"We should've brought a picnic," she said, trying to lighten my mood.
I was still looking down at the map when I felt the first bullet ricochet off the back of her car.
Secada said nothing, but slammed the throttle down.
I spun around and saw a new, blue Ford pickup truck, no front plate, behind us. Two black-haired, Hispanic guys were standing behind the cab, harnessed to a roll bar in the back of the truck, both pointing thirty-ought-sixes over the roof of the cab. As I turned, they started firing again and almost immediately, the back window of the SUV exploded inward, raining glass on us.
"Faster!" I yelled as Secada took the narrow, rutted curves at breakneck speed.
Two more rifle shots cracked. I managed to unfasten the seat-belt and started firing back at them through her blown-out rear window. My Airlight Smith and Wesson snubie weighed less than a pound and was a good, easy carry piece, but it was so light it kicked like a mule, and its two-inch barrel had no accuracy at this distance. I wasn't hitting anything.
"What are you packing?" I yelled at Scout.
"Glock Nine. Fifteen in the clip! My purse!" she screamed back.
I grabbed for the bag, pulled out the gun, chambered it, and started unloading 9 mm rounds at the pursuing truck. The Glock had a five-inch barrel and was much more accurate. Immediately, the slugs began to slam into the truck grill. The driver swerved to avoid being hit, then took his foot off the gas and fell back, trailing us now by about a hundred yards, reducing my effectiveness. Every time the road straightened out, there were more shots from their long rifles. Pieces of Secada's car flew off, accompanied by whining ricochets. Then, without warning, a stake-bed farm truck full of produce appeared around a blind turn, coming right at us. Secada swerved to miss it.
Several more shots sounded. Secada yelled out as blood mist flew from her right shoulder and she lost control of the SUV. Suddenly we catapulted off the narrow, winding road into the rutted fields beyond. The left front tire went into a pothole and, in an instant, we flipped over and were rolling.
The next thing I knew I was being thrown around inside the Suburban unable to get my bearings until the SUV finally came to a shuddering, bone-jarring stop, tipped over on the driver's side.
"Gotta get out! We're easy targets in here!" I shouted, struggling to get up.
Secada was pinned underneath me between the steering wheel and the door. Her bloody arm hung uselessly at her side.
"Vengan! Andele!" someone yelled, and I heard both truck doors slam.
I finally pushed myself up by standing on the steering column. When I had enough leverage, I heaved the passenger side door up and open, then peeked up over the running board at the field behind us.
The two rifle men had untied themselves from the roll bar and were scrambling out of the truck. The driver was also out and aiming his gun around the front fender. I'd somehow managed to hold on to Scout's Glock during the crash and started cranking off rounds.
" Chingada!" one of them yelled and then immediately dove back behind the blue Ford pickup.
"Come out! Come out now and you no get hurt!" a man with a thick Mexican accent yelled.
I fired for effect, hitting nothing, until I was dry.
Secada must have been counting shots, because as soon as the slide locked open, she shouted, "Here!" and handed me up a fresh clip with her good hand. I hit the eject button, dropped the empty, and slammed the new clip home. I tromboned the slide and readied myself to start firing.
"Go out the back window, Scout. Head for the trees. I'll keep them pinned down."
Holding her bleeding shoulder, Secada struggled painfully over the seats, and finally wiggled through the broken back window. Once she was outside, I laid down a barrage of cover fire as she sprinted across the open field. As my slugs smashed into the truck, the driver jumped into the cab and plowed backwards away from me. My bullets bounced off the hood and grill, shattering the left side of the windshield until the driver careened recklessly to a stop behind a huge oak.
I scrambled out the back of the SUV and followed Scout across the short, open field, and up a low rise, toward a stand of poplar trees. She was noticeably losing speed and coordination, moving slower and slower. As I hurried to catch up to her, I heard the bark of both ought sixes. Then Secada fell.
"No!" I shouted. I finally reached her, scooped her up in my arms, and stumbled on.
The flat crack of more shots sounded and I felt a sharp pain in my back, then another slug tugged at my elbow. I knew I was taking rounds, but a sudden surge of adrenaline numbed the pain. The shots hadn't knocked me down yet, so I kept going, struggling up the slope with Secada cradled in my arms. I crested the hill and started down the other side. Secada's eyes were closed. Blood poured out of two deep wounds in her left side.
Then I felt a wave of numbness so overpowering that I could no longer control my body. Suddenly my legs gave out and Secada slipped from my grasp as the ground rushed up at me. Then I was tumbling downhill. I heard the distant sound of rushing water, which grew louder as I fell, until it became a deafening roar. Ice cold water flooded into my mouth and hammered my eardrums. I had come to rest in a cold mountain stream. I struggled to rise up, to locate Secada, but my arms would no longer lift my weight. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even get my face out of the bubbling tributary. I panicked as I suddenly realized I was about to drown in less than two feet of water.
Chapter 31
Slowly, gray images started coming out of the mist. SILvery silhouettes that shimmered like freshly-minted buffalo head nickels. A white-haired fatherly presence I couldn't quite remember peered down at me, his craggy face etched with curiosity.
Chooch and Alexa floated up like gray-white ghosts. I felt nothing. I was a spectator in a dark theater, watching this parade of colorless tintype people that kept changing into new forms from old memories. I saw the old Huntington House group home where I first knew loneliness and despair. Some of my foster parents came and looked down at me-welfare thieves who took money, then threw me back when I became too much bother. The people in these pictures would appear, sometimes move or even speak, coming to life for a minute, before being pulled back into the mist, getting smaller and weaker until they were gone. Then another image would arrive. Snapshots from my past. I watched, but was strangely detached as if this had all happened to someone else.
Then Secada was holding me, looking down, her dark eyes filled with love. Her lustrous hair hung in sheaves, framing both of us. She reached out and caressed me, pulling me near. Unlike the others, she was rich and colorful, close and warm. Her naked breast and strong arms caressed me. I felt safe. When she leaned down and kissed me, I suddenly began responding.
"Querido, listen to me," Secada whispered.
"I'm listening."
"I tried to keep my promise. But this attraction is too strong. I cannot be tu otra-your other woman," she whispered.
"I know."
I found her mouth and smothered it with kisses.
First, I felt a warmth, and then, without warning, a sudden searing pain. It started in my heart, then spread quickly across my chest, crippling my entire body. Far away I heard alarms and buzzers.
"Don't hate me, querido," Secada said.
"We're losing him. Get the crash cart!" a distant voice shouted.
And then the fog was back, swirling around me. This time I could taste it, burning in my throat like acid bile.
"I tried to keep my promise," Secada said, disappearing behind a new gray mist. As she faded, she whispered softly, "I tried. I really tried."
Chapter 32
Night.
I had no idea where I was. But far away, I thought I could hear the ocean crashing. I saw the shadowy contours of a sterile, boxy room, and tried to move my head to speak.
"Wheeerree…," I slurred, unable to form even a single word.
Then Alexa suddenly appeared, hovering above me.
"Shhh," she said, putting her finger to my lips
.
"Wheerrrree I ammsssshhh." Gibberish.
"Don't try to talk."
I looked up at her. I felt frightened and alone. Then another figure appeared behind her. Round, moon-faced, cherubic. I knew him from someplace. I couldn't remember where.
"Lay still," he told me firmly.
As I felt myself slipping away, I almost had his name. Tony something.
Chapter 33
The next thing I remembered, I was looking at a ceiling, studying the cracks in the white paint, again hearing the distant roar of the ocean. Or was it just the air conditioner? Light streamed through the window. I heard whispering, tried to look, hut couldn't move.
"Aye… Aye…," I croaked. Chooch and Alexa leaned over me.
"Dad," Chooch said, his face drawn into a frown.
"Aye… Aye…" I couldn't talk.
"Get the doctor," Alexa said. Chooch disappeared.
"You were shot two times. Almost drowned. A farm truck saw you go off the road. They came back and pulled you out."
As she spoke I vaguely remembered some of it. Secada rolling the SUV. Getting shot. Scooping her up in my arms as I ran.
Then a doctor was leaning over me.
"Mr. Scully?"
"Huh?"
"Can you hear me?" He reached out and touched my right hand. "Can you feel this?" he asked.
"Huh?"
"If you feel it, nod." I nodded. "And this?" He reached across to my left side, but I felt nothing over there. My left side seemed numb.
I closed my eyes and in a few seconds I was gone again.
When I next came to, it was dark. I could still hear the distant crash of the surf. I looked in the direction of the sound. The windows were arched, Spanish style. I had no idea where I was. I made a noise, then heard a chair scrape. In a moment, Alexa hovered over me again.
"Shane, I'm here," she said softly.
"Where?" I finally managed.
"Casa Dorinda."
No idea where that was.
She pulled her chair close and sat beside the bed, reached out, and held my right hand.
"I'm here. I'm with you, babe," she whispered. "Don't try to talk. Conserve your energy."
"Se-ca-da?" I finally managed.
"We'll talk about it in the morning. Go back to sleep." I closed my eyes and tried to remember what had happened. As I slipped away, disturbing images replayed in my head.
In and out, in and out. A knife flashed relentlessly. Underhanded and fast, prison style.
Chapter 34
Over the next two days, I was reintroduced to my life one little piece at a time.
Alexa was there, and sometimes Chooch and Delfina. A couple of times I woke up for a few seconds and saw the same old, white-haired, fatherly looking gentleman. What I'd thought was curiosity now looked more like disapproval. Somewhere around his second or third visit, I placed him. He was the retired head of the LAPD Internal Affairs Division who had twice tried to get me thrown off the job. I still couldn't remember his name. What the hell is that guy doing here? I wondered.
Once or twice, when I was between heavy doses of medication, my mind would actually start working again and through a hazy landscape of missing facts, I would remember the same string of events: The BlackBerry. Switching it with a young, arrogant man inside a restaurant. The shanking in the prison cafeteria. A necklace of ugly mistakes.
Sometimes during my lucid moments, Alexa would be there and translate my slurred questions, answering them for me. She told me Casa Dorinda was a private hospital up the coast in Santa Barbara.
I was slowly coming out of the fog, feeling stupid and exposed, loaded up on painkillers and sedatives. As my memory of the last two weeks slowly returned, it brought with it deep self-anger.
When I slept, my dreams were tortured accusations. Occasionally, Dr. Lusk was in the mix, Buddha-like and unemotional. "/ can't help you if you won't share your feelings."
Then one night I woke up at midnight, coming out of the drug-induced confusion like a swimmer from a muddy lake. I suddenly felt a new sense of clarity and control. Chooch was sitting beside the bed.
"Hi," I said, softly.
He leaned over. "Don't talk, Dad." He held my hand tighter. "Dad," he whispered softly. "You and Mom are all I have. You've got to get through this. You've got to do it for me. Okay?"
I loved him so much I suddenly had tears in my eyes.
"Try," I said, forcing the word out.
The next morning I was more or less back. Chooch and Delfina had returned to the hotel to get some sleep. People were tiptoeing in and out of my hospital room.
I looked over and saw Alexa reading a brown file folder in the corner. When we spoke, we settled for small talk and some personal housekeeping. How I got here, how close a call it had been. Apparently, I had actually drowned in that mountain stream. I'd flatlined in the ambulance, been revived by the EMTs on the way to the Corcoran State Prison Hospital, which was the closest medical facility. Our police badges had made it possible for us to be taken there. But I'd had a mild heart attack and then a mini-stroke two hours later. When I asked about Secada, Alexa told me she was in critical care. Her prognosis was guarded. Something in the way she spoke these words told me that was all I was going to get. Whether she was protecting me or what was left of us, I couldn't tell.
Over the next twenty-four hours I discovered the rest of it, picking up pieces, and fitting them carefully back into a broken mosaic of facts that, once formed, made a weird, unhappy picture. Alexa had cut through a mile of red tape to have Secada and me transferred here from the prison hospital at Corcoran. She knew that inmates at the prison changed the bedpans and hospital drips. As Secada had correctly surmised, if left there long enough, somebody would eventually hit the right number and we'd go End of Watch.
"How did you find this place?" I asked her.
"Captain Terra vicious," she said.
The silver-haired, disdaining ex-head of Internal Affairs. His name was Victor Terravicious, and he'd been known far and wide inside the department as Vic Vicious, which tells you something about him right there. He ran I. A. back when Alexa was the star advocate in the division. Vic was her first department rabbi and I always thought he had the hots for her.
The Terravicious family was one of those Southern Californian legends, like the Chandlers or the Hearsts. Vic's grandfather had been a successful gold prospector in the 1890s. The family mined its gold on Wall Street now. Victor had elected not to go into their huge investment banking firm, opting instead for police work. He finally pulled the pin in the late nineties due to a diseased kidney, and moved into an expensive senior citizen community in Santa Barbara. A quarter of a million got you a casita and full medical care for life. It turned out that was where I was.
Casa Dorinda, or "The Casa" as everyone here seemed to prefer calling it, was forty Spanish-style casitas and a four-story medical center complete with ICU, operating theaters, and a physical therapy wing, all of it nestled in amongst twenty rolling acres of tennis and shuffleboard courts with a nine-hole pitch and putt golf course.
Over the next two days, Alexa and I skated cautiously across the thin ice of our faltering marriage. Even though I had done nothing with Secada that I wouldn't have been willing for her to observe, the potential had been there. The desire. I knew that in this, I had failed us.
To her credit, I could see she accepted her share of responsibility. Alexa knew her lack of physical interest in me had strained our bond. There was plenty of fault on both sides. So we sat across from each other in this sterile environment, choosing our words with extreme care.
Alexa had also arranged to have Tru Hickman moved to a more secure wing of the Corcoran prison hospital, which was a bit like saying a chicken had been moved to the secure wing of the coyote compound. But she hadn't given up on trying to get Tru transferred to USC County and several times when I woke up, she was on her cell phone trying to get the CDC to approve the move. She didn't seem to be having much
luck.
There are some unwritten rules in police work. One of them is you always go to your wounded partner. When I learned that Secada was breathing on a ventilator only a few yards down the hall I knew that I had to see her.
I owed Scout the visit no matter the stress it might put on my relationship with my wife.
"I need to see Secada," I told Alexa one morning after a particularly long and weighty silence. "I want to go now."
"Okay," she said abruptly, and without comment walked out of the hospital room to arrange it.
Secada's parents were expected shortly. It had taken time to reach them because they'd gone to Midland, Texas, to visit relatives.
Alexa told me all this as she helped me into a wheelchair. Then she watched from the door of my room as a nurse pushed me down the hall. I was told I could not enter the critical care ward, but was parked where I could look through the glass into Secada's room. Scout's once beautiful body was now pillaged by drains and tubes. Her eyes were open and she looked across the room through the observation window at me. I saw bravery and resolve. She smiled and waved one hand feebly. We looked at each other through that glass until the nurse said I had to return to my room.
Later that afternoon, while Chooch, Alexa, and Delfina waited outside, I endured a scrupulous physical exam by one of the Casa's chief physicians whose nametag identified him as Thomas Briggs, M. D. After it was completed, Chooch and Alexa hovered at my bedside as the doctor gave me the results of the exam.
"You're a lucky man," he started out by saying. "The gunshot wounds didn't hit anything vital, so barring infection, those will heal up nicely. You were underwater for quite a while. Your brain was deprived of oxygen. The mild heart attack and mini-stroke came as a delayed result of that."
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