by Jim Heskett
Something about this reaction struck her as odd, or maybe even creepy. He seemed pleased about her blank spot. “No, I don’t, not exactly. But what’s that supposed to mean?”
The expression vanished. “Nothing. Looks like too-big a bump to get from only a fall, is what I was trying to say. You also seem to have lost your shoe in the process. Are you sure you didn’t take a tumble from a height or something like that?”
She glanced down at her legs. One sneaker missing. “It doesn’t matter. I’m supposed to go snowshoeing with Sherry tomorrow up at Indian Peaks. We always snowshoe on Saturdays in March. It’s kinda our thing, so I’m sure this will all be fine by the morning. I just tweaked it.”
“March? It’s October.”
She blinked. “Right. You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m not sure if you and Jerry will be able to keep that appointment.”
“No, Sherry. My friend that lives down the hall from me.”
She lifted up her shoeless leg and his eyes bulged. “Your ankle is swollen, too. How long have you been walking on that?” She stared at him but said nothing, so he continued. “I think we need to get you to a hospital. You could have a sprain.”
The thought of wasting her Friday night in a hospital waiting room nearly turned her stomach. “My insurance is crap, and I really don’t want to fork over the deductible for an emergency room visit, so I’m going to prescribe myself two aspirin and some sleep. Do you know which building is mine?”
He threw his palms up and shrugged. His dog wandered over to her and sniffed at her knees, leaving a string of drool on her shin.
She surveyed the surrounding buildings and settled on a nine-story stone and brick unit with scant balconies only large enough for plants. With her eyes closed, she pictured her apartment’s front door. The gold numbers read 804. She tilted her head to home and he helped her inside by throwing a hand under her armpit, then guiding her into the elevator. The dog bounced along at his heels.
She stole glances at him out of the corner of her eye while they rode the elevator to the eighth floor. She was wrong about him being creepy. He seemed nice, and damn if he didn’t have the thickest neck she’d ever seen. Square jaw, too.
She stopped in the hallway for a break. She leaned up against the wall, the pain in her ankle now starting to register. “You’re looking at apartments?”
“Yeah. New in town, and I think I like this neighborhood.”
“The one next to me is empty,” she said as she hooked a thumb toward 806.
His face brightened. “Good to know. Are you positive you don’t want to go to the hospital? If it’s a concussion, that’s not something you can sleep off like a hangover. I’m more than happy to take you if you’re okay with that.”
“Nope, I’m all good. You’ve earned all your brownie points for the day.”
She said her goodbyes to Donovan and took two hops into her modest apartment. Lack of balance sent her crashing into her desk, toppling a precariously stacked collection of Backpacker magazines to the floor, which merged with the rest of the clutter and rattled the whiteboard on her wall.
Taped next to the whiteboard was her collection of printed race bibs from the forty-plus marathons and triathlons she’d entered over the last few years. Medals from the races she’d won dangled from thumbtacks on a dozen of those bibs.
The muted sound of a door opening in the hallway carried through the walls. Hayden opened her front door, hoping her friend Sherry was home so she could tell her about the man she’d just met. He would be perfect for Sherry, who loved the brawny gym-rat types. But what she saw instead was her boyfriend William, standing in front of Sherry’s apartment, without his shirt. Then, Sherry leaned into the hallway and kissed him.
“What the hell?” Hayden said.
Sherry and William both turned to gawk at her, and the look of guilt on their faces burned a hole into Hayden’s chest.
Chapter Five
MICAH SAT in the parking garage in front of his beat-up Honda, unboxing a headlight to replace the one damaged last Friday. The cold concrete seeped through his jeans and reached his butt, and he had to shift every few seconds.
Behind him, a married couple who lived on his floor were walking through the garage, chatting about where to go to dinner. Their voices were even and confident, and they sounded like friendly people. Maybe a little snooty because of how they dropped the names of some of the most expensive restaurants in Denver as options, but still friendly enough.
Part of him wanted to say hi to them, but it had been so long they’d been living near each other without becoming friendly, that maybe it would seem too weird to do so now. Like that coworker whom you’ve never asked about their weekend plans, then when you suddenly ask them one Friday, they assume you have an ulterior motive.
He would introduce himself, make up something about why he hadn’t before, and they would ask him if he was from Colorado, or had transplanted. Micah would have to say he’d moved here since he’d claimed to be a Colorado native once and it didn’t go well. That person had called his bluff and he’d slipped down a rabbit hole about high schools and mutual friends. So he would say Oklahoma, and they would ask “what brought you to Denver?” and he would have to invent something, maybe a lie close to the truth, like how his sister lived up in the mountains. Micah wouldn’t be able to tell those people the fact that his sister didn’t know Micah even lived in Denver under a new name. As far as she knew, he was dead.
So it was best not to say anything, rather than descend into that tunnel of lies. And keeping his neighbors at bay only helped nurture the feeling that this was not his home. More like a way station on a stop to nowhere.
So he said nothing and kept his head down and used a screwdriver to pop out the broken light. The headlight that had broken in some drunken accident Micah remembered almost none of. Something about being downtown, neon lights and loud music, then a crash, then airbags. Then detox and beginning all over again.
His tattered knuckles meant he’d punched something or someone that night, but it was all too fuzzy. Had he gotten in a fight, and with who? Should he be expecting a repeat visit from whoever had given him the black eye?
And maybe he didn’t want to know what had happened. Lots of things from his past he wished he could forget, and he kept only that old painful shoebox and Boba Fett’s head as reminders of who he used to be. Michael McBriar, a man who was virtually dead to the world.
Micah unhooked the headlight’s electronics and connected the wires from the new light, then jammed it into the space above his bumper. The bumper groaned and resisted, so Micah had to push with all his might to fit the damn thing in.
“Okay, let’s see if you work.”
He slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, tried the turn signal and the brights, and the new light responded to both. With a grunt from his aching body, he returned to his spot on the concrete in front of the car, contemplating its beat-up nose.
Where had he been?
How had it come to this? Drunk driving, something even the adrenaline junkie Micah of old wouldn’t even do.
And the shoe he’d found, stuck up under the bumper. There weren’t too many explanations about how that could have gotten there. He had a crazy notion of posting a Missed Connections ad on Craigslist, but that might invite all kinds of weirdos and other unwanted attention.
Hey! I might have killed you or broken your leg last Friday, so please email me at this address and we’ll chat about it! Thanks!
No, he’d have to find out what happened that night in the traditional skip tracing way.
He stood, shaking his head of cobwebs. A queasy feeling and desire for a drink to calm his nerves loomed large in his mind. Later today, he was going to stop by the Pink Door strip club on assignment for Frank. There would be liquor there. There would be temptation.
Micah wanted to drink, and he also didn’t want to dri
nk. He didn’t feel strong enough to resist the urge, but he wanted to do this job for Frank. Whatever was going to happen at the Pink Door, Micah would have to pray that he could resist when the time came.
Chapter Six
DONOVAN NARDELL drummed his hands on the rental car’s steering wheel as a slushy snow pelted the windshield then immediately melted. If he weren’t so focused on the house with the blue door, he might have found the rhythmic windshield wipers soothing. But it was just another annoyance.
He double-checked his phone again to make sure the address was correct. With what he was about to do, walking up to the wrong house could land him in the back of a police car. That was the only scenario he had to avoid at all costs.
His hesitation came from the fact that it wasn’t his wife’s car parked out front. Maybe she’d bought something new, which seemed reasonable since he hadn’t seen her in two years.
Two years. She thought she could disappear in Denver and leave clueless Donovan behind. Maybe she’d never heard of the internet, or maybe she assumed he wouldn’t fight for what was his. Either way, she’d made a huge mistake.
The front door opened and out stepped Caitlin. For a second, he forgot how furious he was with her. She was as beautiful as the day he’d met her at that bar in Houston. Long blonde locks spilling over her shoulders, framing a soft chin above her slender neck.
He flashed back to their wedding day at the church. She’d been the one who’d insisted on a Catholic wedding, even though he was not a fan of Catholics. The sacrifices he made for her were so easy back then, when he thought they would grow old together.
But then a man came outside the house after her, and the rage flared up again. This man put an arm around her and raised an umbrella over the both of them. Even from this far away, Donovan could see the way she looked at him.
Shit, she might as well have dropped to her knees and blown him right then.
A cool head told Donovan to stay put and watch for a little longer, but something uncontrollable bubbled up inside him and he burst from the car, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he stomped across the street. Puddles splashed under the impact of his boots as he approached the yard.
“Caitlin,” he said, the anger in his voice rumbling.
The smiles on both of their faces morphed into surprise and then fear. Maybe it was Donovan’s balled fists, or the fact that he was standing less than ten feet away. He glanced down and noticed he was in a flowerbed, with plants now crunched under his feet. Didn’t care.
“Donny,” she said, her voice tenuous. “Wow, you look different than the last time I saw you. When did you get out?”
“This is him?” the man said to Caitlin.
“Yeah, it’s me, motherfucker. I’m her husband. Who the hell are you?”
Caitlin took a step forward, leaving the porch and the safety of the guy’s umbrella. That hint of fear in her eyes excited Donovan. “What are you doing here?”
This question hit him like a smack in the face. The reason for his arrival should have been obvious. “I’m here for you.”
Her head tilted and her expression changed to something you might throw at an ignorant puppy who’d crapped on the carpet for the first time. “Oh, Donny, it’s way past time for that. I’ve moved on from that life, and you should too. I’m sorry that you had to come all the way out here, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“You’re still my wife. I didn’t sign the papers.”
“I know,” she said, sighing, “but you didn’t have to. I was trying to do you a courtesy because I thought I owed it to you for some reason. I filed differently after you refused, so it’s all done now.”
“Filed differently?”
She nodded. “I am not your wife any longer.”
The vice grip in Donovan’s chest tightened. “No. You can’t do this to me.”
The man with the umbrella stepped off the porch and took Caitlin by the hand. He narrowed his eyes, trying to look tough. Donovan didn’t buy it. “I think you should go now,” the guy said. “There’s nothing for you here and you’re going to make us late for dinner.”
Donovan had to resist the urge to laugh. He was basically twice this guy’s size. He’d only gotten bigger while locked up, because it’s not as if he’d had anything better to do with his free time.
He took a step toward them, and to his credit, the stack of toothpicks and flesh didn’t back down. Chest puffed, eyes fixed. Not that a man holding an umbrella could look too menacing, but he was trying.
“Donny, please,” Caitlin said, “let’s not do all this again. Can’t we be civil about it?”
Donovan said nothing and kept his steely gaze with her new man.
“Leave,” said the dumbshit.
Caitlin started to blubber, but Donovan didn’t have time to pay attention to that now. He and the guy came face to face, but Donovan waited for him to act first.
A couple of seconds passed by and snow continued to fall, dusting the tops of everyone’s heads with white.
The guy reared back to throw a punch, and his movements were so slow that Donovan actually paused a moment before reacting. All he had to do was lean back and this guy’s right hook went sailing in front of his face.
Donovan popped him—just a quick jab—in his jaw. But this lightweight was so fragile he immediately crumpled to the ground.
And then Caitlin screamed as she dropped to his side. “Why did you do that? Why are you like this?”
When she looked up at Donovan with that hideous scorn in her eyes, he realized what a stupid thing he’d done here tonight. Maybe he hadn’t had a clear picture of what outcome he expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.
He’d had a chance to make her feel the way she used to feel, and he’d blown it.
But it wasn’t over.
Chapter Seven
Donovan entered his new apartment and dropped the rental car keys on the carpet next to the front door. Number 806, sharing a wall with that clueless jogger from the other day. He still couldn’t believe she didn’t remember what had happened last Friday night. When he’d approached her on the street as she limped along, he’d had to debate talking to her, but she’d seemed so loopy with her injuries that he’d decided to chance it. And it paid off big.
There had to be a way he could use that woman to his advantage when dealing with Michael.
Except that Michael’s name wasn’t Michael anymore, it was now Micah. As if switching around a couple letters was going to keep that snitch hidden away from all those people he betrayed. All those lives he ruined.
And a marriage that he destroyed.
Patton the dog lumbered out from the back bedroom, navigating between the three cardboard boxes, which were the entirety of Donovan’s possessions. He’d need to get a bed first. Thinking that sent a surge of anger through him. Had Caitlin moved the bed from their old house up here to Denver? Was she sharing it with that scrawny dumbshit who couldn’t take a punch?
Donovan went into the kitchen with Patton at his heels and cracked open a beer from the fridge. He chugged half in one gulp, and the carbonated burn bloated his stomach until he belched it all out in a wave of relief. He downed the other half and went back for a second beer. Desire bubbled up, and he fought the urge to jerk off, to keep in that sexual tension so he could think better.
Patton jumped at Donovan, pawing at his jeans, puppy tail wagging at full force.
“Okay, okay,” Donovan said as he snatched the leash from the floor. He clipped it to Patton’s collar and they exited the apartment. Belching again to clear some room, he chugged the second beer and set the empty can in the hallway.
Donovan glanced at Apartment 804 where that chick lived. What was her name? Heather? Harriet?
No, Hayden. Hayden the jogger with one good ankle.
On his mental priority list, she would definitely be a distant third. Getting Caitlin back should be priority number one, but since she had roots here, he could push her down to t
he number two slot. No, Michael/Micah earned himself the top spot because Donovan had the most to gain from him, and he was most likely to run.
Everyone assumed Michael McBriar was a leaf in the wind since he’d disappeared so quickly after the main trial. Rumored dead, but not many believed that crap. But now, discovering him alive in Denver, living under an assumed name, there was only one explanation. The rat had given testimony in exchange for witness protection.
And that betrayal had set everything else in motion: Donovan’s prison sentence, Caitlin’s flight, and a sneaky and deceitful divorce that Donovan had no way to contest.
When he and Michael/Micah first made eye contact last Friday, Donovan hadn’t registered the man on the other side of the street. He looked familiar in that way regulars at the gym start to look familiar, and he seemed like some idiot drunk stumbling around downtown Denver, bumping into people left and right. But not knowing nagged at Donovan, so he’d followed the man as he stumbled from bar to bar. When he realized who it was, they made eye contact again, and Donovan saw no spark of recognition in Micah’s face. Not too surprising, since they’d only met once several years ago, and they never came face to face during any of the court proceedings. Plus, back then, Donovan had worn his hair long and had a thick beard. Now his head and his face were both shaved clean.
Another element Donovan could use to his advantage.
And if he could get close enough to catch Micah and bring him to the people who’d care about that, he might earn back his spot in their organization. So the first problem to solve was: who to report this sighting to. Most of the Oklahoma City people were in jail now, same with the ones in Texas.
He could call the main guys down in Mexico, but they probably wouldn’t believe him. He might report Micah’s whereabouts and they’d laugh it off. Or he could physically show up in Mexico to explain, but they might be just as likely to drop Donovan in a stack of tires and set him on fire. They weren’t the forgiving kind. He’d heard they claimed Donovan rolled over on several more of their people while he was in prison, even though he’d been as silent as a monk.