“Serious, where are you?”
“I am being serious. I kind of had the Bahamas in mind.”
There was a brief pause before Rico came back and said, “Well you better make it fast, you’ve got an appointment at police headquarters at seven.”
Police headquarters? Jim held the mike loosely and waited for Rico to continue.
“Jim, are you there?”
“I’m here. What’s this about, Rico?”
“I’d rather not say any more over the air. Can you call me?”
Jim glanced at his cell phone. The signal indicated zero bars. “I’m three miles from shore…there’s no signal out here.”
“Well just be sure you’re there on time. Seven sharp. If things go well you can go to the Bahamas.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Then tomorrow morning you could be eating your first breakfast behind bars.”
Chapter 10
Land quickly became a memory as Jim disappeared over the horizon and surrounded himself with blue water. He could feel the ocean drawing him like a magnet, leading him farther and farther away from land into its vast wide-open emptiness. It seemed right to be alone, no one around him to give him any trouble. He leaned over the railing and watched the dolphins that had been following him for the last half-hour. They looked so happy, so free. He wondered if he’d ever feel that way again. He doubted it.
He stared at the horizon and for the next few moments actually considered sailing away and never coming back, then glanced at his watch and turned the helm hard to port. The sails pulled the boat around smartly, he felt the hull shift, and suddenly the 25 knot sustained breeze that had been at his back most of the afternoon hit him directly in the face. His eyes pulled themselves into a tight squint. Shoal Survivor leaned over on a strong port tack, her nose pointed toward the inlet some twelve miles distant.
He sailed for two hours before finally rounding the red buoy that marked the entrance to the Beaufort Channel. He pushed hard into the wind, making his way quickly toward land and the ever-building waves of the inlet.
Another hour passed. The boat began to rise and fall. Jim descended into the cabin to dog down the hatches and then returned to the helm.
Two miles from shore large swells began to form. One mile out the waves began to crest. Soon the boat began to pitch and roll, rising and falling on the forming waves as the out-flowing tide of the inlet collided with wind and surf.
Jim gripped the helm with white-knuckled hands. He leaned into the wind, straining to keep the boat on a straight course as she rose and fell over a seemingly endless barrage of heavy waves.
One after another the waves lifted Shoal Survivor’s bow and dropped her again on the other side, dropping her into the spray, completely washing her decks. Jim could hear the hull crying out, its glass fibers creaking as the boat twisted and corkscrewed in the cauldron of mighty waves. He glanced over his shoulder and thought about turning back, but it was too late. He was already committed. To turn now and expose his side to the waves would certainly prove disastrous. He tightened his grip and held on. Up and down the bow rose and crashed. Salt spray peppered his face.
Jim fought the helm hard, alternately cursing himself and praying to God as he worked his way through the twelve-foot crests. Finally, mercifully, he passed between the two great landmasses of the Crystal Coast and entered into the calmer water behind Shackelford Banks.
Jim glanced over his shoulder at the impossibly tall waves. “Don’t ever let me be that stupid again.”
He peeled off his foul weather jacket and tossed it onto the cockpit floor and then started the diesel and engaged the forward drive. After furling the sails and picking up a few of the larger items that had fallen to the cockpit floor during the worst of the passage, he returned to the helm to consider his options. Morehead waterfront was too far from City Hall. Too long a walk. But East Beach Harbor would work. He nodded as he thought of the small working class marina that backed up to the sound. It wasn’t as pretty as its fancier Morehead competitors, but it was closer to town, and it had fewer distractions to take his focus off his appointment. He turned the boat’s nose to the west and picked up his radio.
“East Beach Harbor…” Jim called, clicking his radio mike. “East Beach Harbor, this is Shoal Survivor…over.”
Ten seconds passed.
“Shoal Survivor, this is East Beach Harbor…switch to channel seven-one please.”
Jim changed radio frequencies and offered his request for dockage. The harbormaster granted permission and instructed him to pull up to the transient dock upon arrival where someone would be available to help him tie up.
Jim returned the mike to its cradle and followed the ICW under the Beaufort Bridge, thankful not to be a part of the heavy traffic crossing the high rise. He decided he’d rather be wet. He rounded the Morehead City Port Terminal and motored slowly through Crab Point Thorofare and into East Beach Harbor. The marina looked full. A tall man in a camouflaged jumpsuit raised a hand and motioned him in.
Jim motored to the far end of the transient dock, pulled back on the throttle, and offered a friendly wave. “Afternoon.” The dockhand didn’t respond. His face looked hard, his skin weathered and creased. His hands looked as dark and leathery as a tanned hide. Jim maneuvered Shoal Survivor between two other boats and then, with the dockhand’s help, eased up next to the dock. Once there he tossed the stern line over and killed the engine. “Thanks,” he said, stepping over to help secure the boat. He doubled the bowline around a large steel cleat on one of the posts and then walked astern. “You guys are pretty full tonight, huh?”
“Ya just got my last spot.” The dockhand wrapped a spring line around the mid-deck cleat and gave it a sharp tug to cinch it down. “How long ya here for?”
“Just a couple of hours, I hope. I need to walk into town for some business.” Jim pulled out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen’ll do, unless ya decide to stay the night. Need any fuel?”
“No thanks.” Jim handed the man a five and a ten and shook his head. “I won’t be here that long, but I could use a shower.”
The dockhand chomped down on a saliva soaked cigar butt. “There’s showers up the dock. Help yerself.”
Jim couldn’t help but chuckle as the strange character ambled slowly back up the dock and disappeared into the harbormaster’s office. He climbed back aboard and tidied up the deck. After stowing some loose gear and grabbing a towel and a change of clothes, he walked down the dock and found an empty shower stall. The room was small and cold, but the water soon felt like a warm spring shower as it washed away the thin layer of crusted sea salt he’d picked up on the trip through the channel. He stood there for the next few moments luxuriating in the spray, thinking about the sail and his intense desire to run away. The flesh burned beneath his stitches, but somehow it felt good. Necessary. Penitence for his sins. Maybe God will forgive me if I punish myself, he thought. “…but you didn’t do anything wrong,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s not your fault. None of it. J-Rock killed Sid…why do you keep blaming yourself?”
Jim gave up the argument and climbed out of the shower. Defeated. Again. The room was steamy and hot. He felt fresh sweat pop to the surface. He dried himself off, dressed in a pair of worn khakis and an indigo sport shirt, strapped on his wristwatch—6:25—then stepped onto the dock and started walking toward Police Headquarters, wondering what lay ahead.
He didn’t see a soul for the first five minutes, but as he emerged on the eastern end of Club Boulevard he encountered a few homeless folks and, as expected, a couple of prostitutes. One of them, a girl he knew simply as Vivian, a middle-aged hooker he’d treated numerous times for obstructive pulmonary disease, walked the opposite side of the street in a tacky fur coat and a blue miniskirt. Jim had a difficult time believing that any man would find her attractive, and yet, while he was watching a car stopped and picked her up. Vivian disappeared.
Jim chuckl
ed and continued up Club. He’d been too distracted by Vivian’s antics to notice the band of teenagers in his path until they were right in front of him. There were five of them in all, each in the same kind of defiant baggy clothing, and each with the same smug sauntering strut Jim had grown to hate. Everything about them reminded him of the Crew. He felt an overwhelming urge to tear into the middle of the group and start swinging, to take out his frustrations and render justice, but he quickly realized the stupidity of his thoughts. These kids haven’t done a thing to you, he told himself. Don’t be a fool.
Jim lowered his head, stepped over the curb and started across the street to avoid a confrontation. Not that he was scared, he wasn’t, he was just trying to be sensible, and cautious. He knew how to defend himself—well—but these kids would most likely be packing guns, and the mental image of Sid lying in the middle of the alley riddled with bullets served as very real reminder that East Beach gangs were not to be underestimated.
He kept walking. One of the boys called to him. He ignored him and kept moving. He stepped onto the far curb and increased his pace. He heard the sound of running feet behind him. Then all around him. He had no choice but to stop. He turned around and faced the tallest of the gang, a light skinned kid with dreadlocks and dark brown eyes who looked to be no more than sixteen, barely old enough to drive. Jim looked at him as a parent might at a disobedient child. His emotions ranged from anger to genuine compassion. Part of him wanted to beat up the kid, the other part felt truly sorry for him. Did he come from a fatherless home? Know his parents? Jim decided that didn’t matter. At the moment he was the victim, and he would not stand for bullying. He would try to play it cool…but only to a point. He shook his head and held out both hands to reveal his unarmed status. “What do you want?”
“Your money. How much you got?”
“None of your business. You kids get lost now.”
“Lost? No, no, bro, you don’t understand.”
“I’m warning you, back off and leave me alone. Excuse me.” He pushed through the circle and began walking away, his anger near the point of ignition.
“Hey,” the gang member called. “Where you think you going?”
Jim felt a strong hand grab his arm. He spun on his heels, threw the boy’s arm aside, and then crouched into a defensive fighting position. “Back off,” he shouted. “Now!”
“Whoa.” The tall kid backed up, his face displaying wide-eyed shock. “Whatchu problem, bro?”
“My problem?” Jim took a step forward to close the gap between them. The offensive was always better…become the aggressor, not the victim. Besides, he was tired of their game. Five-to-one or not, he would not be pushed around. He took another step forward. “My problem is punks like you pushing people around like you own the place. This is my street, you understand? I was working these streets when you kids were wearing diapers. Now take your measly little gang and get lost!”
The teenager reached for his pocket. Jim stepped forward and gave him a rough shove.
“C’mon,” he shouted. “Let’s see what you got, bro!”
The boy looked puzzled. He froze. Jim gave him another shove.
“Come on, punk!”
The boy pulled his hand from his pocket and backed away, disbelief turning his once proud eyes a faded shade of gray.
“That’s what I thought,” Jim said. “You ain’t nothing. None of you.”
“I’ll remember you,” the kid said, anger burning in his eyes.
“You do that.”
Jim stood his ground. The teenager hesitated, and then he glanced around at his gang and smirked. “Let’s go. This dude be crazy, man.” He gave Jim one last haughty look then turned and strutted away. His gang followed him around the street corner and out of sight.
Jim felt relieved beyond belief, thankful to be standing there in one piece. His ploy had worked, but he realized it might not work again. He decided to get out of there fast. Move to safer ground.
He crossed Beach Avenue and hurried down the stretch of sidewalk known as The Drag, a sad forgotten part of town frequented by the homeless. He noticed several people laying out blankets, claiming bedding rights for the night. One particularly hard looking character sat beneath the marquis of the old Village Theater. Bent over, with his head down, he looked too old to care for himself. Jim knew his type. He had treated homeless people, more than he cared to count. And he knew for a fact that many chose to live that way. But why? He didn’t get it. The street was hard. Cold. Dangerous. Why would any man choose to live that way? Jim lowered his chin and hurried on his way. The old man called out to him. Jim gave his practiced “I work hard for my money” look and kept moving, but he felt something stir in his belly. He shook his head and kept going, but the old man called out again.
“Sir,” he said, his voice harsh and gravelly. “Please.”
Jim couldn’t help himself. He stopped, turned, and walked over to where the old man was sitting. The aroma of unwashed flesh assaulted him. He took a step back and said, “I don’t give money to strangers.”
“Please—” The old man stepped out of the shadows and into the glow of the streetlight. His clothes looked threadbare and dirty. His overcoat was ripped and torn. One eye, a dark brown marble speckled with gold flecks, stared at Jim with a deep penetrating gaze. The other looked frosted over, as if left outside on an icy cold night. “Please,” he repeated. “I’ve nothing left. Nothing.”
“Sir?” Jim said. “I’m in a big hurry. What do you want?”
“I want you to understand…I didn’t choose to be here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I, I’m late for a meeting. I really have to go.”
“I’m a human being.”
Jim sighed. Glanced at his watch. “Okay,” he said, tilting his head toward the diner across the street. “Are you hungry?”
“That I am.”
Jim glanced at his watch again. “I’ll buy you a meal if you’d like, but I’m not giving you any money.”
“Thank you, sir.” The old man smiled as he took Jim’s hand and pumped it. “God will bless you for this.”
Chapter 11
“Yeah, sure thing,” Jim mumbled, as the elevator carried him to the fifth floor of police headquarters. “God needs to bless me after all that’s happened this week. I can’t believe this.” His palms felt slippery. Cool. “I’m being investigated?” He rubbed them against his pant legs and waited anxiously for the doors to open. “Investigate J-Rock—” The elevator stopped. The doors parted. “He’s the killer.”
Jim stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall to a large brightly lit room packed tight with metal furniture and file cabinets. A dozen or more people sat at desks with phones to their ears. A few more stood about in small groups talking. All seemed to be wearing some type of a weapon.
So this is Crime Division.
Jim spotted Rico standing on the other side of the room talking with a red-faced man in a gray suit. Rico saw him. His hand shot up. Jim took a deep breath and proceeded across the room. He could feel his heart pounding as he approached.
“Where have you been?” Rico said, a slight edge to his tone. “We thought you weren’t coming.”
“You said seven-thirty.”
“Jim, I said seven.”
Rico’s red-faced companion smirked and stepped behind a small gray metal desk. He had short red hair and shamrock green eyes. His trunk appeared solid but with a slight paunch around the middle. Jim could tell by the color of his cheeks that he had a blood pressure problem. He sat down and raised a bushy red eyebrow as if waiting for Jim to come up with a good excuse.
“I’m sorry, I got held up,” Jim explained, glancing back and forth between the two men. “One of the bums down on the Boulevard stopped me…he was hungry.”
The leprechaun rolled his eyes. “Did you feed him?”
“Yes sir.”
“Jim,” Rico jumped in. “This is Detective Sean Murphy. He already knows about your run-in
with the Crew. I’ve asked him to cut you some slack on this, but—”
“Mr. Stockbridge,” Murphy interrupted. “Sit down please.”
Jim glanced at Rico and took a seat.
“First of all,” Murphy continued, “let me offer my condolences. I understand that the paramedic killed over on Core Street last night was your friend. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“However, your tardiness doesn’t boost my enthusiasm for helping you. I have a hard time believing that, under the circumstances, you could find any reason to keep me waiting. Do you have any idea how close you just came to being arrested?”
Jim glanced at Rico then returned his gaze to Murphy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
Murphy’s phone rang.
“Yeah, it’s Murphy. Cancel that order to pick up Stockbridge. I found him. What? Stockbridge. S-T-O-C...that’s right...yes.” Murphy looked at Jim and raised the same eyebrow. “He’s just arrived.” Murphy hung up the phone and continued talking without slowing down. “Mr. Stockbridge, can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you thrown in jail for aggravated assault?”
“Yes sir—” Jim felt his stomach tighten up. “The Core Street Crew, sir. They killed my partner.”
“And?”
“In cold blood. I had to do something.”
“First of all, you didn’t have to do anything. That’s our job. Second, if you had let us do our job, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Third, from what I understand you had alcohol on your breath at the time of the assault, and buddy, there are about a half a dozen officers out there who think you’re smoking crack!” Murphy paused and glanced at Rico. Rico was staring at his shoes. Murphy offered a heavy sigh, rolled his eyes, and then shook his head and continued. “All right, I must be out of mind, but I’ll play, for now. Before last night, had you ever met this J-Rock character?”
“You could say that.”
“How do you mean?”
“We, my partner and I, we saved his life once.”
Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1) Page 7