I swear Cora looks disappointed, but I let it go.
“So you moving on Mattioli?” she asks after a long pause.
“No, not now,” I reply. “I’ve got nothing on him. And all Gibson really said was, one, I’m a traitor to my department, and two, Heather Martin pissed a lot of people off. Nothing I didn’t already know. His place was creepy, though. Poor guy.”
Cora appraises me with her soft brown eyes. “Why’d you come here? I’m not being an asshole. I just genuinely want to know.”
I shrug. “Habit. You’re good to talk to. You know the job. We’re friends.”
She nods with a sort of skeptical, curious look. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“What do you mean?” I do deflection pretty well with everyone but her.
“This is gonna sound woo-woo yoga, but your energy is different. I can’t tell if you’re resigned or vulnerable or confident or all three or what.” She’s been into yoga since the first time we broke up. She seems more serene that way, so I guess it’s good for her.
“In spite of the chaos, you’re okay, aren’t you?” she asks. “Like really okay.”
“Yeah, I am,” I reply. “I feel bad about my therapist being sick, but I’m okay.”
“People get sick, Liz. She has access to a world-class hospital.”
I nod. “Everything about this case is a cluster fuck shit show, but it almost doesn’t matter. You know? I feel... just better. I just feel better. Like, personally speaking, I mean.” I don’t tell her that the enormous weight of us feels like it’s lifted. I don’t tell her that it’s a relief to be here talking to her and not pining for something I know I can’t ever have with her.
She smiles, nods, and pushes behind her ear a piece of hair that’s fallen out of her messy bun. “You’ve always stalled out and then moved quickly,” she says with a combination of amusement and sadness.
I’m not really sure what to say. That’s kind of an understatement, all things considered. “I guess so. How are you? Anything exciting happen in the Heights in the past week, beyond accompanying a crazy Cleveland detective to the boonies?”
“Actually, yeah. I was gonna call you, but I didn’t know if that was a good idea.” She takes a sip of her beer, sets it down on the island, and leans forward with some ceremony. “I’m getting promoted. You can call me Sergeant Bosch from now on.”
I tell her that’s great, grin at her, laugh when she paints imaginary stripes on her arm, and ask her when it’s happening.
“Next week,” she says.
I tell her I’ll be there. “You getting ink to celebrate?” Cora loves tattoos, and she loves being good at what she does. She’s been angling for the sergeant job for two years now.
“Hell no, I’m not getting anything related to law enforcement on me, ever,” she says. “I’m pretty stoked, though. It’ll be regular hours, more money.”
Her dream is to quit her job and become a full-time artist—she got into the whole cop game only because she was a sketch artist for the county and thought it would be “interesting”—her word—to be a detective. Honestly, I could see that dream of hers happening. I might live to work, but Cora works to live.
“More time on your ass pushing paper around too.”
“That too. I’ll have to up the work at the gym.” She flexes her arm. “Start doing hot yoga or something.”
“Nah, you’re good the way you are,” I say, and it feels normal and not strange.
“You gonna take the test?” she asks. Fishner has been on me for a while now to take the sergeant’s exam. Josh and Cora, who are both smarter about things like retirement funds and paying attention to the physical limitations that come with middle age, have both expressed their support for my boss’s wish. It’s too much desk work for me, though. I would go insane.
“Rate things are going now, I’m stuck at D1 till I retire,” I reply. Other cops might seem supportive, but Grimes has been working his behind-the-scenes campaign to tarnish my name since he was acquitted, and if I blow the lid off the corruption, I might end up in an unfortunate position. Fishner could make the promotion happen regardless, but there’s no point in being a Detective Sergeant no one will listen to. I tell her as much.
“Fuck him,” she says. “Even guys in my department know his name and not in a good way. Just watch your back.” She’s talking about the threats.
I pat the Glock. “He’s in jail right now, and that’s why it’s not in a safe,” I say. “He doesn’t have it in him, anyway. He’s a coward. We all know that.”
She asks me how Josh and Jacob are, and I say that I don’t know, that trying to adopt a kid is taking all of their time. Last we spoke was when we all saw each other at the bar, two weeks ago now.
It feels like it was a year ago, that night with them. With Cora. It seems like it’s been a lot longer than it has. I used to lose track of time in a bad way. This feels different.
“What are you thinking?” she asks. “You have that look. What is it, the investigation?”
I smile. “No, it’s a different look. It’s not the investigation—it’s not a kid case. Officially, the investigation is over, and the other side of it will be there until I solve it, even if I don’t.” I pause. “I’m glad that you and I decided to be friends,” I say. “I could get used to this. To sitting here with you and not feeling all fucked up and tortured.”
“But would you still be Liz if you did that?”
We both laugh.
“Yeah, I think I would be.”
“What’s the look, then?” she asks. “I’m not trying to prod. I’m just curious.”
“Enough with the disclaimers. I get it.”
“You’re going to make me play detective, aren’t you? Well, you already told me what’s making you sad, so the look isn’t that you’re hiding your feelings. You said your brother is good and your mom is still sober. You didn’t get promoted, and you don’t seem especially upset that your department is riddled with corruption. You got an indictment. Which leaves one thing.” She gazes at me, and it looks like a light comes on in her brain. “I knew it!” She points at me. “I meant it when I said you move quickly. Who is it, the prosecutor?”
I almost choke on my beer. “What, Julia Becker? Hell no. Have you been talking to Josh?” Josh has been after me for months to hook up with Becker, but I’m still not sure she bats for my team, and it’s best not to mix business with pleasure.
She asks me a couple of questions, and I answer them.
Then she disappears down the hall without saying anything. After a few minutes, I hear the toilet flush and the water running in the bathroom and wonder with some trepidation whether I’ve hurt her. Historically, I’m good at that.
When she comes back, she sits on the stool next to mine at the island. “I’m happy for you,” she says. She covers her hand with mine, and I look for the tingle, but it doesn’t come. “I’m jealous as hell, but I’ll get over it. I’m happy for you. Good for you, Liz.”
I search her kind eyes for any hint of something she’s not saying, but it’s not there. With her free hand, she reaches across the island for her beer and raises it. “Here’s to finally—fucking finally—figuring this shit out.”
We clink bottles.
She hugs me before I leave.
When I get back to my car, I feel lighter, somehow. Almost free.
CHAPTER 29
I get home a little before midnight and sit in my car for a few minutes, feeling oddly upbeat again, a little buzzed, and confident that I’ll connect the dots and that Fishner will do the right thing—it’s just who she is.
That’s why I don’t notice him as I step out of the car. He must have been hiding next to the dumpster. It doesn’t matter where he was, because this is how it’s going to end, by getting hit with a Taser and a thick forearm choking me out. I gurgle some strained vibration from below the place where he’s stopped my breath, and I kick. Both of my legs push us off the c
ar, but he’s too strong. We don’t fall. He holds me in the air by my neck.
I try to claw his arm, bite him, anything. A familiar smell surrounds me: cologne and stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey. I can’t get him off me. He’s all in leather.
He reaches around with his left hand and wraps it around my neck so tightly that I barely register the Taser burns.
My brain slows down, and I crumple forward and hit the open car door. My arms don’t extend like they should. There’s a crack and a slap, then I’m on the wet pavement.
Something skitters across the asphalt. My phone. Phone. Phone home.
There’s sharp pressure on—in—the left side of my head, then the blood comes. It runs down my face like melted wax, into my eye and into my mouth. The taste of it is sharp and metallic.
I’m facedown. The blood drips. Struggle. Remember to struggle.
Shit, my gun. He’s got my gun. He’s laughing and saying I should have locked it up somewhere. More pain. The back of my head sears.
There’s my phone, under the car. I reach for it.
But he twists my hands behind me and tells me I’m getting what I deserve, that cops never rat on other cops, that I’m a fucking snitch, and this is what happens to bitches like me.
His boot comes down against the back of my neck, followed by the sharp click and skitch of handcuffs around my wrists. My own cuffs on my own wrists.
Try to scream. Just scream.
My head explodes in white heat, then there’s cold, black silence.
WHEN I COME TO, THERE’S a sound. Clink-clank. Clink-clank. It’s rhythmic and regular.
I’m not dead if there’s a sound. Clink-clank. Metal on metal. Flagpole.
Breathe. Yes. Fuck, ouch, but okay. Breathing. Try not to move too fast. He might be watching. I pretend to be dead. But I’m not dead. There’s no way death hurts this much.
Air. In and out. I slow it down. There’s a smell. Diesel? No. Melting plastic. Burning oil. Flesh, blood. Kerosene.
I can only open one eye. The left one is sealed shut. I try to wipe it—no. My hands are locked in place. I blink my right eye. Everything is dark, dim, dusky.
I can’t stand. I’m bound to something. Clink-clank, scratch, scratch. Metal on metal.
Damn it. Shit, I need to wake up.
Razorlike pain shoots through my head, sharp like a hot probe. I can’t check my chest, but there’s stinging and the sharp throbbing of broken ribs. I cough. Fuck, no, I have to stop sputtering, or he’ll hear me. I cough again, and the taste of blood comes back with a vengeance. This is not good. It’s probably a punctured lung. My left eye, left lung, left hand—only one of each is left. I’m half intact. It has to be good enough. I have to make it out of here.
Damn it. Shit, get it together.
But I’m so tired.
I WAKE UP AGAIN AND remember more. He beat me with a police baton after pushing me down some stairs. I know that much. I remember the glint of black metal as it came down on me again and again.
It’s still too dark to see, but I don’t sense anyone in the room with me. I’m tied to a metal pipe, and it’s cool against the back of my head. If I move my arms, two things happen. One, a searing pain shoots through my left shoulder and down into my ribs. Why just beat me up on one side? I will myself not to laugh. He’ll hear me, and I might drown in my own blood. Two, I can slide up and down this metal pipe, or I could if my leg wasn’t stuck. The pipe is big—six, maybe seven or eight inches in diameter. A sewer pipe.
My left leg is connected to my wrists somehow. Feel it, feel it, yes. My right hand explores. I come across a plastic zip tie then my handcuffs. My synapses fire. Everything throbs except my right hand. Both of my hands are half numb. The cuffs are too tight.
Bind the chain. It hits me like a sledgehammer—a coherent thought. Yes, the cuffs are weak in the middle. The chain will snap if I can summon the strength to twist them.
No, I need to find something. A paperclip, a nail, a bobby pin. Unlocking them will be so much better than binding the chain that will cut my wrists and make me bleed out on this concrete floor.
Concrete floor.
Basement.
I need to open my other eye.
I shrug my left shoulder up and against the side of my face, but the pipe is in the way.
From somewhere outside: Clink-clank, clink-clank, clink-clank.
I time my own sounds to match. Fuck-you, fuck-you, fuck-you.
I get my shoulder up and against my face again. If I can just get enough friction on the cuffs... Almost, but I can’t reach.
All right, eye. Stay shut, then. The right one is working okay now, anyway, at least enough to confirm that I’m alone. At least he didn’t cover my head. I almost chuckle, but the pain in my left side is too much. I will myself not to pass out again.
After I struggle for several minutes, my blood coats the cuffs and lubricates the chain. It won’t catch. Fuck. No, I have to keep working. Twist it around. Ignore the pain. Don’t give up. Blink the tears away. Maybe they’ll wash the blood out of my eye. I can’t pick the lock. There’s nothing to pick it with. I’ll breathe through it. Twist it until it catches.
I keep going.
More time passes, then it happens. The chain breaks, and I fall over onto my bad side. My leg is still tied to my wrist, and the pain paralyzes me again. I move my right hand out and in front of my face, and there’s blood—a lot but not too much. I peel my left eye open before feeling along my ankle for the zip tie, sharp plastic around the metal bracelet. He was stupid. He should have zip-tied my hands too. I can scrape it. I can grind it between the floor and the steel cuff until it snaps.
But shit, what is that sound? Above me. Footsteps.
I have to find a way out.
A train horn sounds in the distance. The train rumbles, getting louder. Scrape the tie. Do it now.
I’m frantic. Skitchskitchskitch against the concrete. I hammer it into the floor, pull it, kick my leg as hard as I can.
It snaps, and I splay. I lie there and listen to my heartbeat, trying not to breathe, trying not to cough, covered in viscous fluids in various stages of drying. Wounds, heal yourselves. Body, please give me just enough.
My shirt and jacket are open, my bra cut in the middle. I feel a long wound running between my breasts. The skin has already started to knit itself back together. My pants are undone and sliding down, and my underwear gone, the belt buckle clinking against itself and against the floor. I will myself not to think about it, not to worry about what he did to me. I need to find a way out. I just have to pull myself together long enough to get the hell out of here.
A window. If it’s a basement, there must be a window, maybe a door. I stand and try to ignore the pain in my thigh. Holy hell, did he stab me? I pull up my pants, close them, and try not to think about the fact that they were down. The footsteps above stop.
My left hand feels broken. My left thigh is mangled. Not broken but torn. An eight-inch vertical rip in my pants, right over the quadriceps, matches the eight-inch vertical rip in the skin between my breasts. My pants and chest are soaked with dark and sticky blood that’s clotting by now. I’ll be fine if I just get out. It’s not so deep that I’m dead. It’s a flesh wound. Don’t look at it.
I grope along the perimeter of the space. It’s about twenty feet by eighteen. I find the steps but ignore them, because I can’t go up there. There has to be another way out. Shelves line the walls. I try not to knock anything off, willing myself to be quiet, stealthy. Hurry.
I hear footsteps upstairs again, followed by a loud thump and the sound of an electric saw. I freeze in place until I hear laughter and the footsteps moving in the opposite direction. What is he laughing at? I don’t care. Just get out of here. A dog barks twice outside. It sounds big.
I feel along the wall, and my right hand finds a doorknob. A door. A door. I stop myself from crying, because I don’t have time for relief—I have to run. The door is locked, but I can get out if I f
ind something to pick the lock with. It doesn’t feel like a dead bolt, just a cheap old metal doorknob. I feel for the hinges. It opens in, so I can’t kick through it.
I hobble around, trying to find something, anything—yes, this will work. This brick will work.
I time it with the sound of the flagpole. Clink-clank. Clink-clank. Clink-clank. Chunk. The doorknob rolls across the floor. I yank the door open and force myself to run.
I’m outside. Holy shit. I need to get up these stairs. Quickly. No looking back.
I fall only twice on my way out of the basement, once when my foot catches on some kind of vine and again when my mangled leg gives out. A bright-yellow parking-lot light burns above me. I’m at Ray Gibson’s house out in the country, somewhere far away from anywhere I want to be. Just run over there, across those railroad tracks, into those woods, and maybe Gibson won’t get you.
I take off in a slow sprint, ignoring the searing pain from the wounds.
I fall several times in the woods. I’m sure he’s after me. He has to know I’m gone. If he lets Hazel loose, what then?
I can’t keep going. It’s too dark and too hard. It’s too hard.
Keep going. Keep going.
So much blood.
Keep going. He’s after you.
I can’t breathe. Too weak.
Keep going. Keep going.
No, I’m down.
Get up, Liz. You can’t lie here like this. Get up and keep going, or you’re dead.
Somehow, I keep going.
Running along the opposite edge of the woods is a two-lane road. I can’t tell where I am. I’m so confused. Blink. Keep going. It’s familiar. I can get out of here.
There’s rustling in the woods. No. Run. I have to find a phone or a gun. I have to find anything but him.
A gas station. Right, there’s a gas station up there. Fresh Bait, the sign says. Just get there. Don’t think about the fact that all the lights are off. Button your shirt. Okay. Get there.
Somehow, I make it to the door, but it’s locked. Screw this. Set off the alarm. Do something, anything.
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