American Blood

by Ben Sanders

  He remembered getting home early morning, cracking the bedroom door, hallway light across the bed and there she lay curved, thin beneath the covers and weak breath the only motion.

  His head a crescendo: chants of What Have You Done drowned all else.

  Sitting in his office with the muzzle of the .38 in his mouth and a round waiting. Taste of smoke and iron and the barrel shaking in his clenched teeth. He closed his eyes as he dropped the hammer. No last words and barely a last thought. He screamed down the muzzle and sat gasping when it clicked.

  Dud load.

  He took it as a sign. If there was a God, God would have killed him. The fact he’d made it through meant there was no higher power keeping watch. He knew unequivocally that the only rule is the rule you make.

  She died in August, a month shy of their nine-year anniversary. He remembered the funeral, the hearse pulling away, petals lifting in its wake. Love of his life taken by an unjust world. He felt it set a datum for what was permissible. Whatever you dream of, someone has suffered worse. He called Tony Asaro, tears still in his eyes.

  Wayne said, “Let’s make this a long-term thing.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lauren Shore

  Shrink day.

  There was a room set up at police headquarters on Roma Avenue. She thought of it as the psycho suite. The therapist was one Dr. Cullen, prim and reserved, her office fittingly austere: paperless desk with the laptop computer that always sat closed, the two consultation chairs precisely square, every surface clean and clutter-free. In a sad attempt at warmth, a framed print of a vase with two roses adorned one wall.

  Cullen sat down and crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt hem, propped her notes on her thigh. Shore still wasn’t used to it, being questioned and observed: a sharp inversion of her normal role. The note-taking was the worst part: this private log of flaws steadily accruing. Every week some new quirk to document. She smiled to herself. It could give someone a complex.

  Cullen said, “I understand you had a difficult evening.”

  Difficult evening. She had a flair for euphemisms.

  Shore said, “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this now? We can reschedule if you’d like?”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “I’m actually quite surprised you made it in this morning.”

  “I never left. I stayed the night at the office.”

  “I certainly would have understood if you wanted to postpone.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

  The doctor lifted a page, read through prior jottings. “You’ve mentioned before it’s not stress or anxiety that keeps you awake.”

  “Yeah.”

  She glanced up, looked back at her notes. “But are you comfortable that’s still the case?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re not losing sleep as a result of something you’re dwelling on.”

  Shore said, “I’m a light sleeper. Always have been.”

  Cullen noted something, shorthand, appeared to underline it. “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You ask the questions.”

  Cullen said, “I prefer to think of this as a discussion, and I can just prompt you to address things that could be beneficial.”

  Shore smiled. “I told the story on repeat for about two hours straight last night, so I’d be happy to talk about something else today if it’s okay with you.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “I’m blank. Pick something.”

  Cullen nodded slowly, read back a couple of pages. The pen waved slowly in her hand. “Okay. Have you been drinking?”

  “I didn’t really have time.”

  “I meant in general.”

  Shore nodded. “Yeah. Every now and then.”

  “Do you feel you’re in control?”

  “Control.”

  “I mean: Do you ever feel that you can’t stop yourself?”

  Shore said, “No.” What she should have asked: Do you ever feel that you can stop yourself.

  “Do you ever get the impression you’re using alcohol as an escape?”

  “Okay. I’m not quite sure why we’re discussing this.”

  “Lauren, this is just a routine inquiry. I’m a bit concerned at your defensiveness.”

  “Well no, it’s just you’ve obviously gone: police detective suffering trauma, must have an issue with alcohol. It’s not always the case.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m just trying to establish if it’s the case with you.”

  “I don’t have an alcohol problem.”

  Cullen made a point of noting that. She said, “Okay. Are you still sleeping with a loaded firearm in the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you choose to do that?”

  “I’ve explained it.”

  “Yes, I remember. But I just want to confirm it’s a choice that is reasoned and pragmatic and not something irrational.”

  Shore said, “I’m a drugs detective. People want me dead. I think it’s reasonably straightforward.”

  Cullen appeared to write something to that effect. She stabbed the period with some finality. “You’ve been a narcotics officer eight years, is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And have you always slept with a loaded gun, or is it just something that’s developed recently?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Cullen moved on. She said, “Have you rehung the photographs at home yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Have you spoken to your parents about any of this?”

  “They wouldn’t understand.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Do you discuss work with friends at all?”

  “I don’t really have friends. I just sort of, well. Over the years I’ve seen less of them and more of work. But I guess that’s often the way it goes, doesn’t matter what your job is.”

  “No relationship?”

  “No. I don’t think I can risk it.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “I’d rather be by myself than risk losing someone again. I think that’s the safest way. And I can deal with it.”

  Cullen studied her a while, like she’d admitted she really couldn’t cope at all. She made some notes, separate lines, like annotating her last few responses. She looked up.

  “Okay. Lauren, what concerns me a little is that you seem to be repeating the same high-functioning behavior from a few weeks ago.”

  Shore smiled briefly. “High functioning’s the aim.”

  “Not if it’s concealing a deeper problem. I want to be sure any issues are being confronted and processed rather than suppressed, so we’re not postponing a more severe event.”

  Shore didn’t answer.

  Cullen said, “Please bear in mind my comments will be considered when you’re reviewed for active duty.”

  Shore didn’t answer.

  Cullen said, “I want to be sure you’re not just pushing aside what happened last night. Or anything else, for that matter.”

  Shore stood up. “I’ll see you next week.”

  * * *

  Back in the car she checked her cell and found a missed call from the main office line. She dialed Martinez.

  “Did you just call me?”

  He said, “Yeah. Are you still in the building?”

  “No, I’m outside. I just had my shrink session.”

  He said, “We had Bernalillo sheriff’s on the phone. They’ve caught a big shooting at some motel up there, four people dead.”

  “God. When, just now?”

  “About ten A.M. That guy Lucas Cohen from the marshals was there, apparently he’s saying Troy Rojas
was involved.”

  “But he’s not dead?”

  “Rojas? No. They didn’t get him.”

  She turned the key so she could run the air-con. The radio started, and she killed the volume. She always drove with it on. She couldn’t sit alone in the quiet.

  She said, “So what happened?”

  “Well, from what I can gather, Rojas was at the motel and Cohen was lined up to get him, but there was some third-party interference, ended up with a major shots-fired.”

  She said, “Third-party interference.”

  “Yeah. I don’t have the whole story yet.”

  “Was it cartel?”

  “Sounds like it could be. I’m not sure.”

  “So what the hell was Cohen doing up there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She said, “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No, not yet. Look, you should come back in. I’d feel much better about having someone drive you home.”

  “There’s a unit watching my house.”

  “Yeah. Well two, actually.”

  “So I’ll be fine.”

  She clicked off.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Marshall

  He’d given the cabdriver vague directions, said he thought the house was on the 8000-block of Loma Del Norte Road. As they approached Shore’s address he saw there were two APD patrol cars out front, one at each curb, both directions covered.

  “We getting close, boss?”

  Marshall was in the middle seat in back, leaning forward to see through the windshield.

  “Just keep going. I’ll know it when I see it. Maybe speed up a little.”

  He sat back as they cruised past the first car, speedometer showing twenty-five, the two guys up front ignoring them.

  Nothing happening at Shore’s place. No sign of her Chevy.

  Marshall, counting houses, said, “I think it’s actually the next street over. Just take a left when you can. Funny how you think you know a place, but then when you haven’t visited for a while it all looks a bit the same.”

  “I know, boss, I know what you mean, exactly. We just take our time. No rush with anything, eh?”

  More than happy to keep the meter running.

  “I take a left here, you think?”

  “Yeah. Here’s good.”

  As the car made the turn he could see through the side window the two cars just sitting there and no one on the mike.

  “Where now? I go left again?”

  “Yeah, take another left. We’ll do the other side of this block.”

  Counting down now as they doubled back. No police in sight. A few cars out on the street, but no red Jeep. Marshall’s count hit single digits.

  “This will do.”

  “This is the place, boss?”

  “This is the place.”

  The guy coasted slowly to a halt, really eking it out. Marshall took a hundred dollars from his pocket and set it on his knee to fold, make sure the crease was perfect. He handed the bill across the seat.

  The guy reached across himself to take it. “Eh. Boss, that’s too much, even plus the tip.”

  Marshall said, “Have a good day.”

  He stood at the roadside and watched the cab pull away. Its putter the only sound, fading weakly into nothing.

  He walked along the street. Beyond the nearside row of houses he could see Shore’s roof, just above the fence line. He paused and removed the sunglasses and hooked them in the neck of his shirt and stood smiling in the harsh light. All still. No one watching. The vast cloudscape borne as one on a slow current, like the sky was some fixed socket in which the world turned blindly.

  He listened briefly and then he moved off the sidewalk and cut down a right-of-way along a line of town houses to the rear property. Laidback, nonchalant. A small dog yipping, a woman cursing it. Without breaking stride he threaded through the low planting along the boundary and vaulted the fence into Shore’s property and stepped out of the shrubs and ran lightly across the yard and stood at the corner of the house with his back to the wall. The gun drawn and raised. His footprints already fading: blade by blade the short grass recovering. He waited. No sound from inside. He eased his head out and risked a look. No one.

  He counted to thirty, patient, a little more than half a minute. Then with the gun at his leg he walked down the side of the house toward the road. There was a frosted-glass door just before the garage. He crouched and listened. The little dog still carrying on.

  From his pocket he took the canvas lock pick bag and unfolded it on the ground. This bright ladder of utensils, snug in their loops. He put down the gun and noticed the little telephone junction box, twenty feet away at the corner of the garage. The short wire at the base had been clipped. A break-in precaution: cut the phone line so the alarm system can’t dial out.

  He waited there a moment. The crouch starting to burn.

  Do it. You’re not going back now.

  He looked at the junction box. Close enough to the corner the patrol car up the street could probably see it. He considered that. Then he took a torsion wrench and a small rake pick and on a single held breath opened the lock and returned the tools to the bag and pocketed it. Then he quietly picked up the gun and stood with his back to the wall on the handle side and opened the door cautiously: a gentle underhand motion, thumb and index only, barely a sound.

  Gun up as he went in. Left through an empty hallway. The empty garage. The oil-stained slab with cracks wending through. Into the house proper. The curtained living room. Churchlike in its dusty gloom. Police files abounded. Her makeshift home office.

  Nothing in the kitchen. She’d removed pictures from the hallway wall. He could tell from where the paint hadn’t faded. Her bed made, the quilt rumpled. He pictured her lying across it.

  Back down the hallway. He stood a moment at a closed bedroom door. The files in the living room and the photos gone from the wall and he just knew without looking what lay within. Nobody hiding. One of those things you just know and know for sure. It had that long-unopened look.

  He went back to the kitchen and sat at the table with his legs crossed and the gun resting on his knee and waited to see who would show first.

  2010

  Still at the Hilton, still in bed, watching her get tidy. She sat on a corner of the mattress, legs crossed one way and then the other as she slipped on her boots.

  “Can you zip my dress up?”

  She leaned back so he could reach.

  He ran a knuckle up the valley of her spine, her skin soft and sleep-warm. She laughed and arched catlike. He said, “I only know how to take them off.”

  “Give it a try. It’s easy.”

  He did the zipper up smoothly, kept his hand there when it reached the top. He said, “I want to get out of here.”

  She moved away and tugged the sheet with her. He made a grab and trapped it waist-high and laughed. She said, “So get dressed.”

  “Yeah. I mean, away from here. Out of New York. Do something different.”

  She walked to the window and drew the curtains. On the carpet the narrow band of morning growing wider and her stretched shadow through the middle of it. She said, “How come?”

  “Various things.”

  She sat down again on the edge of the bed. “Work?”

  He pulled the sheet back up and ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah. Mainly.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Basically.”

  Looking at him quietly, features hidden by the bright window behind. He draped an arm over his eyes against the glare. She said, “Why?”

  He said, “I have to do things I don’t want to.”

  “That’s a bit vague.”

  “It’ll give you nightmares.” He smiled. “I’ve made you lose enough sleep as it is.”

  She said, “I’ll risk it.”

  He thought a while, arm still covering his face. He said, “I hurt people.”

  “Hurt people how?”


  He didn’t answer. After a moment she said, “So quit.”

  “It’s not quite that easy.” He rubbed sleep from an eye. “I think I might have to run away.”

  “And join the circus.”

  “It’s the circus I’d be running from.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He rolled on his side to face her. “Are we always going to do it like this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like … Meet at a hotel and then go our separate ways.”

  She found his hand under the sheet and held it. “I don’t know. We’ve only done it twice. And it’s still fun.”

  He smiled. “Feels like an affair or something.”

  She said, “Probably help if you weren’t trying to hide from my father.”

  He nodded but didn’t answer. He waited a few seconds, building up to it, and then he said, “Would you want to come with me? If I went somewhere?”

  His heart thumping with the wait. She squeezed his hand and said, “Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. But I will.”

  She leaned over and kissed him and stayed there beside him. Her shampoo and her perfume. She could probably feel his heart racing.

  She said, “I’ll think about it.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Rojas

  Shakes made it hard to drive. He held the bottom of the wheel and clamped the wrist with his other hand, trying to keep steady in the lane. He was running on survival instinct, a white-knuckle fear of dying. Not a new experience. He’d been shot at in the Gulf, Khafji in ’91, but that was wartime danger. He’d never been a sole target. This morning had been different. A peril for him alone. Sitting with a pistol in his hand in his quiet room, a departure lounge of sorts, he knew that doorway had been given all-new meaning. Those years and years behind him, and in the weighing of good and bad you could reach a judgment about which way he leaned, but the only ruling would be whether he was in the cross hairs and that would be final.

  And somehow he’d made it out.

  Not a word to his mother but he wasn’t a spiritual man, no time for guardian angels or anything like that, but if someone said the devil himself had taken him beneath his wing he wouldn’t have argued. If his escape had been a miracle then it was hell’s doing, because no moral god would see this as justice. Not with what was planned.