Mercy Dogs

by Tyler Dilts

  “He left a note.”

  “What did it say?”

  “He confessed to killing Rob. Said he was the one skimming the drugs and money. Exonerated the rest of the team.”

  “Lopez too?”

  “Everyone. Said he acted alone.”

  “Are they sure he wrote it?”

  “It was in his own handwriting.”

  Ben tried to remember everything Grace had told him. Was it possible that it was all Sowers? Maybe. According to what she’d said, the only thing she knew for sure about Lopez was that he’d violated the terms of their confidential-informant contract and kept stringing her along to make more buys and arrests. That was a shitty thing to do, but not at all uncommon with CIs, especially when they were working Narcotics. And it was a long way from murder. All he really had on Lopez came from the few vague hints Rob had dropped.

  “Rob seemed confident that Lopez was calling the shots,” he said.

  “It doesn’t look like that,” Jennifer said. “Zepeda’s going to call it on the murder case. He’s got a signed confession. You can let Grace know she’s in the clear.”

  Ben felt light-headed. Could it really be over? He hurried to the door and put his boots back on.

  “What is it?” Peter asked.

  “Good news, Dad, very good news.”

  Peter smiled at him as he grabbed the umbrella and hurried out into the rain. He knocked on the door, but couldn’t wait for a response before turning the knob.

  As soon as the door opened, he heard Grace yell, “Ben, no!”

  He never even saw the pistol as it whipped across his temple and he collapsed to the floor.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The next thing Ben knew, he was being dragged across the room. His head felt like it was on fire and his vision was blurry. He didn’t know what had happened, why he had fallen, who was pulling him by the collar. Then his face hit something, bounced, and he was prone on the floor. He rolled over, realized he was next to a couch. No. It was a sofa bed. Grace’s sofa bed. Folded closed. In the studio. And there was Grace, leaning over him, helping him sit up, asking, “Are you all right?” Why was she wearing handcuffs? He couldn’t focus.

  “Shit, man, I wish you’d stayed in the house. This fucking rain, you wouldn’t have even heard anything.” It was Lopez, standing by the door, pointing a pistol at them. Was it a Sig? Ben thought it looked like a Sig.

  “How much does the old man know?”

  Ben felt something flare inside his head.

  Grace said, “He has dementia. He doesn’t know anything.”

  There was a hardness in her voice Ben had never heard before. Focus, he told himself. Breathe. He did, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The pressure between his temples seemed to be bleeding out. A few more seconds, he needed a few more seconds. “How’d you do it?” he asked Lopez.

  “What?”

  Still on the floor, Ben got his arm up on the seat cushion, hoisted himself up a little more, propped his shoulder against the arm of the sofa. “Get Sowers to write the confession before he blew his brains out?”

  “Easy. Brett went home two nights ago, his wife and baby weren’t there. He decided he didn’t want anything bad to happen to them.”

  Then Ben saw it. A long shot, but so what? Lopez was going to shoot them both anyway. Then maybe kill his father just in case. He only needed to move his foot a couple of inches. “And what about Rob?”

  “What about him? You don’t already understand that, then you’re just shit out of—”

  Ben brought both knees up to his chest and drove the heels of his boots into the edge of the coffee table with all his strength.

  Lopez tried to raise the Sig and aim, but the opposite edge of the table impacted his shins with enough force to knock his feet out from under him and topple him. The pistol shot went high and wide as he landed on the tabletop and rolled off to end facedown on the other side.

  Ears ringing, Ben scrambled onto his knees and lunged over the table onto Lopez, wrapping both hands around his right wrist, trying to control the weapon. With one knee between the shoulder blades and the other on the elbow, Ben was able to twist the pistol out of Lopez’s grip. He thought he felt the trigger finger snap as he yanked it free.

  Grace was on her feet and yelling something, but Ben still could barely hear her.

  “What?” he shouted.

  Then Lopez bucked and sent Ben back to the floor, the Sig skittering out of his hand and across the tile of the kitchenette.

  Lopez swung a wild backhand that caught Grace square in the jaw and dropped her, then he charged toward Ben, who was up on his hands and knees, making his abdomen a perfect target.

  Ben saw the kick coming, tried to roll away from it, but was too slow. Lopez’s steel-toed oxford caught him in the ribs and he was on his back again, gasping desperately to fill his lungs with air.

  When he could focus, Ben looked up into the muzzle of the Sig. He had survived one bullet in the head only to die by a second.

  Lopez was standing a few feet off to his right, just far enough away that Ben would not be able to get to him before he could pull the trigger. He was holding the pistol in both hands, his left index finger in the trigger guard.

  At least I managed that, Ben thought as he heard the gun go off.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After you tell her about Kate, you make a point of not joining them for coffee the next few mornings. You fix Peter’s breakfast and then go back and hide in your room or take a shower. Maybe you peek out the window and watch them for a minute or two, maybe you don’t.

  You ask yourself over and over why you told her, why you opened up the old wound after you’d spent so much time and effort burying it in layer after layer of scar tissue.

  She says, “Hey, Ben,” but her voice sounds different. At least you imagine that it does.

  You say, “Hey” but turn your eyes away and offer nothing else.

  It goes on like that for a while. The awkwardness begins to feel normal. Like this is how it’s supposed to be, like what came before was the aberration.

  Then the mailman leaves three green plastic shipping bags from L.L. Bean on the porch and you remember it’s almost Christmas. You go out into the garage and get a couple of boxes to use to wrap up your father’s new pants and shirts. For the last few years, you’ve told yourself you’re not going to bother with the decorations anymore because your father doesn’t really seem to notice and it just makes you sad, but then you reach up to the top shelf and take down the box with the little pre-lit tabletop Christmas tree and bring it inside and set it up on the end table in the living room anyway.

  “It’s time?” Peter says as you plug it in and hang a few of your mother’s old ornaments on the plastic branches.

  “Yeah, Dad, it is.”

  “What about for her?”

  You know who he means, but you say it anyway. “For who?”

  “For Grace.”

  He remembers her name.

  You don’t see her at all on Christmas Eve. In the morning, you make the breakfast your father always made for you before you opened presents, scrambled eggs and silver-dollar pancakes. He insists on bundling up and eating on the patio and is clearly disappointed when she doesn’t join you.

  “Can we ask her?” he says.

  You’d rather not, but his sad eyes are too much for you to bear, so the two of you walk back to the studio and knock on the door.

  She’s been crying.

  You don’t know what to say.

  Your father does. “We have pancakes.”

  She opens the box of See’s Candies. It was Peter’s idea. The one thing your mother got you every year. Your very own box. All creams. When you tell her about it, she starts to tear up again.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asks.

  “I miss my mom.”

  “You can go see her,” he says. Then he turns to you. “Can we take her?”

  You’re not sure what to say, but she
speaks first. “She died, Pete. This is only my second Christmas without her.”

  Peter moves over to the sofa, sits next to her, and pats her leg. Then he looks at you. “How many for us?” he says.

  You have to think about it before you answer. “Eight,” you finally say.

  Later, after you’ve all watched Elf, she asks you to walk her back to the studio.

  At the door, she hugs you and says, “Thank you for today.”

  Then she looks you in the eyes. She sees that there’s something you want to say but can’t, so she speaks instead. “It doesn’t matter who we used to be, Ben. All that matters is who we are now.”

  She says it with such simple certainty that you almost believe her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ben knew he shouldn’t have heard the gun at all.

  He should have been dead.

  Lopez seemed surprised, too. Then they heard the second shot and he spun toward the door.

  He was still moving when the third shot caught him just in front of the ear and half his face disappeared. His body collapsed to the floor. Shot four hit him in the shoulder as he rolled over onto his back. Five and six were center mass in the middle of his chest.

  Ben turned toward Grace. She must have had the Glock hidden somewhere. But no, she was staring at Lopez with the same shocked amazement that Ben himself had.

  Simultaneously they both turned their heads toward the door.

  Peter stood there, soaking wet, shivering, still pointing the revolver at Lopez’s body and pulling the trigger, the hammer falling again and again on the spent cartridges.

  As Ben struggled to his feet, his father looked at him and lowered the gun. Ben was unsteady and felt unbalanced. He had to put a hand on the wall to stop himself from falling.

  Grace was already up and next to Peter. Hands still cuffed, she delicately took the revolver from Peter’s hands and dropped it onto the sofa cushion. She was saying something to him, but Ben couldn’t hear. His ears were still ringing. Or they were ringing again. He wasn’t sure. Could he hear the rain pounding on the roof or was that something else? As he got closer to them he could see his father was saying something to Grace over and over. She was shaking her head.

  The light began to brighten outside, silhouetting them in the doorway.

  He smelled something burning.

  The ringing faded.

  The last thing he heard before the seizure took him was his father’s voice, thick with fear.

  “Did I do something bad?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When he came to, Ben was strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance. An EMT was next to him, saying, “Mr. Shepard? Can you hear me?” She looked very young.

  Ben nodded. “Yes.” His voice felt sticky in his mouth. He could taste blood.

  “You may have a concussion.” She released the buckle on the strap across his chest. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Where’s my father?”

  “He’s okay. What day is it?”

  “Sunday. Where’s Grace?”

  “She’s okay, too. I need you to follow my finger with your eyes, okay?” She held up her index finger and moved it slowly back and forth across his field of vision. Ben only wanted to get up, to go to Peter and Grace, so he did his best to comply. When she seemed satisfied, she said, “Who’s the president?”

  He remembered Grace’s T-shirt. “If you’re evaluating trauma, you probably shouldn’t ask that anymore.”

  “I’m just going to put down that you got that one right.”

  Ben couldn’t stay there much longer or he’d snap. “Please, I need to go see my father.”

  “We need to take you to the ER for some more tests.”

  “Please,” he said. “I need to know he’s okay. He has dementia and he needs help. Just let me check on him and I’ll go with you.”

  “Let me talk to somebody. I’ll see what we can do.”

  She opened the door, went outside, and closed it. Ben only got a quick glimpse, but it was enough for him to see that the rain was still coming down and the ambulance was parked in the alley, not more than thirty feet from Grace’s door.

  It seemed to take forever.

  Ben was feeling groggy and his head hurt. His whole body hurt. When he shifted on the gurney, there was a sharp, stabbing pain on his right side where Lopez had kicked him. Probably a broken rib.

  What was taking so long? His mind began to race when he realized the ambulance meant the police were there, too. How long had he been unconscious? Was Homicide here yet? Were they questioning his father?

  He remembered the last words his father had said before the seizure hit. “Did I do something bad?” If Homicide was interrogating him, they’d go over it and over it again and again. It would stay with him. Maybe not the details, but the accusations and implications.

  Shit, what if it was Zepeda? That withered old bastard had all the sensitivity of a concrete block. The questions could be even more agitating and traumatizing than the shooting itself. Ben sat up, his ribs screaming, and leaned forward to unstrap his legs.

  What was taking so damn long?

  Somebody pounded on the door. Loud, so it would be heard over the drumming on the roof. He heard the latch click, and the door swung open. A head in a dripping hood popped inside. Ben recognized the face.

  “Detective Shepard? I’m Dan—”

  “I know who you are,” Ben said, swinging his legs to the side and planting his feet on the floor. “Jennifer’s partner.”

  “I was. We need you to—”

  “Who caught the case?” Ben was dizzy when he stood. Nearly hit his head on the roof. “Are you the primary?”

  “No,” he said. “Because of the connection to the other—”

  “It’s Zepeda?” Ben was at the door, trying to push his way past the detective, who had his arms spread and a hand holding on to each edge of the door frame.

  “You really need to sit back down.”

  “What I need is to see my father. I’m his legal guardian and I have power of attorney. No one is saying another word until we have our attorney here.”

  The detective had a puzzled look on his face, but stepped to the side so Ben could climb down out of the ambulance.

  Before he even had both feet on the ground, the icy rain was pounding him, soaking though his thin shirt and cutting to the bone. Ben started for the gate, but the detective grabbed his elbow.

  “Crime scene,” he said. “Have to go that way.” He pointed to the other gate on the far side of the garage.

  Before he even finished the sentence, Ben was halfway there. He ran along the side of the garage, ignoring the flood of rain sheeting off the edge of the roof. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was soaked through. He couldn’t have gotten any wetter.

  There was a uniform inside by the sink. Ben shouted, “Where’s Zepeda?”

  Eyes wide, the officer said, “With the shooter,” and hooked a thumb toward the front bedroom. Ben’s room.

  He hurried through the dining room and charged toward the closed bedroom door.

  But something caught his eye and stopped him where he stood.

  Peter.

  Sitting by himself in the middle of the sofa, hugging himself and slowly rocking forward and back. Another uniform stood watch in the corner.

  Ben sat next to him, put his arms around his shoulders. His father leaned in to him and whispered, “She told me not to say anything to anybody.”

  Only then did Ben begin to understand what Grace was doing in the other room.

  The rain kept coming. It only started to ease as evening came and Zepeda finally cleared out with the rest of the cops. The floors were covered in puddles and splotches of mud throughout the house, and everything felt contaminated by the throngs of strangers that had invaded their home.

  Ben used to feel comfortable around cops, at ease, a part of the family. The way that comfort had transformed into awkwardness after he was shot was one of his mo
st overpowering regrets. Now, though, all he felt was disdain.

  Earlier, after Zepeda had finished with Grace, he immediately called Ben into his own bedroom. It was one of the first rules—keep the witnesses apart, never let them have a chance to get their stories synched.

  “Have a seat,” Zepeda said, gesturing to the bed.

  “Should I make myself at home?” Ben regretted the snark before he’d even completed the sentence.

  “I know this is rough.” There was more compassion in his voice than Ben had expected. “Is your dad holding up okay?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “We’ll try to make this as quick as we can.”

  Grace had been in here with him for an hour and a half. “Thanks.”

  “What happened?”

  Ben thought carefully about his words. He had a strong suspicion of what Grace had told him, but he couldn’t be sure. There was only one way to back her play without being certain of what it was. “I don’t remember.”

  Of course, it wasn’t that easy. With Zepeda’s probing, Ben led him through the last twenty-four hours. From the planning of the escape to Julian, through the long night, into the morning’s rain delay and the call from Jennifer.

  “Then what?”

  “I went back to the studio to tell Grace the good news. Opened up the door, stepped inside, got hit in the head.” Ben turned his head so Zepeda could get a good look at the contusion and swelling where Lopez had pistol-whipped him.

  “That’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  And that was it. Zepeda made him go through it all three more times. With each retelling, the lie got easier. Maybe, with a little luck, he really would be able to forget the truth.

  Now they were gone, but they’d left their mark. The studio and the entire yard, from the patio back, were cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, the floors covered in wet and muddy footprints, the back lawn swamped by the storm and torn and rutted by the dozens of strangers and their thousands of steps.

  Ben sat down on the sofa next to his father and Grace.