I forced a smile. “You look like shit.”
His smile was more a grimace, his teeth red. When he tried to open his eyes again, I told him to wait. I wiped his eyes as I had mine, using my shirt to clear away the worst of the dirt and blood.
“Florence Nightingale,” he said when I’d finished. “Clyde okay?”
“Yes. He’s good.”
Wilson coughed. “You look like a fucking dust mop.”
“An improvement, then.”
His eyes found mine. “Lucy?”
“She wasn’t in there. Clyde would have known.”
“What did you see? Before the bomb?”
“Bodies,” I said, picturing the destroyed face that had stared at me through the heavy plastic. “Two of them.”
Approaching sirens wailed. A long string of vehicles sped along the road toward the gate, their lights dulled by the miasma of dust and smoke.
“Cavalry’s coming,” I said. As if they could fix what had happened here.
“Damn chest hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“I know, I know,” I soothed. “They’ll take care of you.”
“Asshole got my best suit.” Wilson’s gaze drifted away, turned distant. “Wife always said I’d be buried in it.”
“Stop.” I caught his fingers with mine and held tight. Because I’d seen the ruin underneath his coat and knew: some things you couldn’t fix.
“My son,” he said. “You should talk to him.”
“I’m going to bring the EMTs to you,” I told him. “Five minutes. Promise you won’t move until I come back.”
“We gotta find Lucy.”
“We will. But for now, I need you to stay here while I get the paramedics. Okay? Promise?”
“Lucy.”
“Try to be a hero, you’ll just slow us down.”
He closed his eyes. Color leeched from his face as I watched.
“Wilson? Frank! Damn it, answer me.”
His cough came wet and deep.
“I’m thinking it’s not so bad,” he said. “Being a desk jockey.”
Thirty minutes later, I stood with Lieutenant Engel of the Denver PD and watched as the paramedics loaded Detective Frank Wilson, pale and sedated but still alive, into the back of an ambulance.
“We’ll take good care of him,” said one of the EMTs. A woman with dark curls and kind eyes.
“He has a boy,” I told her. “A son in Afghanistan.”
Sympathy surfaced in her eyes behind the professional calm. She gave my arm a squeeze, then climbed into the back.
The driver closed the doors and headed toward the cab.
“Wait,” I said. “Where are you taking him?”
“The K and G. He’s a cop, right?”
Denver Health Medical Center. Otherwise known as the Knife and Gun Club because they had the best trauma center. If you were a cop and the paramedics took you anywhere else, the first thing you did when you got there was look around for a priest.
The driver opened the door. “You need to go, too. You need a chest X-ray. And an MRI. You don’t want to be one of the walking wounded. A bomb can—”
“I know. I got it.”
Clyde and I waited by the gate with the lieutenant as the ambulance pulled away, a feathery plume of dust rising in its wake. When the driver reached the road, he hit the lights and siren and amped up the speed. I watched until the strobe of lights blended into the rush of traffic on the interstate.
“He’ll be all right,” Engel said. He didn’t meet my eyes.
“Sure,” I agreed.
“How about you? You gonna be—”
“I’m fine.” I shoved my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them shaking.
“You’ll go to the hospital later?”
“Of course.”
But I wouldn’t. I’d been outdoors when the bomb detonated and I’d found shelter behind multiple structures before it blew. Which meant I was probably fine. And anyway, the kinds of brain injuries created from a bomb blast are generally subtle, long-lasting, and untreatable. At the hospital, they’d give me aspirin and a rabbit’s foot—equally effective.
Engel cleared his throat. “Get you some water?”
“And some for my dog. Thank you.”
Engel left, heading down the line of vehicles toward a canopy tent where paramedics were setting up a first aid station for what was likely to become command central in the search for Lucy Davenport. I found an empty patrol car and steadied myself against the driver’s door. My eyes burned hot and for a moment I worried my own terror would drive me down. It had been a long time since I’d had to face the aftermath of a bomb. I’d planned on making it forever.
No panty waists, Gonzo whispered in my ear. No fucking girlie yellow-bellied ninnies.
“Shove off,” I said. I’d handled myself just fine in Iraq. But maybe I didn’t have it anymore. I pushed away from the car and stood straight, ignoring the way my knees shook.
During the time the paramedics had been taking care of Wilson, motes of dust had begun drifting back to earth like startled birds returning to roost. In the thinning haze, law enforcement continued to arrive in a cacophony of noise. Flashing lights, blaring horns, the wail of sirens and the screech of tires. Doors and trunks opened, then slammed shut. Feet pounded, men shouted, radios squalled like abandoned children. All around were cops from Thornton and Denver, sheriff’s deputies from Adams and Weld Counties, a handful of departmental brass, and the requisite PR people. On the far side of the gate, the morgue guys chatted with a man I recognized as a forensics photographer—they stood near a series of folding tables where evidence would be collected. The Denver crime scene detectives were busy around their mobile-lab vehicle, and a hostage negotiation team wearing headsets and Kevlar waited on standby. A three-person bomb crew in heavy blast suits conferred a safe distance from the kilns, watching their bomb-disposal robot roll toward the door of one of the structures. Parked along the road was the GPR engineer—he’d be using ground-penetrating radar to scan the area near the kilns for Lucy or any other victims.
Further away, Thornton SWAT and their bomb-detecting K9s had spread through the complex, checking and clearing each space. Their voices, strong and masculine and confidence-inspiring, echoed among the structures as they called to each other.
All of this manpower, all of this investigative and forensic talent and sheer show of strength, should have made me feel better. But I looked at the silent, indifferent silos looming overhead and I thought about what I’d seen in that kiln. Thought about what Cohen had found in the Davenport home and the severity of Wilson’s wounds and the knowledge that all of us had arrived too late to save Samantha Davenport and maybe her daughter. And I ran hard into a truth I’d known since Iraq. You could throw everything you had at a problem—firepower, manpower, logistical support. You could get a lot of really smart people working on it. You could even get a lot of people to sacrifice their lives for it.
And, in the end, might be all you’ve got is the same problem and a higher body count.
Forget saving the world. Sometimes you can’t even save one small child.
I swiped at my eyes as Lieutenant Engel reappeared with a large bottle of water. He looked at my sweat-sheened face, and I could see the debate raging behind his eyes. Let her do her job or insist she go to the hospital? And from there take a quick hop over to the psych ward.
He passed me the bottle. “I tried to find a bowl for your partner there. They didn’t have anything.”
“I have a bowl in my bag. We’re good.”
“If you want to get to the hospital straightaway, we can get your full story later.”
Anger flared like the strike of a match. I looked down so he wouldn’t see the heat in my face. Staying near the bomb crater now would keep me from developing avoidance behaviors. Familiarity bred contempt—or at least acceptance. No different—I told myself—from getting back on a bicycle after a fall.
“I’ll wait,” I said.
“Okay. Good. Detective Cohen is on his way. And the Feds are sending in specialists. A terrorist task force and an abduction team. You okay to wait for them to arrive? Say, thirty minutes?”
“Of course.” Suck it up, Marine. “I’m just going to bum a cigarette from someone and let my dog stretch his legs. I’ll be back.”
“Here.” Engel pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Keep them. I got a stash in my car. Wife tells me we should be buying stock.”
I took the pack and forced a smile. “Thanks.”
But his wary look remained. I felt his gaze on me as Clyde and I headed out into the field.
I shook out a cigarette and lit it as we walked, sucking in the sweet burn. Five months of restraint up in smoke. The morning sun drilled through us as if focused by a magnifying lens. Spots danced before my eyes in the white light, and Clyde’s tongue unfurled like a roll of carpet. The voices of the police and the chatter of their radios faded as we walked; closer by, insects droned, and the tall grass whispered against our legs. The smell of concrete dust hung in the air along with the wet-dirt odor of weeds. Overlaying that, the chemical burn of the bomb swirled in the wind’s eddies like a vortex, trying to suck me into the past.
I pulled a tennis ball out of my bag and threw it hard, giving Clyde some exercise in a space newly cleared by SWAT. He didn’t seem to be suffering any emotional fallout from the blast. But just in case, I hoped a game of fetch would shake him out of it. And it gave me a chance to check him for any injuries I might have missed.
I threw the ball a few times, and Clyde gamely ran it down. He looked good—no break in his stride, no hesitation. But the day was climbing toward the upper nineties; I whistled him back and found a wedge of shade next to a ruined wall thick with vine. Clyde and I shared the lieutenant’s water, then Clyde circled and made a place for himself among the weeds. I snugged in next to him on the damp ground, leaned against the wall, and enjoyed another cigarette. A few minutes was all I needed, I told myself. Just long enough to gather myself.
But it was a lie. My hands shook, my knees trembled, and my thoughts were so scrambled it was like a second bomb had gone off inside my head.
I startled when Clyde came to his feet.
The Sir walked toward us from the crowd of first responders, his body a shimmer of light, his stride smooth despite the ruin of his legs. For months, the only place I’d seen him had been in my nightmares. Now he crossed the field, gave Clyde and me a nod, then hunkered down next to us, spectral hands dangling between ghostly thighs.
Our ghosts were our guilt. Nothing more. I pulled in my feet and hugged my knees.
Through my two tours in Iraq working Mortuary Affairs, the Sir had been my everything—commander, mentor, confidant. Then one night he’d asked for my help covering up an atrocity. At the time, I’d been certain we were doing the right thing. That the ends justified the means. But everything had gone to hell after that, and a lot of people had died. Loyalty and betrayal had become so knotted up inside me that I didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
“Why are you here?” I whispered.
“I’m wondering what you’re going to do about this child.”
“I’m a railroad cop,” I reminded him. “I’m going to tell people what happened, then go on with my day.”
The Sir worked out a crick in his neck as if he could actually feel it. “You going to let a bomb stop you from doing the right thing?”
“Survival is not without its appeal.” I pulled on the cigarette, enjoying the irony.
“Survival is a short-term strategy. Don’t confuse it with living. Life isn’t about whether you live or die. Because we’re all gonna die—not a damn thing any of us can do about that.”
“Right,” I snapped. “The war didn’t help me figure that out.”
“Rather,” he went on, “life is about the grace. About making sure that while you are alive, you’re living for something bigger than yourself. Frankly, Corporal, you’ve had your head up your ass, thinking these last few months have been a life.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve been working, training Clyde. Going to community college. Maybe falling in love. That is living.”
For a dead man, his look was penetrating. “What you’ve been doing is eating, shitting, watching crap on TV, and pretending to fall in love when you’re too scared to actually do it. Even your damn job is all about hiding from yourself. You can give that bullshit to your counselor, Corporal, but not to me. It’s time to go outside the wire.”
Clyde’s ears flicked. In the field, the Six drifted into view. Dead men with tattoos and shattered skulls and eyes of flint. They’d fought ferociously for their lives. And I’d killed them anyway.
I kept my eyes on them. My earlier uncertainty about this investigation had hardened into miserable resolve. “Clyde and I are done with death investigations. We left that in Iraq.”
The Sir snorted. “You want to spend your life as a damn fobbit, shaking in your boots while someone else does what needs doing?”
A fobbit—a Marine who hides inside the wire while his buddies go out and do the tough work. My anger rose like a slap.
“I’m no fobbit, sir. In Iraq, I went out every single time. But the thing is, if I step into this, I’m not sure I’ll find my way back. I’m—” I sucked in air. “I’m tired of killing.”
He shook his head at me. “We do what we have to do. And we learn to live with it later.”
“Easy for you to say,” I sniped. “You’re dead.”
The Sir pressed. “You let a child down before. How you going to feel if you stay inside the wire while all of this is going down?”
That one hurt. I drew on the cigarette, sucked heat into my lungs, stared off at the bomb techs in the distance. “Alive, for starters.”
“You believe that?”
I smashed the cigarette against the wall. “I liked you better when you didn’t talk much.”
“My wife used to say the same thing.”
We were both quiet then, stung by life’s small moments.
After a time I said, “Truth is, sir, I think I’m turning certifiable.”
He shrugged. “If you’re hell-bent on going crazy, Corporal, be my guest. But right now we need every boot on the ground, so I suggest you take the slow train getting there.”
“No offense, sir, but it’s a bit late for that. I am talking to a dead man.”
Was that a hint of a smile? “Crazy isn’t all bad.” He stood. “Ooh rah, Marine.”
He strode off into the field, his desert uniform stiff with dust and blood. He walked through the six men, who turned and followed him. Halfway across the field, they disappeared.
Clyde and I looked at each other. “You think I’m a fobbit?” I asked.
Clyde stayed silent.
“Thanks, partner.”
Cohen’s sedan pulled in between a pair of patrol units. He parked, threw open the driver’s door, and leapt out. He mouthed my name as he took in the dust and the bomb unit and the SWAT vehicles. Was that how I’d looked when I found the Sir lying dead—my eyes wide with horror?
I rose and walked toward him, an arm raised to catch his attention.
He spotted me and took three steps in my direction, then stopped and braced himself as Clyde surged toward him with full dog-on zeal.
Belgian Malinois may not be as hefty as their German shepherd cousins. But they made up for it with a level of enthusiasm shown by two-year-olds at Christmas. And the detective was someone Clyde had a lot of enthusiasm for.
Cohen had cared for my partner when I’d been in the hospital the previous winter. He’d earned Clyde’s undying love through shameless bribery—daily treats of T-bone steak. Probably lobster and caviar, too, given Cohen’s faith in food. I counted myself lucky my partner hadn’t developed a Scotch habit while I was laid up.
Cohen knelt in the weeds as Clyde reached him and roughed Clyde’s fur with equal zeal. It had been hours since th
ey’d seen each other.
When I caught up, Cohen let go of my partner and stood. He opened his arms to hug me, and without intending it, I flinched. Something faded in his eyes, but after a beat, he hugged me anyway.
“Sorry,” I whispered into his shoulder as the warmth and weight of his presence brought me back. “I’m not myself.”
His lips brushed mine, then he stepped away, giving me space.
Cohen was a tall man, lean beneath his suit. He laughed a lot, despite his job, and carried a soft spot for strays like Clyde and me. But this morning, any laughter was far away. His gray eyes were dark as wells and deep lines bracketed his mouth. He looked exactly like a man who’d been up much of the night, most of it for nothing good.
He frowned. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.” He tipped his head toward my forehead. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
I pushed back my cap and touched two fingers to my scalp, stared at the wetness that had leaked through the bandage taped on by the paramedic. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Did an EMT look at you?”
“All checked out.”
“They said you’re good?”
“I’m good.” I directed Clyde into the shade of Cohen’s car. “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Cohen considered me, wondering how far sideways the bomb had knocked me. And how much to trust me about it. But after a moment he pulled sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them over his eyes. Debate over.
“I know you’ll go through everything when the Feds get here,” he said. “But give me the morning’s highlights.”
I lit a cigarette and filled him in on the last couple of hours, telling him about the man we’d found gut shot and about the two bodies in the kiln, at least one of which showed signs of torture. I texted him my pictures of the dead man and sent another text with the alphanumeric code that had been written in the kiln. I ended with the fact that although Clyde and I were all right, Wilson was badly injured. And it didn’t look good.
Cohen listened in silence. When I was done, he borrowed my cigarette and took a single puff before handing it back. “The father, Ben Davenport, works for DPC.”
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