The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “So that’s that? I don’t get a gun or something?” Scalise asked, mashing his wet palms together nervously.

  “No Antonio, you do not get a gun. But don’t worry, we’ve got that covered,” Simmons answered.

  Nick said nothing, eyeing the fat man intently and recalling the depravity of his unpunished crimes. He turned and followed behind Simmons.

  “P-p-pl-please keep me safe,” Scalise called out softly as the door closed.

  Nick let the heat from the Jetta’s vents warm them as it idled. He’d positioned the compact car kitty-corner across from the dilapidated home of Antonio Scalise. The Jetta’s black exterior gave them an additional layer of concealment coupled with its stealthy position between an overfilled dumpster and broken-down tow truck. The location gave him a three-point visual of Scalise’s double-wide to include both the front and back doors. The poorly maintained, dirt covered road leading into the trailer park would serve as an early warning if anybody approached in a vehicle.

  “Rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the first watch?” Simmons said.

  “No need to bother. I’ve got it,” Nick replied.

  “You really don’t sleep much?”

  “Nope. Not since Afghanistan.”

  Simmons nodded, but remained silent. Nick appreciated the quiet acceptance and respected her for not pressing him further on his statement.

  “The Ferryman always makes his move at night?” Nick asked.

  “Every case so far. With the exceptions for the outliers like your mother,” Simmons said.

  Nick’s lips pursed, sealing in the pain of his mother’s death. He closed his eyes and tried to clear the thought from his mind. He felt Simmons fingers trace over his right hand that rested on the balled plastic of the car’s stick shift. She gave him a quick squeeze, gentle but firm enough to convey its meaning. A gesture of solidarity between the two who, until recently, had not shared so much in common. Nick opened his eyes and gave his new partner an appreciative smile. Simmons retracted her hand and reclined in the passenger seat, preparing to settle in for a long night.

  Nick stared at Scalise’s pitiful residence. He watched as the flicker of light from his living room television danced out into the dark night. The low rumble of the engine in idle mixed with the heavy breathing of the woman next to him, an indication that sleep had taken her.

  21

  The morning light forced its way through the windshield of the black Jetta, immediately elevating the temperature of the compact car’s interior compartment. Being awake when night gave way to day never came naturally. The transition was not subtle, and it caused his stomach to churn. The noise of it amplified by the quiet caused Simmons to stir. She rolled her body toward his and the movement exposed the subtle cleavage peeking out of her loosely buttoned shirt. The necklace she wore was exposed, and the dead eyes of the Ferryman’s token stared emptily back at him.

  “Jesus, how long were you going to let me sleep?” Simmons yawned, looking at the digital display on the dashboard.

  Nick shrugged. “Looked like you needed it more than me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Simmons wiped the sleep from her eyes and squinted as she turned to face him.

  “Nothing. It’s just that you passed out pretty fast and slept hard. I figured your batteries needed recharging.”

  Nick stepped out of the car. The ground had a light coating of frost, painting the brown dirt of the road in patches of white that looked like mold on stale bread. The ice crunched as it was compacted under his weight. Nick stretched, arcing his torso while reaching skyward with his arms. He inhaled deeply, allowing the cold air to revitalize him. A couple vigorous twists of his body relieved the tension in his back and neck, signified by the audible popping sounds. Satisfied that he was fully adapted to morning’s call, Nick reentered the vehicle.

  Simmons was sitting up and smiling at him.

  “What’s so funny?” Nick asked.

  “It’s just crazy to me that a big guy like you picked this little car.”

  “It came my way after a joint case with the DEA. A drug seizure vehicle. I figured it’s a little less conspicuous than a Crown Vic or Impala.” Nick patted the top of the dashboard like he was praising a dog. “She’s been good to me so far. Although not the most spacious accommodation for long nights of surveillance,” Nick said.

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say that Fat Tony will be around to walk the earth for at least one more day,” Simmons said.

  “Fat Tony? Geesh, for a behaviorist you really don’t mince words.”

  “Life’s too short for political correctness. Plus, I’ve got a reputation to live up to. I don’t want to lose my hard-earned nickname.”

  “Nickname?” Nick asked turning to face her. “Oh, I’ve gotta hear this!”

  Simmons chuckled. “Cherry bomb.”

  Nick laughed out loud. “Cherry bomb?”

  Simmons shrugged sheepishly. “That’s what they affectionately call me. Cherry bomb.”

  “Who’s they?” Nick asked.

  “Pretty much anyone who’s ever worked with me. I’m actually surprised it didn’t follow me here to Austin. Hell, in the Dallas area even the local cops use it.”

  “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t fit,” Nick said, still smiling broadly.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Simmons said with a coy smile that teetered on the brink of being flirtatious.

  Nick maintained his smile for only a moment longer before returning to his typical stoicism.

  “I did a lot of thinking last night trying to piece this thing together,” Nick said.

  “And what’d you come up with?”

  “Zilch. Nada. I can’t think of one person I know in our profession that’d be capable of doing what this asshole’s done.”

  “I know. That’s probably the biggest stretch for me too,” Simmons said as she fiddled with her pendent briefly before returning it to the recesses of her shirt. She buttoned her blouse, sealing away the necklace while simultaneously masking her gentle curves.

  Nick averted his eyes but caught a knowing glance from Simmons.

  “Drop me at the office. I’m fresh faced and bushy tailed. You, on the other hand, are not. I want you to take a few hours to decompress and sleep.”

  “But—,” Nick started.

  “But nothing. No more arguing. I need you to be at your best so that we can get some fresh perspective on this. Don’t worry, you’re not going to miss anything crucial. I’m just going to be doing a little administrative housekeeping. I’ve got to pop over and meet up with Spangler to pick up the files on Mullins and your mother.”

  Nick’s head spun at the mention of his mother. Dizzied by the thought, he realized Simmons was right. There was no way he’d be effective later if he didn’t take some time and shut down for a bit.

  “All right. You win,” Nick conceded.

  Nick eased the Jetta forward from its hiding place, making his way around the dumpster and onto the dirt roadway of the dead-end street that was home to Antonio Scalise. The crunch and pop of the wheels’ rotation along the unpaved surface sang out the end of their first night’s surveillance.

  Nick plodded his way up the wooden steps of his front porch. The cold air nipped at his exposed skin and he gripped the wooden railing for balance. He entered his quaint, yet adequate, home and was greeted by the contrasting warmth. The thermostat read 72, but this temperature had little to do with the setting and more to do with the natural warmth provided by the Texas sun. The living room was brightly lit by the tendrils of sunlight penetrating through the horizontal slits of the cherrywood blinds.

  He felt the exhaustion of the last two days take hold and his body went slack. Nick thoughtlessly tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, foregoing the hook that was only an arm’s reach away, and collapsed face first into the couch’s expanse. His motor functions, operating on delay, did not seem to respond to his mental commands as he fumbled with great
effort to retrieve the phone from his pocket. He wanted to call Anaya and check in.

  After much more effort than should’ve been required, Nick successfully yanked the phone free. The coin, the Ferryman’s gift, slipped out and rolled across the marbled white tile, spiraling until it came to a stop, landing faceup. Nick stared as the orbital cavities of the etched skull stared blankly back at him. The weight of this silent staring contest bore down on him heavily. His eyelids fluttered in futile resistance and then succumbed. The phone fell from his hand, the call never placed, as he slipped into a deep sleep with the hope of awaking from this nightmare.

  22

  Nick shot up, slamming the ridge of his foot against the oak leg of the coffee table. A line of drool snapped its connection from the left side of his face to the indented floral-design couch pillow. He vigorously rubbed his head, disoriented to his surroundings. It was dark. The small hand on the wall clock was on the five and the seconds ticked by noisily in the stillness. Nick had no idea if it was morning or night. He illuminated the backlight function on his G-shock watch. The numbers glowed their green response, 17:03.

  He rubbed his foot, taking away the sting of his clumsy awakening. Nick retrieved the phone from its resting place on the floor and the coin that lay next to it. He depressed the button on the side of the black Samsung. Nothing. It was dead. He discontentedly rose from the couch and staggered to the kitchen. He plugged in the phone, started recharging the dead battery, and clicked the power button on the Keurig located nearby on the counter. With the whir of the heating coils beginning their task, Nick shuffled off toward the bathroom, disrobing as he strode.

  The steam from the shower’s warm water cleared his fog. Refreshed, he stepped from the bathroom into the dark bedroom. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he caught something move by the bed. Nick dove toward the dresser where he had placed his duty weapon.

  A flash filled the room as the lights came on, the contrasting brightness blinded him.

  “Nick?”

  Nick was caught off guard by the sound of Anaya’s voice, and he lost his footing and stumbled, tripping clumsily over the end of the bed. He popped up like he’d landed on a springboard. The towel he’d wrapped around his waist came undone during his acrobatic dance across the bedroom. He stood facing Anaya in nothing but his birthday suit.

  “I missed you too, babe, but maybe we could say hello first before jumping into the sack,” Anaya said playfully.

  Nick hunched over, bending slightly at the waist and placed his hands on his knees while he allowed a moment for the adrenaline dump to dissipate.

  “Holy shit! What—I… why?” Nick babbled.

  “I never heard back from you last night after you told me about your mom. I panicked and rebooked my flight for this morning,” Anaya said.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Nick said, but realized as soon the question left his mouth that he knew the answer.

  “I did! I called you this morning. Multiple times. It went straight to voicemail. What was I supposed to think!” Anaya paused, but Nick could tell she wasn’t done and didn’t want to interrupt. “I was worried sick. I thought the absolute worst. I mean—your brother…”

  “I’m so sorry. I—just… it’s been an insane couple of days,” Nick stammered.

  Nick saw Anaya’s face soften.

  “How’d you get home from the airport?”

  “I grabbed an Uber.”

  He picked up the damp towel from the floor and secured it once again, pulling it taut around his waist. Nick swiftly crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and took Anaya in his arms. The water rolled from his shoulders onto her coat that was still carrying a hint of coldness from the outside air.

  Nick said nothing as he pressed his face deep into the soft brown skin of Anaya’s neck. He held tight and never wanted to let go, like clutching on to a lifeboat in a sea of sharks.

  “I love you Nicholas Lawrence,” Anaya whispered in his ear.

  The words slipped in past his rugged exterior and tore at the darkness. He melted into her embrace allowing her to heal him. Even though Nick towered over her in size, he suddenly felt small in her arms. He liked the power she had over him.

  “Never do that to me again!” Anaya whispered with a deep-rooted intensity, making it seem more like a yell.

  “Never do what?” Nick asked.

  “Never disappear on me.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry,” Nick said.

  “Not good enough. Promise me!” Anaya pleaded.

  Nick pulled back and looked into the dark eyes of the woman he loved. “I promise.”

  Looking at her, he allowed his shock to subside. A new thought caused his eyes to widen. His mind focused as panic filled him.

  “You shouldn’t have come back! You should’ve stayed with Mouse in Michigan!”

  “I couldn’t. Not with you here all alone. Not after your mother—”

  “It’s not safe! I’m not sure I can protect you,” Nick said. His voice quivered. He placed the palm of his hand on her stomach. “Protect both of you.”

  “What do you mean protect us?” Anaya asked.

  “I didn’t tell you when I called. It wasn’t the right time and I didn’t want you to worry more than I already knew you would.”

  “What are you talking about Nick?”

  “My mother’s death wasn’t a heart attack. She didn’t die of natural causes,” Nick said emphatically.

  Anaya’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “I told you there was a real threat to me…to us, and to any member of my family. You were safe in Michigan. You were away from this lunatic. I had this under control or I was at least working toward that end! Now, with you here, I’m at a tactical disadvantage.”

  Anaya didn’t speak. She pulled away from Nick and dropped her head, breaking eye contact with him. He felt the air cool on his wet skin, replacing the warmth provided by her body. She gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bed and slowly began taking a long, deep breath.

  “Are you okay?” Nick asked.

  Anaya didn’t answer but instead held up her right hand with her index finger extended, indicating she needed a minute. He’d never seen her react this way. Nick knew Anaya to be as tough as they came. She’d endured more than most could fathom, and he’d spent countless hours listening intently to her stories of her traumatic childhood ravaged by the world of human trafficking. Seeing her reaction to their current situation worried him greatly.

  “Breathe. Nice and slow. Try to keep your head up and focus on a specific point in front of you. Inhale through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth. This will help control your breathing and keep you calm,” Nick said evenly.

  Anaya nodded, but didn’t look up. Her breaths came in rapid succession, each one more shallow than the previous.

  “I’m going to get you something to drink. And a damp rag,” Nick said, a trace of panic slipping into his inflection.

  “Nick,” Anaya said, muffled by her ragged breathing. “Something’s not right.”

  Nick dashed to the kitchen, his bare fleet slapping the tile floor, as he nimbly navigated the narrow hallway. He swiped his cellphone off the counter, ripping it free from the charger. Running back toward the bedroom, he depressed the power button, bringing the device to life. The phone’s cacophony of vibrations shook in his hand, alerting him to the barrage of missed calls and text messages.

  His heart skipped a beat when he entered the bedroom to see Anaya curled in the fetal position on the floor. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees and her body trembled uncontrollably. She looked at him with eyes wide in terror as sweat moistened her brow. In the infinitesimal amount of time he’d taken to retrieve the phone, Anaya had gone through a complete metamorphosis into a huddled mess.

  “Jesus!” Nick gasped, falling to the floor and cradling her head against his bare thigh.

  “The baby.” Her voice labored to project the words. Her breath followed in q
uick shallow bursts.

  Nick placed her head back down on the plush throw rug jutting out from under the bed. He jumped up and threw on a pair of pants and t-shirt. Forgoing all else, he scooped up Anaya into his arms. Although Anaya was petite, the strain of her dead weight caused Nick’s muscles to ripple with exertion. He cradled her as gently as he could. Her neck flopped loosely and her eyelids flickered rapidly as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Nick shuffled to the door with as much speed as he could generate, snagging the keys to the Jetta before pushing out into the gloom of November’s early dusk.

  The dashed dividing lines of the highway blurred into one continuous white trail as Nick blazed forward, pushing the capabilities of the Volkswagen’s economical five-cylinder motor. He’d called ahead to the hospital to alert them of his impending arrival and given them a description of Anaya’s current condition. The nurse he’d spoken to was calm, and tried, without success, to reassure Nick. She advised they’d be standing by.

  Nick smacked the curbing as he entered into the lane denoted for Ambulance only. Anaya groaned softly in the back seat at the jostling torque of the car. Nick’s bare foot stomped hard on the brake and the small four-door slid to a stop directly in front of the Emergency Room entrance.

  As promised by the person he’d spoken to on the phone, several medical personnel were clustered inside the threshold of the sliding doors and poured out toward the car once it came to a complete stop. A team of people in colorful scrubs hustled over and began speaking to each other. The words held no meaning to him and were barely audible above the beating of his heart. Two large men in turquoise scrubs hoisted Anaya gently onto the gurney. Anaya remained curled in the same position she’d been in on the floor of their home. In a blur of movement, she was swept away by a rainbow of chaos.

  A nurse approached holding a clipboard pressed tight against her chest. She was heavyset with blue eyes. There was tranquility in her eyes that naturally induced a sense of calm. “Park your car over there. It’s supposed to be for doctors but nobody checks,” she said, pointing to a row in the parking lot. “I’ll be inside when you’re ready. I’ll get you over to the waiting area.”