Dreamspinner Press Years One & Two Greatest Hits

by J. M. Colail

  D said nothing, just stared down into his water glass. Jack nodded, his hands clenched together on the tabletop. “Okay, I got it. Loud and clear. Things that were done for my benefit don’t concern me. Things you did that you are clearly conflicted about don’t concern me. My own damn partner’s fucking close-mouthed Cosa Nostra routine doesn’t concern me.” He stood up. “I’m not hungry. I’ll be in the car when you’re ready to go.”

  He stalked out of the dining room, forcing himself not to look back to see if D was following him. Halfway across the lobby his arm was seized.

  “Jack, come on.”

  “Come on, what?”

  “It’s….” He glanced around, then leaned closer. “Please. It’s jus’ better if ya don’t know. Ya gotta trust me.”

  Jack shook his head. “This isn’t about me trusting you, Anson. You’ve told me things about yourself that you said you’d never told anyone else. Why is this different? Now, when we ought to be sharing more, why can’t you share this? What is it you’re afraid of? Whatever it is you did to help me can’t possibly be worse than the things you’ve done that I’ve already forgiven you for. But this? Not telling me anything? This, I might have a hard time forgiving.” He shook off D’s arm and headed for the door. He could hear D coming along behind, but he didn’t speak again.

  Their car was fetched for them. D loaded their bags into the trunk while Jack checked out, and within a few minutes they were on the road again.

  Jack pulled into a gas station in Estes Park. Nobody said a word as he got out and started fueling up. D went into the food mart and came out with some bottled water and a bag of snacks for the road. He got back in the passenger’s side and waited.

  Jack finished gassing up and got behind the wheel again. He just sat there, staring into space.

  “I sent his men away,” D finally said.

  Jack didn’t respond.

  “I picked six. Some a the lieutenants. Important guys. Guys I knew might like ta get out a the business. I set ’em up with new identities for them and their families. Paid for ’em ta get outta the country and disappear.” He hesitated. “Before they went, they told me things. Where bodies were buried. Locations a secret stashes a drugs and shit. Signed affidavits and videotaped statements. Finally I went ta Dominguez and said look, I got a shitload a evidence against you in fourteen different safety deposit boxes all over the country, and unless you want all of it sent ta the FBI you leave Jack Francisco alone.”

  It really was a beautiful day, Jack thought. Even sitting here at the gas pumps. The breeze off the mountains was cool and fresh. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath. “That’s it?”

  D nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Jack nodded. “You could put him away for the rest of his life. You could dig up those bodies, let their families bury them. You could smash his whole operation. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re trading all that for my life.”

  “I’d trade a lot more’n that fer your life, Jack.”

  Jack turned and met D’s eyes. He’d die for me. He’s all but said it. But I don’t need that from him. I need him to live for me. “Any crime he does from now on will be on our heads.”

  D shook his head. “Them crimes, they’re gonna happen no matter what. If it weren’t him, it’d be somebody else. Man like him, it’s like them lizards can grow back a leg. Cut him off, somebody come up in his place. I cain’t stop what he’s doin’, or undo what he’s done. But I can save you, Jack. If I done nothin’ else of any good in this world, I will a saved you, and that’s enough fer me.”

  Jack felt tears rise to his eyes. He couldn’t look away from D’s face, laid bare before him. “Anson…,” he began.

  D frowned and looked over his shoulder. Jack cocked his head, hearing sirens approaching, a lot of sirens, and approaching fast. They both turned in their seats and looked back out to the street in time to see a blue pickup truck barrel around a curve of the four-lane state highway and toward the intersection. It was going ninety miles an hour at least. The truck smashed into a minivan, spinning it around, and careened through the intersection, turning over and flipping three times. “Jesus Christ!” Jack cried. They both jumped from the car and ran toward the crashes, plural.

  Jack headed for the t-boned minivan. People were running to the scene from all sides, and the police cars that had been chasing the truck roared into view, stopping short and laying rubber on the road. A woman inside the minivan was screaming, but she didn’t appear hurt. Her husband, who’d been driving, was in bad shape. Jack pushed his way to the car. The driver’s side was smashed; he couldn’t get in. He ran around to the other side and opened the passenger door.

  “Hey! That guy’s getting away!” somebody said. Jack glanced over his shoulder and saw the driver of the pickup, miraculously unhurt, running from the scene. Jack and D exchanged a glance and a nod. D took off after the driver while Jack yanked the screaming woman from the car.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I gotta get in there.” He leaned over the driver, who was gasping and choking, bleeding heavily from a cut on his neck. It wasn’t arterial spray, but it was pretty bad. He slapped a hand over the wound, released the seat belt and dragged the man back out of the van and onto the pavement, swallowing hard when he saw a large gash in the man’s thigh, pumping blood steadily. Shit.

  A cop ran up. “What the hell are you doing?” he said. “Don’t move him ’til the paramedics get here!”

  Jack barely spared him a glance. “I’m a doctor, and this man is bleeding to death,” he snapped. “He’s got broken ribs and I think he’s punctured a lung.” The man’s wife was wailing, trying to get closer, held back by a matronly woman.

  “But… couldn’t he have a spinal injury or something? You aren’t supposed to move him without a backboard!”

  “His arms and legs are moving; he isn’t paralyzed. And it won’t matter much if he bleeds out, will it? Now shut the fuck up!” A woman was handing Jack cloth diapers from a bag. “Thanks,” he said, pressing the cloths to the wound. He beckoned to the cop. “You, hold these,” he barked. The cop knelt by the man’s head and held the cloths. “Hold them tight, now.” The cop nodded.

  Jack moved down to the man’s thigh and tore his pants open. It was a deep gash, messy and bloody. He glanced around. Quite a crowd had gathered. “I need a bottle of water and pocketknife!” he said. A young man in biking clothes tossed him a bottle of water, and a sketchy-looking kid came forward and handed Jack a switchblade. The cop shot the kid a look, but the kid just shrugged.

  Jack rinsed the wound and opened the switchblade. “What are you doing to him?” the man’s wife screamed. “Don’t cut him!”

  Jack ignored her and dissected the wound just far down enough to see the gusher. He reached in, prompting more than a few groans from the crowd, found the severed blood vessel and clamped it tight with his fingers. He sat back on his knees and shut his eyes, visualizing the slippery tube between his fingertips, concentrating on keeping hold of it. It was like trying to keep a grip on an oil-soaked strand of pasta. Pasta that was pulsing in your hands.

  “What are you dooooooing?” the wife kept yelling.

  “I’m holding his femoral artery closed, lady,” Jack said. “And it’s really slippery so please shut up and let me concentrate!” He could hear the ambulance approaching. The paramedics would have clamps.

  “He gonna live, doc?” Jack looked up, startled to hear anybody but D call him that, but it was the cop who’d spoken.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Jack said. “But he’s breathing and hopefully we’ve got this bleeding under control.”

  The crowd parted to let the paramedics pull up and rush to the scene. “What’s going on?” one of them said, looking at Jack’s bloodstained clothing.

  “He’s got a femoral bleeder; I’m holding it closed right now. You got a clamp?” The paramedic reached into his bag and handed him one. Jack took a deep breath,
bent close and switched the clamp for his fingers. “Okay. That neck wound’s bad but it’s slowing. I think he’s got a collapsed lung.”

  “Okay. We’ll take it from here, Doctor,” said the paramedic, correctly deducing Jack’s profession. Jack rose to his feet and backed away, allowing the paramedics to prep the man for transport to the nearest hospital. The cop who’d been keeping pressure on the man’s neck wound got up too, and came to shake Jack’s hand.

  “Hey, that was… that was good work, there,” the cop said, gruffly. “Guy probably woulda died you hadn’t been here.”

  Jack smiled weakly, feeling a little shaky. There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Jack barely heard; he was looking around for D. He pushed through the onlookers and headed back toward the blue pickup truck.

  Coming back down the road were two police officers, leading the cuffed driver between them. D was following along behind, touching a wound on his forehead. Jack trotted up to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Fucker got in one good lick with a piece a two-by-four.”

  “You know this guy?” one of the officers said to Jack.

  “Yeah, he’s my partner,” Jack said, not caring if anybody had a problem with that.

  “Well, it isn’t every day a civilian dives right in and takes down a fleeing suspect. Tell him to stay out of official business. He could get hurt.”

  Jack couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of D being in danger from some punk in a pickup truck. “He isn’t exactly a civilian, officer.”

  One of the cops put the driver in the backseat of a cruiser while the other one turned to face them. “You aren’t?” he said to D, who just looked chagrined.

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open so the officer could see.

  “FBI?” the cop said, arching an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Thought I was on vacation,” D grumbled. Jack put a hand to his mouth to conceal his amusement. That badge was exactly seven days old, and D wasn’t actually an agent—more like a consultant—but this officer didn’t need the details.

  “So, why were you chasing this guy?” Jack asked, putting on a suitably serious face.

  The cop sighed. “Routine traffic stop. He took off.”

  “Why?”

  “Turns out there’s a bench warrant out on him.”

  “For what?”

  The cop gave them a blank look. “Unpaid parking tickets.”

  D snorted, shaking his head. Jack stared. “This guy led you on a high-speed chase and nearly killed a man, not to mention himself, over unpaid parking tickets?”

  The cop shrugged. “Helluva world, ain’t it?” He tipped his hat. “Thanks for your help.” He climbed into the cruiser and they were off. Local police were clogging the intersection now, more paramedics arriving to tend to less seriously injured drivers.

  Jack and D just stood there for a moment, looking around at the carnage. “That guy gonna be okay?” D asked.

  “I think so,” Jack said, watching as the man he’d helped was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The man’s wife got in with him, still crying, immediately seizing the man’s hand. She looked out the back of the bus and her eyes met Jack’s across the street. She smiled a little. Thank you, Jack saw the words on her lips. He nodded and lifted a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let me wash out that cut.”

  He led D to another ambulance nearby. The paramedics gave him some antiseptic and a bandage. He cleaned the small gash on D’s forehead, taking his time about it, letting his fingers linger on D’s skin.

  It can all be over, just like that. You’re driving down the road and some asshole smashes your car, and you’re dead. Or someone you love is dead. It’s all a goddamn crapshoot. D was watching him, and Jack saw similar thoughts passing behind his eyes. “You have fun playing cops and robbers?” he asked, quietly.

  D sniffed. “Caught up to him a couple blocks away. Tryin’ ta get over a fence into an alley. Drug him back down and he put up a bit of a fight, but, well….” He shrugged. “Just a dumbass kid. Thinks he’s never gonna die and it don’t matter ta him if anybody else does.”

  Finished with D’s cut, Jack just stood there and looked at him. “Didn’t think I’d be saving any lives this morning,” he said.

  “Didn’t think I’d be catchin’ no bad guys.” He met Jack’s eyes. “You were some kinda hero today, darlin’.”

  “So were you.”

  D flushed. “I ain’t no hero.”

  “Well, you’re my hero.” Jack took his hand and pulled him up off the back end of the ambulance. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  “Ain’t they gonna want our names and shit?”

  “Probably. Let’s get out of here before they find us. We’ll call the police department later.”

  They went back to their car, still sitting by the pumps at the gas station. Jack popped the trunk and got a clean shirt. D waited by the car while he went into the gas station’s bathroom, scrubbed the blood from his hands, and changed out of his bloody shirt.

  He returned to the car and slid in behind the wheel with a sigh. D got in and buckled up, looking over at Jack, who was still just sitting there. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I mean… shit just falls from the sky, doesn’t it?”

  D nodded. “Yeah. Gotta dance quick so it don’t getcha.”

  Jack smiled and started up the car. He backed out from the pumps and headed for the road.

  “Jack?”

  “What?” he said, his voice clipped. He was concentrating on navigating around the police cars and ambulances.

  “I love you.”

  Jack forgot his preoccupation. He stopped the car and turned to meet D’s eyes. They were full of calm certainty. D’s hand crept across the bench seat toward him. Jack grasped it tight. “Yeah?” He hated that needy little tone that crept into his voice, but D had never said that to him before. He knew it was so, but it was hard not to want to hear it.

  D nodded. “Yeah.”

  Jack leaned over and kissed him, lingering a bit past the point of politeness, not caring who might see. “Thanks,” he whispered against D’s lips.

  D pressed another kiss to his lips, and then drew back, smiling. “Let’s get the hell outta here, doc. Before a riot breaks out or a plane crashes.”

  Jack grinned and pulled the car into the open highway, pointed its nose east, and set off down the road, his hand still clasped tightly in D’s on the seat between them.

  EPILOGUE

  Six months later….

  “WELL, LOOKY here! Don’t you look all spiffy in that suit there.” Special Agent Frank Boorstein grinned and elbowed Agent Blansky as their newly minted Academy graduate, Special Agent Ernest Hough, came into the breakroom, clearly trying to be unobtrusive. He could not accomplish this, since the entire office had known he was arriving this morning and had been lying in wait for him.

  Hough blushed, his baby-faced cheeks going splotchy scarlet. “Thanks, Frank,” he muttered.

  “Guess they musta liked you when you were just a pencil pusher here if they asked for you back with a shield in your pocket.”

  Hough shrugged. “Guess so.”

  “Welcome to the big leagues, Ernie,” said Blansky. “Got your gun?”

  Ernie nodded, pulling his jacket open to show the gun in its holster. “I even know how to shoot it and stuff,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Hoo-hoo! Someone’s already too big for his britches!” Boorstein laughed.

  Hough cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “So what’s this task force they want me for? It was all very hush-hush.”

  Boorstein sobered. “They’ll brief you on that soon. Who are you riding around with to start?”

  “Uh….” Hough consulted a piece of paper. “Don’t know him. Agent Dane?”

  Blansky and Boorstein exchanged a look. “Damn. They’re really throwing you into the deep end if they’re maki
ng you start off with Mr. D,” Boorstein said.

  Hough looked at them, apprehension coming into his face. “Who is he? He must be new.”

  “Been here ’bout six months. And he isn’t an agent, technically. He’s a consultant. But this is his task force and he runs it like a goddamned forced labor camp.”

  “He’s a hardass, huh?”

  Boorstein answered with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Mr. D could send General Patton running to his mama. You should see him handle the perps we bring in.” He lowered his voice a little. “Word around the campfire is that Mr. D’s so good with the criminal element because he used to be one of them.”

  Ernie was looking more and more apprehensive. “And they want me with this guy on my first damn day?”

  “He probably asked for it. He’s pretty choosy about who gets onto the task force. Might be he wants to size you up.”

  “Great.”

  Boorstein looked up. “Oh, speak of the devil… yeah, here he is.”

  Hough turned in time to see a tall man striding down the corridor, wearing jeans and a black jacket over a black T-shirt. He was just taking off his mirrored sunglasses as he headed for the breakroom where they were all standing. “Shit, here he comes,” Blansky said. “Don’t piss him off; he’s on edge. We had a case go real bad last night and Mr. D takes things personal.”

  Hough swallowed hard as the tall man entered the breakroom and stopped, hands on his hips. His eyes were sharp and cold and his squared-off jaw looked like it was in a permanent state of clench. “Where’s that fuckin’ incident report, Frank?” he bit off, his voice low and growly.

  “I e-mailed it to you this morning,” Boorstein said.

  “Coroner called yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Fuck, I gotta go down there and get the report my fuckin’ self?” Mr. D muttered, shaking his head at the floor. “Ain’t like we don’t know the cause a death,” he said, his voice going quiet. His eyes fell on Hough, who looked like he was fighting the urge to fall back a step. “Who the hell’re you?”

  “Special Agent Ernest Hough, Mr. D… uh, Mr. Dane.”