by James Hunt
“He gets that from his mother.”
Grant turned at the sound of Rick’s voice. He stood at the foot of the bed. Grant hadn’t even noticed him when he entered the room. “I’m sure he gets a little bit from you too.”
Mocks held out her hand, and Rick joined her at her bedside. She kissed the top of his hand and then looked at Grant. “So we’ll probably need a babysitter over the next ten years. You guys available?”
“Hopefully,” Grant answered.
“Hey,” Mocks said. “You two are going to be fine.”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Sam said. “Though I haven’t been able to convince him yet.” She held out her arms. “Let me hold him.”
Grant gingerly passed the baby to Sam, who gently swayed him back and forth, triggering more joyous coos. And while Sam had tried to convince Grant for the past twenty-four hours that they were going to be okay and, despite all of the questioning and the press and general feelings of stress, that everything was going to turn out all right, he hadn’t felt good until that moment.
He had never been the type of person to believe in love at first sight, especially after Ellen died, but standing there and watching Sam hold that baby thrust him into a future that he wanted to sprint to and never look back.
“Just take it slow, cowboy.”
Grant turned to find Mocks smiling at him. “Weren’t you the one telling me that I should put myself out there?”
“Hey, I just wanted you to get laid.”
Sam burst out laughing, and Grant chuckled. God, even her laugh was perfect. “So what name did you end up going with?”
“We tossed around a few ideas, and we each had our favorite, but both of us could only agree on one,” Rick said.
“Well?” Sam asked. “What did you decide?”
“Chase,” Mocks answered.
The tears formed in Grant’s eyes before he even turned to look at Mocks.
“We thought naming him after his godfather would be an easy way to score babysitting points.” Mocks smiled wide, but her eyes grew red and glassy.
Rick stepped around the side of the bed, walking toward Grant, and stuck out his hand. Crying, Grant shook it and then hugged Rick.
“Thank you,” Rick said.
When they finally pulled apart, Grant was still wiping the tears from his eyes, and when he looked at Mocks and found her in tears, she quickly wagged her finger.
“No,” Mocks said. “You’re the one who started the crying.”
Grant walked over to her and hugged her, the pair embracing, and Mocks whispered in his ear just as Rick had. “Thank you, Grant. For everything.”
This time when he pulled away, the tears had faded, but he found Sam with tears in her eyes. And the moment was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Hey, folks,” the nurse said. “Time’s up. They need to get their rest now.”
Sam handed the baby to Rick then grabbed hold of Grant’s hand as they walked out the door. Grant used his free hand to keep the residual tears from falling. She gave his hand a squeeze.
“Hey,” Sam said. “I told you it would work out.”
And while he was thankful for the peace that Mocks and Rick had given him, and even more grateful for the future that Sam allowed him, when he saw Hickem and Multz at the end of the hallway, that feeling of doubt that had plagued him for the past day returned.
Hickem was flanked by his people, while Multz showed up alone.
“Yeah,” Grant said. “Let’s hope that good luck continues.”
Hickem lowered his eyes to Grant and Sam’s hands and then shook his head. He remained quiet for a minute and gave a simple flick of his head to the man on his left, who stepped forward and grabbed Grant’s hands and cuffed his wrists behind his back.
“Is that really necessary?” Sam asked.
“Part of the deal, sweetheart,” Hickem answered. “Multz gets you. I get Grant. But, uh...” He stepped closer. “I can give you a pair of handcuffs to use for later if you want. You know, just for fun.”
“That’s enough, Hickem.” Multz barked the order as if he’d been having to deal with his shit all day. “C’mon, Sam, let’s go.”
The group walked down the hallway together for a while but then diverged left and right at the hallway’s next intersection. Grant kept trying to turn to look behind him, which only provided him glimpses of Sam, who did the same as Multz pulled her away. He desperately wanted to see her again.
“So how’s the midget?” Hickem asked, keeping his face forward on their walk.
It took Grant a second to realize that Hickem was talking about Mocks. “She’s fine. Baby’s all right too.”
“Good,” Hickem replied, a note of relief in his voice. “I know she’s always hated me, but I always liked her. We had a mutual understanding of what was necessary for success. We may not have always agreed on the methods, but we wanted the same result.”
“Then you must be happy as a clam right now.” He wiggled his shoulders. The pain from the cuffs’ tightness was starting to get to him.
“I’m not happy, Grant,” Hickem said, his long stride keeping him in the lead. “I didn’t want it to go down this way. If you had just played by the rules like the rest of us, I could have helped.”
“Some things you just have to do yourself.”
Hickem held up his hand, bringing everyone to a halt with him. He sighed, lowered his hand, and then turned to face Grant. He looked haggard, more worn than the last time Grant had seen him. And that was saying something since it had been less than a day. “Not everyone has the ability to just turn off that part of their brain that adheres to law and order whenever something goes wrong. You don’t think I wanted to snag Links by any means necessary? I did. But it seems that your absence from the land of law enforcement wiped not only your common sense, but your knowledge of due process.”
Grant narrowed his eyes, examining Hickem, and then he shook his head, overwhelmed chuckles escaping his lips. “He’s already copped to a deal, hasn’t he? What’d Links say he’d do?”
“That’s not your concern.” Hickem spoke through barely opened lips. “You need to do one thing, and one thing only, Grant, if you want to make it out of this in one piece, and that’s keeping a tight lip and pleading insanity. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any promises, all right?”
Grant said nothing, and as they approached the exit, he braced himself for the slew of reporters that were probably waiting for him outside. Sunlight blinded him for a moment, but instead of the sight of dozens of cameras and microphones, he saw only two black sedans. He looked at Hickem with confusion.
“Reporters are out front,” Hickem said. “Multz and Sam said they would take one for the team.” He opened the door, letting Grant be put inside. “That woman seems to like you a lot.”
The door shut, and Grant fidgeted in his seat, watching the hospital disappear as they drove off.
“The feeling’s mutual,” Grant said.
Three Months Later
Seattle was on the horizon, the Space Needle protruding from the skyline first. Traffic had already worsened, and Grant sat behind the wheel of the moving truck with sweat on his brow.
He’d hoped he had gotten an early enough jump on the day to miss rush hour, but the line of brake lights in front of him dashed those hopes. He leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, with his other hanging outside the open window.
The symphony of honking cars and angry shouts from road-raged drivers wasn’t something he missed about the city. But when that first scent of salty breeze hit his face and helped cool him down, it helped reacclimate him a little bit.
Traffic lessened once he was able to get off the highway, and he reached for the radio dial and flipped to the local NPR station, where a news report had just started.
“Three months after one of our nation’s biggest national security blunders, and we’re still discovering details of what happened. Nathan Links, former director
of the FBI, pleaded guilty to selling classified documents to Anton Joza, the international billionaire kingpin who made his fortune selling oil and bribing government officials for contracts. Joza had also been involved in several high-stakes political coups over the past several decades, all of which are being compiled against him in international court. And while the events shocked the nation, the real question that needs to be answered isn’t what Nathan Links did, but how he was able to do it. Unchecked intelligence gathering can foster individual crusades like the one Mr. Links tried to accomplish at the risk of American lives. But we tend not to care what happens unless it’s happening to us. For more on this report, I turn it over to—”
Grant changed the station, flipping it over to an oldies music station that was playing some Earth, Wind, and Fire. He’d heard enough about the case, and the faster it stopped appearing on the news, the quicker Grant would start watching the news again. He was done hearing about the past. He was done talking about the past. All he wanted to do now was enjoy the present and look forward to the future.
And much to Grant’s surprise and relief, it was a future without jail time, without probation, and without trouble. He had done exactly what Hickem asked during his interrogations, and in return, Hickem, and Multz, signed off on a special document that stated Grant had been acting as an informant to help bring a swift end to Links and Joza’s arrangement.
At least that was how they’d played it off with the press. And while Grant’s name was mentioned in the news, this time it was as someone who helped. And though he couldn’t stop the old reports about his dismissal from the department from resurfacing, it was brief. There were bigger fish to fry out there. Grant was old news, and he couldn’t have been happier about it.
Sam was left out of the report altogether. And while she had kept most of the details of her arrangement with Multz a secret, Grant knew that they had to have covered up quite a bit. But it was the only way that Sam could have kept her position. And if there was going to be a government cover-up, Grant figured that it was about time it was done to help someone who deserved it.
The marshals were Sam’s life, and Grant couldn’t imagine how much it would have hurt her if she couldn’t do the job that she loved anymore.
Finally, Grant arrived at his new apartment complex, and he found some street parking near the freight elevator. He looked up and found the window to his third-floor apartment open, and he honked the horn.
A few seconds passed, and Sam poked her head out of the window, her blond hair dangling freely down her face. “About time you showed up!”
“Traffic was bad,” Grant said. “You coming down here to help me, or do I have to unload everything myself too?”
“Hey, I’ve seen your place. It’s not like you had that much stuff to move in the first place.”
“Touché.”
Grant shut off the engine, and by the time he made it around to the back of the truck and opened up the door, Sam was walking out of the front entrance. He smiled when he saw her and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Hey, stranger,” Sam said.
“Hey.”
They kissed and embraced, Grant lifting Sam off the pavement and spinning her around in the air. They were still lip-locked when Grant set her down, and she giggled, pulling herself away.
“You act like you haven’t seen me in weeks,” Sam said.
“Well, it’s been what? Four hours?” Grant nuzzled her neck, kissing it gently. “That’s forever.”
“All right, you two, just wait until we leave for that stuff.”
Both Grant and Sam turned to find Mocks and Rick with the baby near the truck’s end. “How long have you been watching?” Grant asked.
“Enough to fill the spank bank,” Mocks answered, laughing.
Sam walked over to Mocks and the baby and stole Chase away from her mother, while Grant and Rick started to unpack.
There really wasn’t much Grant had salvaged from his old place. A few boxes, clothes, dishes, and his desk. Most of it, he’d junked. It was time to start fresh. His time in exile was over. And he was moving on.
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