had to do was press this little button,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Jesus,” Nick said, still coming down from the massive adrenaline dump of hearing Anaya’s screams again.

  “How are you two boys holding up?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Been better,” Jones said.

  “It was a clean shoot. Doesn’t get much cleaner than that. Listen, you’ll get a much-deserved two-week vacation while the paperwork gets sorted and then you’ll be right back at it,” Cavanaugh said.

  “How about you? I know that Spangler was a friend of yours,” Jones asked, looking up at the large Homicide detective.

  “I’ll deal. He was a good guy. A little odd, but a great guy. Did you know he collected PEZ dispensers? I guess that explained why he was still single,” Cavanaugh said, injecting his dark humor on the situation.

  “What else do you need from us?” Nick asked.

  “We’re about done with you guys for now. Luckily, I had some spare clothes in my trunk. Never know when I’m going to need a change out,” Cavanaugh said.

  Nick looked over at the brown paper evidence bags that held his blood-soaked clothing and then down at the oversized sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing. Over six feet tall with a muscular frame, Nick Lawrence would be considered big by most standards. But wearing Pete Cavanaugh’s attire, he looked like a little boy playing dress up in daddy’s clothes. The sight would have been almost comical if the setting wasn’t so dire.

  “I’ve got to go check on Anaya,” Nick said.

  “Get going. I’ll reach out if I need anything more from you,” Cavanaugh said, shaking Nick’s hand before returning to the center of the room with the other detectives.

  Nick paused, looking down at Jones who was absently rubbing his trigger finger. “I owe you my life.”

  Jones eyed his belly and chuckled. “You know how I’ll take payment.”

  “I don’t want to contribute to your early grave,” Nick said.

  “Well, then just find me a new girlfriend,” Jones said.

  Nick gave his friend a slap on his back and stepped to the threshold of the room. He stood next to the splintered frame of the door and glanced back at the two lifeless bodies, sprawled in the room’s center.

  Cheryl Simmons’s hair was now a matted mess from the .40 caliber hollow point round that ripped through her skull. The bright fiery tendrils now tainted a dark sanguine color, denoting her tragic end. He turned to leave and hoped that his secrets would remain behind and die in that room, never to catch up to him again.

  Chapter 31

  The Emergency Room looked much like it did the night before. The world never seemed at a loss for tragedy. Each person’s grief unique but the same. He did not envy the work of these doctors and nurses.

  The receptionist, a kind-faced woman with wire rimmed glasses, kindly directed him to a seat in the waiting area. She’d told him that someone would be out to speak with him shortly. That was fifteen minutes ago and to Nick each passing second felt like hours.

  A short balding man of Indian descent wearing a white lab coat over blue scrubs waddled out from the secured area. He paused to survey the crowd. He looked down at the tablet in his hand.

  “Mr. Lawrence?”

  Nick gave a wave of his hand and crossed the distance to the man quickly, almost at a run.

  “Come with me,” the doctor said curtly.

  “How is she?” Nick asked desperately.

  “She’s in recovery.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Nick made little effort to hide the intensity in his voice. His nerves were raw, and his anguish was exposed.

  “She’s going to be fine, Mr. Lawrence. No broken bones or long-term tissue damage,” the doctor said, reading the notes from the digital chart as he walked.

  “The baby?” Nick asked.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What do you mean sorry?” Nick reeled.

  “Mr. Lawrence, she lost the baby,” the doctor said.

  Nick stopped dead in his tracks. The hallway lights dimmed and brightened with each breath he took. He collapsed into the wall, sliding down into a heap on the glossy linoleum flooring. His stomach lurched, and he could barely suppress the urge to vomit.

  Nick curled his arms tightly around his bent knees and rocked rhythmically.

  The doctor’s hand shook his shoulder. The words slowly penetrated his grief barrier. “She needs you. Mr. Lawrence, Anaya is going to need you to be strong.”

  She needs me? She needed me, and I wasn’t there! She needed me, and I failed her! She needed me, and our baby is dead! Nick drowned himself in the despair of his thoughts.

  Nick’s mind screamed, but all that came out of his mouth was a mumbled, “You’re right.”

  As if in a hypnotic trance, Nick rose. His eyes focused past the doctor to the endless row of doors that aligned the hallway. His face, stoic and calm, was a total contradiction to its contorted expression moments before.

  “Lead the way,” Nick said.

  The doctor gave him a pitiful smile, turned and resumed his trek down the sterile confines of the hallway.

  She lay half asleep in a room not much different from the one she’d been in the night before. Anaya looked peaceful, almost happy, but Nick knew this was most likely the aftershock from a sedative the doctor had given her after delivering the devastating news.

  Their baby, never named, was now gone. The Ferryman’s final victim claimed.

  “Hey,” Nick said softly, gently alerting her to his presence.

  “Our baby’s gone,” Anaya whispered.

  A single tear ran the tender curvatures of her face.

  The knot in Nick’s stomach constricted. He leaned in, kissing her cheek. The saltiness of the teardrop did little to quell his pain. If anything it amplified it.

  A whimper gurgled up from his throat and he choked on the words. “I’m sorry.”

  Anaya said nothing. She turned her face away from his. Nick felt the icy dejection and understood. He failed her in a way that was unforgivable.

  He gave her space, taking a seat beside her bed. The cheaply made cushion sounded its noisy protest to the infliction of Nick’s weight.

  Anaya shifted her body away toward the drawn blinds of the window.

  Nick sobbed quietly, pressing his
face into his hands, still tinged red with Simmons’s blood. He only allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity before pushing it back into the deep recesses of his heart, the place where all his sadness lived in disharmony. To that place where the guilt of his brother’s suicide now kept company with the failed promises to each of his dead parents. The remorse and grief for the death of his unborn child now added to its unbearable tonnage.

  “I need time,” Anaya said, still facing away.

  “Time?” Nick sighed his resignation. “I understand. I’ll be there for you regardless.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  The words cut deep and he inhaled sharply at the pain of them. Nick exhaled, “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes. I need to figure some things out,” Anaya said.

  He said nothing. The finality in her voice left him drained. He slid the chair back; the scraping of the wood on linoleum was louder than intended.

  “I love you,” Nick said.

  Nothing. The silence that followed was louder than any scream she could’ve made.

  Nick turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stepped out into the busy thoroughfare of the hospital’s hallway and drifted aimlessly away from the woman he loved, hopeful that someday he’d be allowed to return. Part of him very much doubted the likelihood.

  Nick knew his past decisions had killed any chance of his family’s future.

  Chapter 32

  The tired springs of the bed creaked loudly as he adjusted, sitting up and positioning himself on its end. The yellow and beige floral pattern of the wallpaper blended seamlessly into the burnt umber threads of the gently worn fabric of the carpet. Nick had checked into the hotel, granting Anaya’s request for space. That was two days ago but to him it was an eternity in his living purgatory.

  He wanted to be close enough if she needed him. So he chose to stay at the Sheraton in Georgetown, only a short drive away from their small home near the city’s quaint town center. His selection in accommodations also served a secondary purpose. It was the same hotel where he’d shared an unbridled night of passion with Izzy.

  On Saturday Nick had picked up the handle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, drowning himself in the clear spirit. The result of his homage to Izzy gave way to a challenging start to his Sunday.

  It was already well past noon and Nick had only made it as far as the edge of the bed. His head pounded and what little light that managed to slip through the gap in the curtain cut into his brain like a laser beam used by a sadistic James Bond villain.

  Nick checked his phone. He’d missed several calls but none of them were from Anaya. If it wasn’t Anaya, then he didn’t care. He let the phone slip from his hands to the floor and stood. Nick slogged his way to the sink and ran cold water from the faucet.

  Bent over the white porcelain basin, Nick splashed his face repeatedly, trying to wash away the throbbing that arced across his forehead. He stuck his mouth down by the spout, slurping at the waterfall in a desperate attempt to rehydrate.

  He didn’t hear it at first, but the sound became clearer as he rose up. Water dripped profusely from his tired face. The three quick successive raps at the door seemed louder in his current physical state.

  Nick turned, surveying the mess of clothes and food wrappers. Three more bangs, this time louder than before.

  “Coming!” Nick yelled. The sound of his voice resonated with dizzying effect and his stomach lurched in protest.

  The knock came again, this time quicker and louder than before.

  “I said I’m coming for God’s sake!” Nick said, trying to speak forcefully while at the same time maintaining a low volume.

  Nick flicked free the chain lock and it fell alongside the metal frame of the door, swinging noisily as he yanked hard, pulling the door open. Nick kept his left hand on the handle for balance and used his other to shield his eyes from the bright light pouring in from the hallway.

  “Well, you look like dog shit in the hot sun!” Declan boomed.

  Nick furrowed his brow at the sight of his friend, confused by his arrival and worried that he’d lost his mind or was having some weird vodka-induced dream.

  “Nice to see you too. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Declan asked.

  Nick stepped back from the doorway allowing his friend access.

  Declan chuckled softly, stepping over an opened pizza box containing a boneyard of crust. “I see that you’re doing well.”

  “I thought—Ohio… weren’t you on an op?” Nick asked, perplexed.

  “I was. Not the massive compound ATF thought it was. Big surprise there. Turned out to be just a handful of rednecks with a couple guns. You should’ve seen how they about pissed themselves when we popped out of the bushes on ’em,” Declan said, smiling.

  “I’m still not tracking. You flew here? Why?” Nick mumbled.

  “I told you when we last talked that we needed to give Izzy a proper send-off,” Declan said, picking up the near-empty bottle. “Looks like you got yourself a head start.”

  The thought of drinking anything, let alone vodka, made the room spin. Nick fought hard to keep from throwing up on his friend.

  “Shower up and let’s get the hair of the dog in you,” Declan said, pushing Nick’s shoulder and guiding him toward the bathroom.

  Nick grunted but didn’t resist, using the momentum of Declan’s shove to assist his feeble progression.

  The shower felt good, revitalizing him enough to feel a modicum of functionality. Nick stepped out of the bathroom; beads of water followed the lines cut by his rugged physique ending at the white curled lip of the hotel towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Declan stood holding two plastic cups. About one finger’s worth of the clear liquid swished at the bottom as Declan leveled one cup in his direction.

  “Shit, this is going to hurt,” Nick mumbled.

  “To Izzy,” Declan said.

  At that, Nick accepted the cup without further hesitation. The two raised their cups.

  “To Izzy,” Nick said.

  The two friends tapped the plastic cups together. Nick’s voice broke at the mention of her name, but the burn of the micro-distilled spirit masked his pain.

  “Neither one of us would be alive to raise this glass had she not been there for us,” Declan said, pouring the drink down his throat.

  Both men’s eyes watered slightly, embracing the silent solidarity that could only be understood by them.

  Declan cleared his throat and placed the cup down on a nearby dresser. “There’s another reason I’m here.”

  Nick saw something in his friend’s eye. A nervous discomfort he’d not seen before.

  “What’s up?” Nick asked.

  “Simmons.”

  The mention of her name sent a shockwave of rage through Nick’s body, causing his hands to begin involuntarily shaking. “What about her?”

  “She had a backup plan for you.”

  “Backup plan? What the hell are you talking about?” Nick asked.

  “I guess she wanted a fail-safe in the event that you managed to stop her,” Declan said. His voice was uncharacteristically softer.

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “The murders, Nick. Montrose and his crew. Others too. She had a detailed file. Really detailed,” Declan said, breaking eye contact.

  Nick exhaled slowly. His mind reeling at the exposure of his past, compounded further by his unrelenting hangover.

  “A mutual friend of ours got wind of it and tipped me off. I wanted to be here when they came for you. I called in some favors and had them wait until I got here. I wanted to show you that I’ve still got your back,” Declan said.

  “When they come for me? Who?” Nick asked frantically.

  “Us. The Bureau. They’ve got an arrest warrant for you. I’ve been given a small window of time to speak with you. I told them that we would walk out together,” Declan said.

  “You’re here to arrest me?” Nick aske
d, dropping heavily to a seated position on the end of the bed.

  “I’m here to help an old friend—my best friend—get through a terrible situation,” Declan said.

  “Jesus,” Nick hissed.

  “We’ll figure it out. Promise. I don’t know how, but we’ll find our way out of this. Guys like us always find a way,” Declan said.

  “You keep saying we. I’m pretty sure you dodged the bullet on your federal case,” Nick said sarcastically.

  “I had no say in this. I was worried that it might go badly if someone else came for you,” Declan said.

  “Badly?”

  “You’ve lost everything over the last few days and when I heard about this arrest coming down, I seriously didn’t know if you could handle it,” Declan said compassionately.

  Nick’s head drooped low as if the muscles in his neck could no longer support its burdensome weight.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Nick said, resigned.

  Declan walked over to the round coffee table and retrieved Nick’s duty weapon. Nick watched as his friend removed the magazine and emptied the chamber before dropping it into the cargo pocket on his left side.

  Nick dressed quickly without giving any thought to his attire, knowing that soon the only wardrobe would be that provided by his awaiting correctional facility. He turned to face his friend. Nick’s expression was flat; every ounce of emotional energy had been completely depleted. The two men embraced, exchanging hearty backslaps.

  “I’ll figure something out. This isn’t the end,” Declan said gritting his teeth.

  Nick said nothing.

  Nick followed Declan’s lead. The door opened and they were greeted by several agents. Two of them had their pistols out of the holster and bootlegged against their thighs. A third stood behind them, swaying nervously and palming a pair of hinge cuffs. It took a second for Nick to recognize the man. Gary Salazar, his rookie chauffer from his ride back from the airport, stood awkwardly in the backdrop preparing to make the arrest, probably the first arrest of his career.

  Nick turned slowly and placed his hands at the small of his back. Each click of the cuff’s ratchets were like nails banging into his coffin. He was being buried alive, entombed by the dark secrets brought to light. His need to right injustice now left him a victim of his own righteousness.