by Jim Heskett
Chapter Forty-Two
WHEN HIS ears stopped ringing, Micah staggered to Hayden, who was holding on to the office room’s desk for dear life. Coughing, wheezing, but still alive.
“Are you okay?” he said.
She heaved a few breaths, trying to get some words out, then after about fifteen seconds, she’d calmed down enough to speak. “Did you really hit me with your car?”
Suddenly dizzy, he slid onto the desk next to her. “I think I did. I’m so, so sorry, Hayden. I was drunk that night and I don’t remember what happened. I’m in recovery now, and I haven’t had a drink in over a month. I know that doesn’t make up for what happened, but it’s the best I have right now.”
Hayden looked over at the dying husk of Donovan, still bleeding out on the floor. “He wanted us to meet, didn’t he? When he told me to try going to the gun range, he knew you’d be there. He set all of this up to lead to this point.”
“Yes.”
A blip of memory appeared in Micah’s head, like a painting hanging on the wall in front of him. The night of the accident, sitting inside the Pink Door, a woman’s large breasts in his face. Her running a finger up and down his chest.
Hayden wiped tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Where was he talking about taking you to meet with some people? And what did he mean about your real name?”
Micah bit his lip, resisted, then decided he had nothing to lose. He and Hayden had killed a person together, and if there was an occasion for complete and rigorous honesty, this was it. “My name isn’t Micah Reed. Well, it is, but it didn’t used to be. My name was Michael McBriar, and I was a witness for the prosecution against Luis Velasquez, who was part of the Sinaloa cartel. They called him El Lobo.”
Her face changed a little. “I’ve heard that name. Wait… you were a witness? So you’re in witness protection?”
Another fragment of memory appeared from the night of the blackout. He was in his car, being chased, and he yanked the steering wheel to swerve in the road so he could change direction.
“I was in WitSec. I dropped out of the program last year. They were going to kick me out, anyway.”
Donovan coughed, and they both stopped talking to watch him. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but only a spurt of blood dribbled out. His eyes dimmed, then a rasp escaped his lips.
His chest rose and fell a couple more times, then he became still.
“Fuck me,” Hayden said. “Oh, fuck me. We killed someone. I’ve never even been in a fist fight before and now I stabbed someone to death.”
Micah imagined what she must have been going through. Committing this kind of violence against a person changes you, and most people never experience anything like this. He wished he could say the same thing.
“Actually, I think I killed him, if it makes you feel any better.”
“What do we do now?” she said.
“Now, you go home. You do everything you can to forget about what you’ve seen here tonight. It probably won’t work, but you have to try.”
“Home,” she said in a dreamy voice.
She slid down to the floor next to the desk, her eyes still on Donovan. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Micah sat next to her. He thought about putting an arm around her, but he didn’t do it. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I want to disappear too. Become someone else. There’s nothing for me in Denver anymore. I quit my job, and I can’t go back to that apartment, knowing he was on the other side of the wall from me. They’ll put police tape up on his door. How can I look at that every day? I have to get out, Micah.”
He considered her statement. How, during his more lucid moments back in Oklahoma while in the employ of El Lobo, he wanted out too. The dreams he’d had about going somewhere to start again.
“Can you help me with that?” she said.
His immediate impulse was to reply no, because he’d only been able to relocate with the assistance of the United States government, and only then because he’d given them vital information about the crimes he’d witnessed.
New passport, new birth certificate, new drivers license. Acquiring all of those documents seemed like a monumental task. But, then he thought about Frank, and how the old man had a seemingly limitless supply of contacts and resources. It could work. Maybe together, they could get Hayden the fresh start she wanted.
“I think I can help,” he said. “It might take some time, but we can help you start over.”
“What about you? Do you need a fresh start?”
Micah thought about it as he watched blood drip down Donovan’s chin.
“I can’t,” he said. “This is my home.”
The glow of the lantern flickered a few times, letting the shadows dance over Hayden’s face. Micah met her eyes, and in that instant, he remembered everything from the night of the car crash.
Prologue
Micah stumbled along the dirty brick pathways of the 16th Street walking mall, oblivious to the world around him. Visions of pedestrians milling about blurred into greens and blues and reds, and their voices became a blaring orgy of noise. His unmanageable body bumped into several people. He made apologies to some, rude warnings about personal space to others.
* * *
Donovan, twenty paces behind, shadowed Micah down the street, with his fists balled and resting as close to his sides as his generous upper back muscles would allow. The vitality of anger swirled around him like a cyclone. Tonight, Donovan would make Micah accountable. It had to be done, but not in front of so many people.
He always knew he would have the chance to find and punish Michael McBriar, but he wasn’t even here in Denver for that purpose. But when fortune smiles on you, you take advantage.
* * *
On a side street, the neon lights of a strip club named Pink Door attracted Micah. He tottered toward their welcoming glow, and he ran his hands over the glittering and shiny door.
Across the street, a cop eyed Micah, and followed the stumbling man with his eyes.
* * *
While Micah noticed only the slick ground in front of him and the entrancing door, Donovan took heed of the cop and backed off. He folded into the crowd populating the street and watched to see what the cop would do. Nothing at first, but the officer kept his eyes locked on the drunk snitch.
* * *
Micah entered the Pink Door, paid the man behind the glass window, and strolled into the main room. The kaleidoscopic lights and revolving whump-whump-whump of the house beat churned his stomach. He stumbled forward and fell into a velvet chair.
A woman with tan skin and naked breasts leaned over in front of him, speaking, but the music was so loud Micah didn’t catch the sales pitch streaming from her mouth. She eased into his lap, with one leg resting on his thighs and the other extended straight, dangling her high heeled shoe from one toe. She ran a finger up and down his chest and pushed her breasts against him. Still talking, wordlessly.
Micah waved a hand at her. Shoo, stripper. With an exaggerated sigh, she escaped him to find a more willing customer. Micah took out his phone and typed out a text message to his AA sponsor.
I’m drunk. I need help.
Micah’s finger hovered above the send button, but he couldn’t do it. He pushed the phone back into his pocket and lurched toward the bar for a drink. After shouting over the music, the bartender gave him a rum and Coke, and Micah turned to survey the club. Twinkling lights, thunderous music, lonely men and manipulative women. The mood in the outside world mirrored the mood of his inside world and he soured, unable to remember why he’d come here in the first place.
He didn’t fit. Here, or anywhere. This Denver experiment was turning out to be a massive failure.
* * *
A couple of miles from the Pink Door, Hayden stood outside her apartment in sweatpants and a hoodie, with one hand bracing against a tree, and the other hand pulling her foot backwards and up toward her butt to stretch her knee. She held this for a few seconds, and th
en switched to the other leg. After a few taps on her GPS watch to start tracking the run, she inserted earbuds and took long warm-up strides along the sidewalk to push the blood through her veins. She would need to be careful, due to the gusting snow.
* * *
Micah marched toward the strip club’s exit, and the bouncer said something about not leaving with the beverage, but Micah ignored the muffled warning and opened the door anyway. A blast of cold air and blowing snow from the October night slapped him in the face, bringing a blush to his exposed cheeks. Illuminated under the neon on this side street, the snowflakes were a million pieces of parade confetti tumbling across his vision.
He sipped from his glass, not knowing it might be the last taste of liquor ever to slide down his throat. He finally noticed the cop across the street and concealed the glass, because he knew he wasn’t supposed to have it in public. He crouched and set the glass on the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on the cop. The uniformed man’s attention was elsewhere, so Micah quietly abandoned his drink.
* * *
Donovan followed his target out into the main street, keeping pace easily and staying away from the cop’s field of view. He had a hard time not catching up to Micah too quickly, since he stumbled around and took almost the same number of steps back as he did forward.
* * *
Micah tumbled into an alley because he thought he might puke and he wanted a little privacy. He braced himself against a dumpster as his feet shuffled through something like sand or sawdust.
* * *
Donovan turned with him into the alley, relishing his newfound luck. The snitch had allowed himself to be cornered in a closed alley. Donovan flexed his hands and tensed his arms.
* * *
Micah turned and faced the giant, now breathless and close to passing out. Dots colored his drunken vision. “Oh man, I did not need that last drink,” he said as he leaned over and ejected the contents of his stomach onto the side of the dumpster.
“Hello, Michael.”
The sound of Micah’s real name chirped at him like an alarm clock. He wiped the side of his mouth. “Do I know you?”
“Not really, but I know you.”
* * *
Donovan didn’t wait for a response. He leaped forward and delivered a right hook to Micah’s jaw, and the violence filled him with euphoria so intense he had to blink several times to keep from passing out.
* * *
With his adrenaline drained and reactions too impaired to appreciate what had happened, Micah toppled backward and fell on his tailbone. His clenched fists slammed against the cold and wet concrete of the alley, but he barely felt any pain.
* * *
Donovan advanced. “Take a good look at my face, motherfucker, because it’s the last thing you’re going to see tonight. You ruined the lives of a lot of good people. It’s time to pay up.”
* * *
Micah scooted backward until he bumped into the trash dumpster. He was in danger, but didn’t understand why. Unsteady hands reached around on the ground, and his throbbing fingers touched a pile of something. Something gritty. Particles. He grasped a handful and flung it toward the attacker, who shrieked and went to one knee.
Micah, now realizing this man wanted to kill him for some reason, got to his feet and dashed out of the confines of the alley. His car was around the corner. He took his keys out of his pocket as he fled, and readied them for when he would find his car.
* * *
Now recovered, Donovan wiped tears and bits of dust from his eyes as he lumbered out into the street. He wasted several seconds trying to reorient himself through his blurry vision.
* * *
Micah’s car screeched out of its parking spot. The world pulsed and vibrated from the alcohol, but he had no choice other than to pick a direction and drive. He knew he was much too drunk to be behind the wheel. But his brain kept screaming at him to go go go.
* * *
When Donovan found his own car and jumped inside, the sleeping pit bull in the back seat barely lifted his head in greeting. He slammed the key in the ignition and it failed to turn over on the first two attempts. He could feel his chances slipping away. Finally, the car started, and he raced out of his parking spot.
* * *
Hayden jogged alongside a street a few blocks away, cinching the hood of her sweatshirt over her head to keep the snow out. She typically preferred runs out in nearby Boulder or Golden where she could feel the dirt of mountain trails under her feet, surrounded by trees and rocks. In the city, concrete and glass and street signs comprised the view. Since a late evening at work had limited her options, she’d elected to run close to home.
* * *
Micah careened through the slick streets, in a panic from the events of the last few minutes. It had not sobered him, but had eliminated all other random thoughts and made his purpose clear: get away from the crazy man.
* * *
Donovan caught up to Micah within two minutes. The Honda swerved from one side of the street to the other, and Donovan chuckled while easily maneuvering his own car closer. Maybe he wouldn’t need to use his fists, after all. Watching Micah die in a fiery car crash would be good enough.
* * *
Micah checked his rearview, horrified that his pursuer kept shortening the distance. The man’s eyes burned with determination. None of this made sense.
Micah took a sharp right onto a side street, and his tail followed. The towering lights of the dog food factory near the industrial district guided him out of the one-way streets of downtown.
* * *
Hayden turned a corner and checked her watch. She was making excellent time tonight, bordering on personal record territory. Honing her focus to include only the placement of footfalls and the rhythm of breathing, the rest of the world fell silent. She pretended that she was on the Mesa trail in Boulder, focusing on the music to drown out the sounds of the city.
She reached the edge of downtown and crossed into the industrial area that was mostly uninhabited at night.
* * *
A pothole nearly ate Micah’s right front tire, but he managed to recover and straighten the vehicle. The crazy man was still right behind him, matching his every move and following every turn.
An adrenaline burst put a strategy in the front of his brain. He needed to get tricky. With a deep breath, he let his car drift into the right edge of the lane, and then cut left with a violent yank of the wheel and turned completely around.
* * *
When Micah reversed course, Donovan panicked. He hadn’t seen it coming. He overcompensated and spun his wheel too fast, hand over hand. The car skidded sideways, screeching to a stop. He slapped the steering wheel. Micah had already turned again and was gone, leaving the street silent, except for the waves of falling snowflakes.
No, not like this. This isn’t how it ends, you bastard.
* * *
Micah checked the mirror and no longer saw his pursuer. Just to be sure, he took a hard right at the next street, and studied the road behind him one more time. Relief flooded his senses and he melted into the cushion of his seat, allowing his eyes to close and his neck to release fifteen minutes of continuous tension.
Tires screeching. He opened his eyes, and in the rearview again was the brute’s car, narrowing the distance to less than a car-length. Nothing he could do would ever make this shadow leave him alone, but he slammed the gas to attempt escape anyway, because that was all he had left.
* * *
Donovan floored the gas pedal, intending to ram Micah. Muddy piles of snow near the side of the street churned up into the air.
* * *
Micah spun his wheel, screaming into a dark intersection. He couldn’t see where he was going, but he didn’t care.
* * *
Instead of ramming Micah, Donovan’s hands turned the wheel too hard and he shot up onto the curb. He gasped as he felt control of his vehicle slipping away from him.
* * *
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The earbuds blasting music in Hayden’s ears obscured the sounds of shrieking tires from Donovan’s car. She did feel the rush of air as his car approached, and she jerked out of the way in time to avoid being crushed under Donovan’s car. But her reaction came a fraction of a second too late, and the tip of her shoe caught under the tire as his car squealed to a stop in the abandoned convenience store parking lot. Her foot ejected the shoe and her temple kissed the ground as she rolled along the wet concrete.
* * *
Micah slammed on his brakes in time to see the woman’s face and meet her eyes as she spun, her body rag-dolling like a shirt tumbling inside a clothes dryer. However, he didn’t see the approaching telephone pole. Her curly hair poking out of the hood was the last thing he noticed before he slammed into the steering wheel.
The street went dark and silent.
* * *
Donovan jumped out of his car, in a panic. The jogger was limp on the ground and Micah was passed out in his car, which was wrapped around a telephone pole. On the ground before him was an Adidas track shoe.
Who the fuck is this bitch I ran over?
Donovan had to think fast. He’d probably killed this woman, and that was the wrong kind of murder he’d wanted to commit tonight.