The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  “Who are you? And what the fuck are you doing in my stuff?”

  Jimmy had emerged from the bathroom under cover of the flushing toilet. I hadn’t heard him until he was practically standing on top of me. He had donned a grayish T-shirt that probably used to be white. “Superbowl XXVIII” was emblazoned in blue letters across the front of a big faded Georgia peach that covered his entire chest.

  “I was just… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I remember that game.” I pointed to the shirt. “The Cowboys won. Their second in a row, I think. It was one of those big blowouts, the kind you could turn off in the first quarter if you didn’t care about seeing the commercials.” I couldn’t seem to find the appropriate point to stop talking. This man made me very nervous, even without his dog. “Were you there?” I asked him. “In Atlanta?”

  His face tightened into what could have been a smile. “Who are you?”

  “She’s with me.” Jack had returned, and his hasty response only served to arouse more interest from Jimmy, which made me very uncomfortable.

  Jimmy’s eyes never left me. “You don’t have a name?”

  “I do have a name.” I wasn’t sure what the best response would be to a murder suspect. “But it doesn’t seem to be relevant to what we’re doing here.”

  “Come over here and sit down, Jimmy. Let’s have a talk.”

  “A mystery woman. I like it.” Jimmy actually did smile then, in a way that made me think he could read the dynamics in the room as well as anyone. That may have been the scariest thing about him. He walked the three steps over to the narrow brown sofa and eased down on the flat cushions. He leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table. His toenails could have used a good clipping.

  Jack remained standing, so I did, too, although he looked more comfortable doing it. “That was some job, brother, you pulled off in Ecuador. My compliments.”

  Jimmy held eye contact and allowed a ghost of a smile. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Ace.”

  Ace? Everyone seemed to call Jack something different, but Jimmy’s name for him did not strike me as a term of endearment. He had let it roll off his tongue with a measure of contempt that seemed to instantly elevate the tension in the room a few anxious notches.

  “Air Sentinel up on the mountain. The Triple Seven. That would be right up your alley. Mobilizing in the dead of night. Swooping in on helicopters. A tight military operation, well timed and perfectly executed. Lots of dead bodies. It’s just the kind of thing to get your heart pumping.”

  “You and me both, Ace. You and me both.” Jimmy waited for a response. When Jack gave him nothing, he moved on. “Air Sentinel. Now that was a tragedy. But all I know is what I see on CNN. Just like you.”

  “Did you make it down in time, Jimmy? Did you get to see the blood? Smell the bodies?” Jack glanced at me. “Jimmy developed an appetite for blood in the jungle and now he’s got to feed it. It’s hard to do back in the world.”

  “Everybody finds their own way back to the world. I adjusted to the world as well as you did.” Jimmy cocked his head back and stared up at Jack. “You want a beer, Ace? We could raise a toast to old times.”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. Now it was Jimmy glancing in my direction. I tried not to look as nervous as I was. “How about your friend? Maybe she’d like one. How much does she know about you, anyway?”

  The air in the house was starting to feel explosive, and I could almost hear the sound of the two men brushing against each other like two sheets of sandpaper, raw and ready to throw off an igniting spark. The second Jack took a step toward the couch, I spoke up.

  “I think I will have a beer. Can I get you one, Jimmy?”

  I made a point of stepping between them instead of walking around behind Jack to get to the kitchen. He had to take a step back to let me through. As I did, I gave him a little shove in the chest to move him back farther. The tension didn’t dissipate, but it did seem to stabilize.

  Jimmy’s kitchen was only slightly larger than a galley on a wide-body aircraft, and at least as organized and efficient. Dishes were stacked neatly to drip-dry on the counter next to the sink. A matched set of pots and pans hung from a rack in the corner. Bottles of exotic looking oils in various shades lined a shelf over the stove. Jimmy Zacharias may have been a no-account scum in every other part of his life, but his kitchen would have done Martha Stewart proud. Go figure.

  “Beer’s in the refrigerator, Mystery Lady.”

  “Coming up.” I found the Tecate and took a bottle out for Jimmy. I thought it best not to join him. My brain was already mush and I was so sleep deprived I was only retaining about every fifth word anyone said to me, which made it difficult to keep up under the best of circumstances, which these most certainly were not.

  I was looking for the bottle opener when I saw Bull. Actually, he saw me first. When I heard him snarling, I looked out the back kitchen window. It reminded me of standing in Mae’s kitchen back home what seemed like a hundred years ago. I had watched Mae’s dog Turner chasing after squirrels in his goofy not-quite-a-puppy loping gait. This dog was chained to a stake in the ground, which in my opinion was not nearly substantial enough. His eyes were like two shiny black marbles as he pulled against his restraints and watched me through the window. Mostly I saw his teeth. Long, white, and sharp, and covered with the foam that came frothing out of his mouth every time he threw another canine invective my way.

  I brought the bottle out to Jimmy and handed it to him. Jack was at the front window, peeking out through the yellow curtains. He spoke without turning.

  “Did you ever see the logbook from the Air Sentinel crash, Jimmy?”

  “Did they show it on CNN?”

  Jack turned his attention back inside the house. “Here’s the way I’ve got it figured. Bobby Avidor was working for you, helping you salvage the wreckage that you stole, when he came upon the logbook. That’s got to be worth something, right? The logbook from a fatal crash. So he stashes it. Sends it home to his mother. That wouldn’t be a big deal except his mother found the whole thing ghoulish. She gave the book to an old family friend whose name was John McTavish. John figured out what was going on and came down here, looking for Bobby and loaded for bear. Bobby called you and had to explain the whole problem and that he caused it because he took this logbook without telling you. Because he did, you could have heat coming down on you. So you killed McTavish. What do you think?”

  “You always could spin a good tale, Ace, but nobody gets killed over airplane parts. You’re talking about the death penalty. It’s not worth it.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part. The book wasn’t all Bobby stole from you. Somewhere in all that mess, he found a finger or a jewelry box or something and with it a diamond ring, and that diamond ring was worth twenty-five grand.”

  One of Jimmy’s eyebrows twitched.

  “Bobby didn’t share that with you, did he? Somewhere in his pea brain he thought that little detail would get lost and he would never have to answer to you.”

  “How would you know any of this?”

  “That’s what I’m leading up to. I had a discussion with Agent Damon Hollander of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your handler.”

  “What the fuck, handler? What are you talking about?”

  “Shut up, Jimmy, and listen. Damon knew about the book, but not the ring. That tells me his information came from you, and your information had to come from Bobby. Why would you be talking to the Bureau unless you were working for them?”

  “You’re the one with all the answers.” Broad sweat bands were growing on Jimmy’s shirt under his arms. “You tell me.”

  Jack took a step forward and squared himself so he was facing Jimmy head on. “Damon’s got you by the balls, and he’s got your little Ecuador operation out there in the swamp shut down, and he’s got agents keeping the hangar secure. The way I see it, you scavenged a crash site, stole the parts, committed a whole list of federal offenses, and got caught.
And yet here you sit in your crummy little shack, free as a bird. It just gets curiouser and curiouser, Jimmy. How far would you go to stay out of jail?”

  Jimmy sipped his beer.

  “The only thing I couldn’t figure was what information you had that would be worth anything to Damon. And now I have that piece, too. What do you think Ottavio would do to you if he knew you were selling him out to the U.S. government?”

  “First of all, I am no fucking snitch and I never will be. Even you should know that. I would never be a snitch for anyone.” Jimmy threw an arm up and let it rest along the back of the couch. “And second of all, we’re pretty isolated out here. I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about.”

  “Do you have an alibi for last Monday night? Because Bobby does.”

  “I don’t have to account for my time to you, Ace.”

  Jack squared to face Jimmy. “You would have been better off taking out Avidor than a civilian.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got a thing for civilians.” Jimmy kept his head low as he looked up at Jack. “Are you sure you don’t want a taste of something? Tequila is your drink, if I’m remembering right. A shot of tequila with a Tecate chaser sounds good to me. I might even have some lime out there. And if you’re lucky, maybe the Mystery Lady will serve you, too.”

  A hot breeze wafted through the screen on the front door, bringing with it the smell of stale brown water and moss covered trees. The only sound in the room was the spinning of the fan on the floor, and before anything at all had happened, I knew it was already too late.

  I stepped forward. “Jack, maybe we should—”

  Jimmy was up. All in one motion, he had put his feet on the floor, dropped the bottle of beer, and started for Jack. His other hand, the one that had been dangling behind the back of the couch, came forward. He was holding something. A gun. Jack was over the coffee table and driving into the Georgia peach on Jimmy’s chest. They landed in a heap on the couch. The couch shoved into an end table. The lamp on the table crashed to the floor. The bulb exploded. As loud as a gunshot, the pop reverberated through the steaming house and out to the backyard, where Bull heard it and went crazy.

  They rolled off the couch to the floor. The coffee table shot across the room as if it had been on wheels. I had to jump out of the way or take it in the shins. Jimmy was on top of Jack. They were grunting, scratching, yelling at each other. They were a pile of swinging elbows. Their legs whipped at each other. Jack was larger and more powerful. He gripped Jimmy’s right wrist, just below the hand that held the gun. I knew there was something I could have been doing, but it was happening so fast… I had no instinct for it. I stayed where I was, next to the kitchen counter, and somewhere at the edge of my concentration, I heard Bull. His deep chested, big dog bark was getting louder. I saw him through the front door. He was dragging the iron spike behind him at the end of a long chain, and he was almost to the steps. I made a dive to close the door, tripped over someone’s foot, and fell flat, rattling my teeth and knocking all the air from my lungs. All I saw was Bull’s broad chest as he launched himself up the steps and against the screen door.

  I put my hands over my head. He was going to land right on top of me. I heard the crash against the screen door, which inexplicably held fast. I raised my eyes to see him there, still on the other side, his big paws braced on the collapsing screen. He was close enough that I could feel his hot breath and see the black stains on his pink gums.

  I crawled toward the door, reached for it with my fingertips, and sent it sailing shut. It bounced hard against the dog’s snout and came wheeling back. Now he was really pissed off. With one strong jump, his whole head and chest would be through the flimsy screen—and he’d be bringing his teeth. I stood up, swung the door as closed as it would go, and threw my weight against Bull’s. He was powerful, and close enough to tear off my ear. I dug my feet in and gave it one more push. The door closed and latched tight.

  When I turned around, the room was in complete disarray, with furniture and tables thrown around and knocked to the side. Jack was sitting on the floor, propped against the couch with Jimmy’s raggedy body draped over his like a blanket. His arm went easily across the smaller man’s chest to where he’d grabbed hold in the opposite armpit. With his other hand, he held a gun, his .22, to Jimmy’s ear. Jimmy’s gun was on the floor next to them. I went over and picked it up carefully and laid it on the console stereo.

  “Do you remember how heads used to fly apart in ’Nam? Did you ever wonder what that felt like, Jimmy, when you did that to people?” Jack’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the dog, and as harsh and cutting as it had been in the bar when he’d been mad at me, but it came from someplace deeper, some toxic pit that was filled with more rage and hate than he could ever have for me, that was perhaps reserved just for Jimmy. “A .22 is not an M-16, but it will have to do.”

  His tone was odd, dead. It was like a trickle of icy water running through that sweltering place. I moved over to the window. Bull was on the porch. He had destroyed the screen barrier. He was now trying to tunnel through, scraping frantically with his sharp nails, working hard at it. The thought of being out there with him was terrifying. But it scared me less than the scene playing out inside the house.

  “You know what, Ace? I never think about that shit anymore.” Jimmy’s voice was a tight rasp. “You’re talking about your own nightmares, not mine.”

  “Don’t fucking call me Ace,” Jack lifted his elbow and jammed the barrel of the gun against Jimmy’s ear.

  “Jack.” The dog threw himself against the door again. “Jack, damn it, we have to get out of here.”

  “You need to taste some blood, Ace?” Jimmy was yelling, too, now. We were all yelling over the yowling animal. “All good soldiers like the taste of blood. And so did you. You’re no different than me, and you never were.” Jimmy’s face was sunburn red against his silver hair. “The job was to kill—kill as many of them as we could as fast as we could. And it didn’t matter if you blew them up or cut off their heads or shot them fifty times. Dead is dead. And you did all the same things I did.”

  I could see every muscle and every vein in the forearm Jack had lashed across Jimmy’s heaving chest. His face was almost completely hidden except for his right eye, which stared out at nothing, maybe into that same place he was looking the other night at the laundromat.

  “I know you, Dolan. I’ve always known guys like you. You tell yourself you didn’t like the killing. You know what I think? I think you liked it a little more than you want to admit to yourself. I think—”

  “Shut up, Jimmy.” It took a second for me to realize the words had come out of my mouth.

  “You liked it, Dolan, and you know it.”

  I had to make him stop talking. I grabbed the gun off the stereo. It was heavy. A revolver. I knew a revolver didn’t have a safety. I raised it and pointed it toward the door.

  “That’s why you’re a drunk. That’s why—”

  “Stop talking right now, Jimmy, or I’m going to shoot your dog.”

  With both hands holding the gun steady, I prayed Jimmy wouldn’t open his mouth again, because I didn’t know if I could pull the trigger. And if I did, what happened then? Five seconds went by. Bull was still agitating, the iron spike clanging against the front steps. Ten. If it was possible for me to hold even more still, I did, willing my internal organs—heart, lungs, stomach, kidneys, liver—to pause their orderly function while I waited. Twenty seconds and he still hadn’t spoken.

  I walked over and crouched next to Jack. “If you’re going to kill him, tell me now because I don’t want to watch. If you’re not, we’re leaving here.”

  The two men breathed in unison, as if they shared the same set of lungs. I had no idea if Jack was capable of shooting this man in cold blood. He shifted his weight and drove the barrel into Jimmy’s ear. I shrank back, believing he was going to do it. Instead, he twisted the gun until a stream of bright red blood appeared. It
trickled down, met up with a river of sweat, and spread down Jimmy’s throat. Jack put his mouth close to Jimmy’s other ear. “Yours is the only blood I want to see.” Then he dumped Jimmy onto the floor and staggered to his feet.

  Jimmy crawled to the edge of the couch and pulled himself up. Several strands of hair that had come loose from his ponytail stuck to the sweaty, bloody stream that covered the side of his face and throat. He touched his ear with his fingers, saw the blood, then pulled off his shirt, wiped his face with it, and balled it into a compress for his wound.

  Jack shook himself out. His head and shirt were soaked. I thought I saw his hands tremble as he switched the gun from one to the other. Jimmy was bloody, but still sharp-eyed and alert. If there had been a tremor, he had seen it, too. We had to get out of that house.

  As I moved toward the window to look out, I realized I still had the gun and didn’t know what to do with it. I wasn’t going to leave it for Jimmy to take a few shots as we pulled out.

  “Keep it,” Jack said, guessing what I was thinking, “until we get out of here.”

  “Tell Bull to sit down, Jimmy,” I said, still watching out the window.