by Nikki Soarde
The morning after the fateful night of the tattoos, Sam had been in a rare mood—foul with a hangover but almost giddy over the boisterous reunion with Tate, whom he had seen far too little of over the preceding months.
“Mornin’, swinger,” she teased as she kissed his neck and breathed in his ear.
“Go away.” He rolled over and buried his head beneath a mountain of pillows.
She pulled back the sheets and traced a finger up his spine. “Have a little too much fun last night?”
“No. Just enough.”
“Tate’s a bad influence on you, you know. Your parents disapprove of your association and are flabbergasted at your choice of friends.”
“They don’t like you, either.”
“A prime example of your poor judgment.” She trailed a finger over his shoulder and down his arm. “And I’ve got another one.” She touched delicate wings and a graceful tail.
Sam let out a little yelp. “Hey!” He rolled away. “What are you doing? That hurt!”
“Baby,” she chided. “You’re a cop now and you can’t even take the pain of a little tattoo?”
He blinked. “Tattoo?”
Laughing, she pointed at his shoulder. “Don’t you remember getting it? I rest my case about that lowlife you call a friend. I bet dollars to doughnuts he talked you into it.”
He craned his neck to see, and when he couldn’t evaluate it to his satisfaction he dragged himself out of bed and stepped up to the mirror. He turned his shoulder to better view the artwork.
She watched his eyes narrow and his brows furrow, and when his face relaxed and a smile twitched at his mouth she knew he had remembered.
He flopped back on the bed, his chestnut mop hanging lazily over his eyes and a silly grin on his face. “It was my idea.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head and his fingers inched their way under her sheer nightgown. “Nope. Tate couldn’t believe it either. When I suggested we both get one he laughed so hard he almost wet himself.” Elsie thought Sam looked on the verge of lapsing into giggles himself. “But when I told him why, and I showed him which design—”
“Hang on there, you rebel. I don’t get it. What’s the significance?” She hunched her shoulders and looked at him expectantly.
“Unity, of course. The dove stands for unity. And I figured—”
Elsie turned her head and laughed into her pillow, but the foam-filled creation did little to muffle the wheezing laugh she hated.
“What? What the hell’s so funny?”
She rolled onto her back and tried not to embarrass the man she was scheduled to marry. “That’s a noble sentiment, honey. But the dove doesn’t stand for unity. It stands for peace and purity.”
“Purity?” The look on his face told a thousand tales—or it would have if he could have told them in mixed company.
“Uh-huh. But that’s you and Tate in a nutshell, right? Pure and peaceful.”
He just glared at her.
“Innocence and goodness personified.” The grin would not be tamed.
“I’m stuck with this forever now.”
She nodded.
“And Tate probably knew that I was making a fool of myself.”
She nodded again.
“I’ll kill him.”
She shook her head. “Cops shouldn’t tell fibs. You could never hurt him.” She raised her eyebrows and decided there was no point in resisting her urges. She saluted with exaggerated stiffness. “Captain Purity.”
His eyes narrowed to unholy slits. “You want a superhero in your bed?”
Her eyebrows arched toward the heavens. “You bet, baby.”
And then he had tackled her, pinned her wrists and nibbled and teased until she screamed for mercy. They had made love with even more boisterous enthusiasm than usual, and immediately afterward Sam had downed four Extra-Strength Tylenol and sworn he’d never get drunk again in his life.
He hadn’t kept that promise. She raised the tepid tea to her lips and mused that that was only one of many promises that Sam had been unable to keep.
The overtime, the late nights down at The Pit, the restless roaming about the house at all hours, the inability to focus on their life together in the years that had followed Tate’s betrayal—all that had gradually eroded his commitment to his wife. He had vowed on their wedding day that she would always be the most important thing in his life. For years he had denied allegations that he wasn’t living up to that promise.
Not until the day that they met at the lawyer’s office to sign the final divorce papers did he finally own up to the reality of his failure.
Elsie stared straight ahead, not meeting Sam’s eyes, and trying not to think about the finality of what they were doing. “Why did you ask the lawyers to leave?”
Sam wasn’t looking at her either. His eyes lingered on the hazy Philadelphia landscape. He remained lost in a world that had been inaccessible to her for too many years. “I had something I needed to say.”
“So say it.”
“I’m sorry, Elsie.”
“You’ve said that before. Over and over. Ad nauseum.” She was trying to keep her blood pressure from ejecting her heart directly out of her chest. “The problem was, you never meant it. Or at least the apology was meaningless in light of the fact that nothing ever changed.”
His head was still held proud, his shoulders square and his gaze level, but his eyes had yet to meet hers. “I know. You’re right. But all those other times I was apologizing for missing supper, or for not hearing you when you talked. I apologized for standing you up for the family dinner or missing Scott’s birthday party. This time is different.”
“Why? Because it’s the last time you’ll have to say it?”
He was undaunted by her brittle tone. “No. Because this time I’m saying that you were right. I did fail you. Every day, in so many ways. I couldn’t put you first, and I’m acknowledging that. I’m not making excuses and I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I thought you deserved that much.”
She wrapped her hands around the new leather purse she had treated herself to because she needed something special to help her feel powerful and in control when she walked into this room today. It wasn’t doing the trick. “Just tell me why. That’s what I need to hear.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do!”
His shoulders drooped but finally he turned to look at her. “Because for six years Tate and I were as close as brothers. Maybe closer. Don’t ask me why, Elsie, but for some reason I clicked with him like I never have with anyone in my life.” He looked away, and she knew instinctively that statement included her. “The day he turned me away it just about killed me. I needed to know why, and he wouldn’t tell me. My obsession with him stems from that, from the need to hurt him, to see justice done, and maybe—just maybe—get a glimpse of what made him what he is.” He let out a long slow breath and his eyes drifted closed. “And what made him abandon our friendship.”
“So, in a nutshell, what you’re telling me is…?”
There was a long moment of silence that seemed to stretch out to infinity before he finally opened his eyes, looked at her and broke the spell with the words she didn’t want to hear. “He was always more important to me. In—” He turned away and his eyes searched the sky for the answers to unknown questions. “In a strange way I loved him more than you. You deserved better, Elsie. And for that I’ll be eternally sorry.”
He had called the lawyers back in and they had signed the papers in silence. She hadn’t spoken to him for four months, but gradually the importance of his involvement in Scott’s life had overridden her need for separation from Sam. And gradually, over the two years since, they had become friends. She knew they would never remarry. Sam insisted on wearing that damn wedding band as some sort of belated sign of commitment—either that or penance. She wasn’t sure which. But even in light of their newly kindled friendship she had always known they would never a
gain share a bed or their lives.
She stroked the edge of the picture and silently cursed Tate for putting Sam through his own private hell, and then she wondered again if they were alive, and if they weren’t, if they had died together. Maybe that would be fitting. It wouldn’t make it any easier, but maybe Sam could rest better beside the friend he had spent half his life pursuing in vain.
“Mommy?”
Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze away from the picture and her mind out of the past. She stared at the little boy in the rumpled Pokemon pajamas for several moments before she registered the fact that it was after eleven o’clock at night and her son was wide awake.
“Scott!” Her voice was sharper than she intended. She took a deep breath and continued more quietly. “What are you doing up? I put you to bed over an hour ago.”
He seemed agitated, and without permission he walked to the small television that sat on the corner of the cupboard. “I couldn’t sleep so I turned on the TV, and then this came on.”
He flicked it on, and Elsie was astounded to see Pete’s brawny form dominating the screen.
“So, essentially, Sergeant, what you’re telling us is you allowed a dangerous, armed man to escape after he fired on and critically injured a fellow police officer?”
Elsie could almost hear Pete’s teeth gritting through the screen. He raised his hand, and the meaty fist looked ready to sink itself into the reporter’s arrogant mug. But he caught himself and raked thick fingers through his platinum bristles. “My partner’s condition is yet to be determined. And we’re doing everything in our power to apprehend Mr. Carter and bring him in off the streets.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Sergeant,” persisted the reporter. He was obviously as tenacious as a pit bull, but even a pit bull had to watch its step around a live thermonuclear device.
“No.” Pete’s voice was measured but deadly. “No, I didn’t.”
The reporter switched the microphone to the other hand and took a tiny step back. “Uh…what was Mr. Carter being charged with?”
“No comment.” Obviously on the edge of losing control, Pete turned away and headed toward the cluster of cruisers and the ambulance that was revving up to leave the scene.
Foolishly, the reporter grabbed Pete’s arm in an attempt to detain him. “Sergeant! Just one more question—”
Pete stopped and turned around slowly, his shoulders rigid and his eyes fierce. The device was armed and ticking. “My response to any and all questions from this point forward will be ‘Fuck you!’ Now leave me alone!”
Elsie couldn’t conceal a smile. Pete wasn’t exactly known for his tact or his ability to control his temper.
She listened to the few remaining details that the flustered reporter managed to croak out and then flicked off the television decisively.
Feeling rather armed and dangerous herself she rounded on her son. “Okay, Scott. Go pull on some jeans or something. As soon as I call the precinct and find out where they’ve taken Kyle, we’re going to the hospital. I think, for once, Uncle Pete needs us, and I intend to be there.”
Scott turned around to head to his room, but he hesitated. “I liked him. He knew all the Pokemon names.”
“I’m sure he’ll be okay, Scott,” she lied. “Now hurry on upstairs so we can get going.”
As Scott scurried toward his room, Elsie poured the remainder of her tea down the sink. She wondered how Pete could possibly cope with losing another partner in the span of a few months.
She hoped desperately that she didn’t have to find out.
* * * * *
Pete paced. Back and forth across the sterile tile, his alligator boots clipped a steady rhythm that echoed off the sterile walls and the sterile chairs and the goddamn sterile windows. The waiting room was empty save for him and his demons.
His chest ached with the force of the emotions that were straining against his stoicism. His heels finally stopped their infernal clicking as he rammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and stared out the window.
The lights of the city glittered like sequins in black velvet. The trouble was that Philadelphia and that coveted fabric had little in common. Philly wasn’t soft, and it didn’t conduct warmth. The Philly that Pete knew was dirty, brutal and ragged. It spawned the kind of people that Pete despised—the kind of people who could rob and maim and kill indiscriminately. It bred people like Calvin Carter, who were capable of ripping apart people’s lives without so much as a second thought or a flicker of guilt.
If Kyle didn’t make it out of that operating room alive, Pete firmly believed he would not be able to stop himself from killing Calvin at the first available opportunity. And if and when that happened, he vowed that he would walk away from that torn, bloodied body and not give it the dignity of even one backward glance.
“Pete?”
He whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. “Elsie!” The sight of her standing there jarred him to the core. Elsie wasn’t supposed to be a part of this. Her role in these scenes was done, and Pete didn’t want to be the one to drag her back into the hell of worrying about a cop, even if he was just a friend.
She stepped through the door, her son’s hand clasped firmly in her own, and an uncertain smile on her face. “I thought you could use some company.”
Over the thundering of his heart, Pete found his voice. “Uh…yeah. Thanks for coming. But you needn’t have bothered. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
She nodded. “Definitely. But I came anyway.”
Scott let go of her hand and tugged on Pete’s jacket. “Where is he? Is Kyle gonna be okay?”
Pete stared down at those pleading brown eyes, but found no words.
Elsie must have sensed his discomfort because she knelt down and whispered something in Scott’s ear.
Scott’s features pulled into a fierce frown. “I don’t wanna color! I wanna talk to Uncle Pete too!”
Elsie smoothed a hand down his arm. “Please, honey? I promise we’ll tell you everything, but right now Pete and I have to talk grown-up stuff.”
Still frowning, Scott lifted his gaze to Pete. “Promise you’ll tell me?”
Even though the action felt forced, Pete ruffled his hair. “Promise. And a cop always keeps his word.”
Scott regarded him skeptically but finally agreed and took the offered coloring book and crayons over to the table that sat in front of the worn vinyl couch.
When he seemed settled, Elsie turned back to Pete. “So, is he really going to be fine?”
Pete shrugged. “I really don’t know. It was a chest wound. It looked nasty. Bled like a bitch. I…” He screwed his eyes shut against the images and allowed himself to sit down for the first time since the shooting. “I just don’t know.”
Elsie sat beside him and put a hand on his knee. “You feel responsible for him, don’t you? More than Sam, I’d guess, considering Kyle’s youth.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want me to get you a coffee, or a cappuccino, or something? I hear it’s great with a shot of vanilla.”
Startled out of his private misery Pete looked at her sharply. “He ratted on me, didn’t he? When?”
“When you went in to talk to Scott for a few minutes.” A speck of mischief glinted in her eye. “We talked about you. It seemed appropriate.”
He smiled, but too quickly amusement melted into worry. “Christ! Damn that Calvin! He taunted me with it, you know? Killing one of my partners wasn’t enough. He—” Too late Pete realized his slip. He drew his eyes up to meet Elsie’s. “Shit,” he whispered. “I’m—”
“Sam’s dead?” She blinked furiously. “Calvin killed him? You know that for certain?”
“I’m sorry, Elsie. I hadn’t intended to tell you until I did know for certain. But…” He let out a long slow breath. “But as of right now we have a pretty good idea that Calvin murdered him, right alongside Tate.”
“Oh, God.” Her voice scraped across his nerves. “Tell me eve
rything.”
“Elsie—”
“No. I want to know what you know. You owe me that much, Pete.” When he still didn’t respond, and refused to look at her, he felt her delicate fingers on his cheek. She cupped his jaw and drew his face around to meet hers. “Please. For Scott’s sake.”
Pete looked toward the little boy who was busily coloring Batman’s cape a vivid purple. “Okay.”
But he didn’t get a chance to expand on the story because a doctor chose that moment to grace them with his presence. “Here you are!”
Pete vaulted from his chair, swallowed his apprehension, and approached the balding East Indian man in the dull green scrubs. “You were looking for me? Sergeant Gruber?”
“Yes. Yes,” nodded the surgeon. His accent was thick, but his eyes were kind. “You are waiting for word on Mr. Johnson?”
Pete vacillated between dread and relief as he nodded. “Yes. Is he going to be all right? He was in surgery for quite a while.”
“Oh my, my.” The surgeon shook his head in consternation. “We finished more than an hour ago. His family and some other friends are waiting in a room down the hall. I do not know how you ended up in here, but it took us that long to find you.”
Pete raised his eyebrows in a silent and somewhat impatient query.
The doctor frowned, and then understanding washed across his features. “Oh. Yes, yes. He is fine. He is very lucky, actually. The bullet missed his heart by a few inches, damaged a blood vessel and some muscle tissue, but his condition was never critical.”
“Oh?”
The other man chuckled. “The bullet did not even touch his lung. Amazing. I hear he was playing it up pretty good for the nurses in emergency, though. He confided in me before the anesthetist put him out that there was nothing like a bullet wound to rack up a few hot dates.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Can I see him?”
The doctor looked at him quizzically. “In a few minutes. He will be out of recovery, and he has asked to see you first, before his family.”