Back from the Brink

by Emery Hayes

  He had to interview her. She had discharged her weapon, striking a man. And one of her deputies lay dead on the patio, just ten or twelve feet from where he stood with her in the kitchen.

  “We’ll take the living room,” he said. She turned, and he followed her out of the kitchen and into a small room with a single sofa, two side chairs, and a map keeper that doubled as a coffee table. They sat, and Lars set the recorder on the table, opened his phone, and began to take notes. He asked her to detail the drive from her home to Luke Franks’s house on the lake, to break down the details following her and Ty’s arrival but before the shooting began. What had been her first indication that Deputy Watts was a danger to her?

  “He said he noticed the kitchen light was on when he drove by Luke Franks’ house,” she said. “He told me that when we were still at my place.”

  “But the kitchen is at the back of the house.” Lars understood. “Then what?”

  “I thought maybe I heard him wrong. I hoped I had. I turned toward him. His gun was drawn. He was three feet away.”

  “And he fired?”

  She shook her head. “He said, ‘They pay better.’ And I watched his finger on the trigger. He was shaking. I threw myself to the ground, rolled out of it to my feet, and found shelter. By then he had fired twice. The second bullet hit the adobe stove, just above my head.”

  “Had you fired your side arm yet?”

  “No. I fired only once. The assailant running in from the trees. I hit him in the leg, above the knee.”

  “Why did you fire only once?”

  “It was chaos,” she said. “One of my men was trying to kill me. Someone I suspected might be involved in the death of Agent Baker had come from the house and was, well, my backup suddenly.”

  “And Luke Franks?”

  “He was the last man out of the house. He took position in front of the back door. He covered me as well.”

  “He fired his gun?”

  “He shot one of the assailants. The one lying furthest from the house.”

  “Who shot Deputy Watts?”

  She hesitated. This was where loyalty was split like kindling. Where a natural allegiance to the men who stood with you made betrayal an impossible thought.

  “Ty tried to kill you,” Lars said. “He fired at you twice. You told me that. Monte told me that. The video from his security system will bear it out. But I need you to say it. Who shot Deputy Watts?”

  “Monte,” she said, but her composure was fractured, and Lars had to fight with himself to stay the course, to keep the recording rolling, to capture the truth, and that included her tears. “He saved my life.”

  29

  MacAulay’s house had been built in 1954. It sat on a full acre of prime lakefront property, with a private dock and a detached, single-car garage he’d turned into a workshop while he went about upgrading and remodeling the existing structure. He’d been at it four years now, and Nicole had noticed, over time, the sometimes intricate details that went into his work. He’d driven as far as West Virginia to select and transport home the iron inlays in the porch railings, which had been forged by a modern-day blacksmith, and had sent away to the Netherlands for a forked footbridge that now spanned the lake runoff that appeared every spring. The plumbing and electric he’d dealt with prior to moving in. From there, he’d worked with a draftsman and carpenter to extend the kitchen and master bath and add on a third bedroom and office. He had plans of framing out the upstairs attic into a second master suite and a sun-room. But Nicole’s favorite feature was the wraparound porch.

  Mrs. Neal’s Subaru was gone. Nicole parked next to MacAulay’s Highlander, pulled the duffel bag from the back seat of her borrowed cruiser—a late-model Ford Explorer where the only thing automatic was the engine—but didn’t bother with the cache of paperwork she’d brought home. As she moved past his vehicle, she placed her hand on the hood. Still warm.

  She stood there a moment, caught in the warm light from the windows. It felt like home. It’d been a long day, and she was glad to be here. The cleanup at Luke Franks’s house was still under way. She had turned the scene over to Lars as soon as he’d arrived, as was protocol in an officer-involved shooting. He and three other officers had completed a perimeter check before she’d left, discovering fresh boot prints representing perhaps five men. Nicole had a contact in the FBI who had a friend in the DEA, and Nicole had let it be known that she was dealing with drugs and money and betrayal several layers deeps, involving multiple agencies, including her own. And that had hurt.

  She had trusted Ty, with her life. With MacAulay’s life. And thinking about that, about leaving MacAulay out on the ice with Ty, made her gut twist and bile crawl up her throat. That she had been so wrong about one man shook her confidence. But now wasn’t the time to dive into that. Right now and until first light, all she really wanted was MacAulay.

  He was waiting for her in the kitchen.

  “Jordan’s sleeping,” he said.

  She dropped the duffel on the floor and stepped into his arms. He was strong and steady.

  “Tell me about the ice man,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Lars said you recovered some electronics.”

  “We did,” MacAulay confirmed. “But first, tell me about the deputy parked outside my morgue.”

  “We think the ice man might draw some attention.”

  “Well, he should,” MacAulay returned. “He’s one of a kind.”

  “Yes, but does he have the goods?” she asked.

  “He had fentanyl. About ten million dollars’ worth.”

  “How many packets total?”

  “Three one-kilogram bags. They were evidence bags, all bearing the seal of the Border Patrol on them.”

  “Nice touch,” Nicole said. “Where are the drugs now?”

  “Your deputy took them with her, en route to your evidence locker.”

  She hadn’t caught that transmission, but she had spent an hour with Lars. And during interviews, all forms of communication were turned off.

  “I’m going to call in. Make sure she made it in okay and we’re locked down tight for the night.”

  “First, you might want to hear about the Enduro black box recorder.” MacAulay was beaming with pride, almost as if he’d delivered a baby rather than a standard listening device. “And the Flash Drive Recorder Pro,” he added.

  “Two listening devices?”

  “He was a determined man,” MacAulay said.

  And Amari had probably realized, early on, that Gates was no help to him. Having been stonewalled and sent over the border time and again, the man had decided to gather what he could in terms of evidence.

  “Do we have his last moments on audio?”

  MacAulay nodded. “Not just moments. We charged up the devices and downloaded their data. Jane thought it was prudent to make a backup before she left, and I agreed. Seems you might have more than a night’s conversation.”

  “Did you check the quality of sound?” she asked.

  “That’s for Arthur to do. But Faris Amari was a careful man. He had the devices sealed in dry bags. One was sewn into the waistband of his slacks, into the hollow of his hip, the other under the shirt collar.”

  She had enough acquaintance with the devices to know that they were voice activated, extending battery life, and carried a recording capacity of almost three hundred hours. But five months submerged in Lake Maria, most of that time frozen—she worried that what they really had was nothing.

  She hoped Arthur would have good news for her in the morning and added him to the list of calls she would make.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “That’s not enough?”

  “It is,” she insisted, smiling. “Maybe more than enough.” She stepped out of his arms. “So now I’m going to call in.”

  MacAulay waited as she spoke, first to her dispatcher, then to Jane. The evidence was under lock and key. A deputy was stationed outside, and Casper had plans to work
another three or four hours in the back conference room, with Nicole’s permission. She gave it, knowing they were going to need a lottery win to pull them out of the budget shortfall.

  Nicole pocketed her cell phone and said, “I’m going to check on Jordan.” She made her way to the back of the house. The door to the guest room was ajar, and Nicole nudged it with her fingers. She stepped over the threshold, her hand braced on the frame. Her son slept easily, the rise and fall of his chest, the slight snarl of breath in his nose, familiar and calming.

  Though Benjamin was dead and no longer a threat to them, tonight’s shooter had trespassed onto her property. A place of fortitude. Of safety. And had knocked a few bricks out. No, there had been no threat made toward Jordan, but Nicole felt the burn of a close call. There were degrees of separation, some thinner than others.

  She stayed a moment longer, leaning against the door frame. Jordan had saved her in a way few would ever understand.

  MacAulay came up behind her. She felt his body absorb the space between them and then his heat wrap around her.

  “We had a great afternoon,” he told her. “Thank you for that.”

  She wanted to thank him because he had filled in for her. Because she knew Jordan had loved every minute of it. But she recognized a need fulfilled in the tone of MacAulay’s voice.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered.

  “I’m going with him tomorrow, did you know?” he said. “I mean, if it’s okay with you.”

  “He asked you?”

  “He did.” And she heard the smile in MacAulay’s voice.

  “I’m glad.” It wasn’t lost on her, Jordan’s gravitational pull toward MacAulay. It felt good and right. And tomorrow, when her son left on the Scout trip, within scant miles of the crime scene at Lake Maria, on a route that ran north and paralleled the flight of refugees and the criminal pipeline, Nicole wouldn’t worry so much, knowing that MacAulay stood beside her son.

  “I’ve done all I can in the morgue for now,” he said.

  “And anything that comes up can wait until you come back Sunday afternoon.”

  “Calabasas will start the autopsies tomorrow morning,” MacAulay said. “It’s better that way.”

  “Agreed,” she said.

  She turned and allowed her lips just the briefest touch along his jaw. And then she left the doorway and the comforting sound of her son’s breathing and returned to the kitchen.

  MacAulay followed. There was a long trough of silence, easy, lulling, through which tension snapped like an angry dog. For once, she ignored the need to fill it and listened to MacAulay clear his throat.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  Ty Watts. No, she didn’t want to talk about him. Nor Green and his attempt to end her life. Not the shootout, Monte and Franks, where this was all leading. Not any of it.

  She stood her ground, in the middle of the newly remodeled kitchen, and looked up at MacAulay. He had a steady gaze and smile lines around his lips; a face that reflected integrity and welcome. Damn, he was a rare form of pure and becoming as addictive as an opiate.

  Lars knew more about Benjamin than MacAulay did. How did you tell the man you loved about your severe lack of judgment? She’d fallen for a street dealer, hoodwinked and happy about it at first.

  Nicole had hired Ty Watts. Believed in him. She had let Green slip through her fingers.

  How had she missed the bad in each of them?

  She needed sleep. Food. The touch of another human being. The solace of this man’s arms. But it was easier to ask that her physical needs be met than her emotional needs.

  “Any chance you and Jordan brought home leftovers?”

  “You’re in luck.” He moved to the refrigerator and brought out a white paper sack and a carton of 1 percent milk. “Buffalo strips,” he offered. Not her favorite, but she could drown them in bleu cheese and be happy. He pulled the Styrofoam container out of the bag, followed by two others. “Chicken pot pie and curly fries.”

  Carb overload, but she needed it.

  He arranged it all on a plate, covered it with plastic wrap, and nuked it. Then he poured her a glass of milk, sliced a tomato and salted it, and set a place up on the island.

  “Come and sit,” he invited.

  She wanted to. But her body strummed with a vibration she knew could blow wide open, like the shifting of tectonic plates at the start of an earthquake. It wasn’t often that she pushed herself this far. Exhaustion. Emotional overload. She was rooted to the spot, wavered on her feet, convinced it was the air around her that shifted and certainly not her, and watched as MacAulay came around the island and gathered her into his arms.

  He was soft that way. He noticed the smallest flicker of emotion that she chased across her face. Why did she always feel like she had to hide it? Weakness was what made people the most human. Nicole let her forehead fall against his chest. The soft press of his arms pulled her close and kept her there. The touch of his lips in her hair. And the vibration in her body grew to a quaking.

  “I haven’t eaten since lunch,” she said, offering it as an excuse for her present state.

  “And slept little last night,” he agreed, allowing her the distance from her emotions.

  If she’d kept up with self-care, she would not be on the threshold of emotional meltdown.

  “A few hours,” she said. She lifted her hand and brushed her fingers over her cheek. As she suspected, they were wet with tears. “Stupid,” she said.

  “Big girls don’t cry?” he said.

  Tears did little to change a bad situation. Except that with them came release. She felt its slow unwinding. The tension in her shoulders eased, the clamp on her lungs loosened so that each breath came easier, the fog in her brain cleared. It was like a washing of the windows—she could see better.

  “I’m thinking about changing that rule,” she returned.

  “It was meant to be broken,” he agreed.

  And anything else was nonsense—his tone made that clear, and it was what she needed to hear. MacAulay balanced her, and he was a safe place to land. His touch was equal parts comfort and need. She had hit the jackpot with him.

  “Thank you, MacAulay,” she said. “I need exactly who you are.”

  He let that rest for a moment. Sometimes he tiptoed around what was building between them, but he decided on, “We’ve been doing this for more than a year now.”

  “What’s this?” she asked, though she knew, of course. But she wanted to hear how he defined their relationship.

  “Sneaking around in the dark. Hiding in the shadows.”

  “Are we going to step into the light?” she asked.

  “I’d like to.”

  “Me too.”

  “I want more than that,” he said. “I’ve wanted it almost from the beginning.”

  “I know,” she admitted. It had scared her, and not just the first weeks. Months into their relationship she had worried about where they were going and if they could sustain it. And if she wanted to. Some moments she had been breathless with fear. Others she had drifted on that warm current, flush with the knowledge that someone on this planet cared more for her than he did his own existence. “So ask me,” she said. He was traditional that way, and she wanted him to have that.

  “Here in the kitchen?”

  “Would you prefer the bedroom?”

  “No.”

  “Do we have to have dinner first, with a linen tablecloth and candles?”

  He thought about that, and she could feel that the conflict was real.

  “I didn’t think it would happen in my kitchen, at midnight, with you fresh from a crime scene,” he said.

  “Then wait and ask me at the right time,” she said. “Just so you know, I’m a sure thing.”

  “Yeah?” His mouth curled into a slow, satisfied smile. He took hold of her left hand and raised it between them. “You’re not much for jewelry,” he said.

  “I wear a watch.”

 
“That doubles as a compass and keeps time on sprints.”

  “But I clean up good.” They had never had an occasion where she could prove it. Never a dinner out at a nice restaurant. “You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

  “So, when it comes to engagement rings, are you fancy or a minimalist?”

  “Somewhere in between.”

  “You’re no help,” he complained.

  “Square or round but not marquis. One carat but no more than three. Platinum rather than gold. How’s that for help?”

  “It gives me a place to start.”

  * * *

  She slept with him, though she probably shouldn’t have. Not with her son two doors away. But she set the alarm on her watch and a backup on her cell phone and lay both of them on the nightstand. And when she woke, rested, her muscles full of the languid pleasure of a good night, MacAulay was already up. She threw back the covers, realized she’d never made it into her nightgown, and pulled the sheet with her as she made her way to the en suite bathroom.

  She turned on the taps but stood a moment longer with his scent on her skin.

  Showered, in a clean uniform, Nicole still made it to the breakfast table before Jordan shuffled in, fresh from sleep.

  “I’m sorry I missed you last night,” she said.

  “I tried to stay awake,” he said. “But the hike today is a long one, with all the repairing we have to do along the way.”

  “I’m glad you slept. Just wish work hadn’t kept me busy.”

  “Who was shooting at our house?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “MacAulay’s coming with me today,” Jordan said, changing the subject and his face lighting with excitement. “We put a serious dent in his savings account yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” She looked over Jordan’s head at MacAulay, who shrugged.

  “A lot of my stuff was ancient.”

  “Ancient and clunky and way too heavy to carry on his back.”

  “You’ll have to put it to use this summer,” Nicole said.

  “We were thinking about Banff.”