by J. P. Bowie
“He sounds like a helluva guy.”
“He was—a helluva guy.” Nick’s voice broke slightly. “You know, I’ve always tried to come across tougher than I really am. I guess it’s my way of dealing with being a gay cop. You put on the fierce look, the intimidating stare-down, and people back off. Martin just used to laugh when I tried that on him.”
“That’s because he knew you.”
“Yeah, he knew me.” Nick ran his hand over his eyes, feeling the moisture there. “Sorry…”
Phelps leaned forward, placing his clasped hands on his desk. “When Martin died, did you blame yourself in some way?”
Nick stared at the wall at a point above Phelps’ head. “I blamed myself for the shitty way we said goodbye that day. He would have died even if we’d had sex in the car at the airport, but at least I’d have that to remember, instead of the crap I gave him that morning. Then when I got home, he had left a message apologizing to me. I sat there and played that message over and over, and I knew I’d never forgive myself.”
“That’s what you have to let go, Nick.”
“I know, I know.” Nick rubbed his face with his hands. “Just before Sam was killed, he broke up with a guy he’d been seeing. I told him he’d get over it and he said, ‘You never did,’ and he was right. I can’t get that memory out of my mind. When we took on the assignment that got Sam and John killed, I was glad of it—the assignment, I mean. I thought that it would help me forget just how miserable my life had become since Martin died. And it did help, for a while. But now it’s all come crashing back in on me. Martin gone. Sam gone. It just doesn’t make any sense…you know? Like nothing’s working out anymore.”
“You have to let go of your anger, Nick. Nothing is going to seem right until you do. You’re angry because people you held dear have been taken from you. That’s understandable, but at some point you have to let go and move on.”
“I’ve tried, Doc, I really have.”
Nick fell silent and Norman Phelps let him sit quietly for a moment before he asked, “Have you thought of the future? What you might want to do now?”
Nick nodded. “I’ve been thinking I might apply for a transfer to New York.”
“Why New York?”
“Well, close friends of mine just moved there. Jim Hollister; we were in high school together. He and his wife, Donna, they’re like family to me.”
“You have a sister…”
“Yeah, Doreen. She won’t like it, but she’s so wrapped up with her kids and all. I just have this urge to get out and try to start over.” He paused for a moment, then seeing the expectant expression on the doctor’s face, he continued. “I owe Doreen a lot.” He told Phelps some of his family background; about his mother dying when he was still a kid, about his dead-beat father, how Doreen had practically raised him, and how happy he’d been when she had found a good guy to love her. “Best thing that ever happened was when Rich, my brother-in-law, came into her life.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“I wouldn’t know—and I sure as hell don’t care.”
“Do you blame him for your mother’s death?”
“Well, let me put it this way.” Nick’s face became grim. “The man never did a day’s work in his life after he married my mother. He thought his Irish charm was enough to excuse his laziness and the fact he was a drunk. We had no insurance, and when she got sick, he took off. I think if I ever ran into him…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be pretty.”
Before he knew it, the session was over and Phelps was scheduling another visit for the following week.
“Doc, thanks.” Nick held out his hand. “You must have thought I was a total jerk, earlier.”
Phelps took his hand in a warm grip. “What do you mean, ‘earlier’?”
His good-natured laugh made Nick smile. “So, a comedian in a shrink’s clothing, no less.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Nick,” Phelps told him. “If you need to talk in between times, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
The session with Norman Phelps had brought a lot of what Nick had been hiding for a long time finally to the fore. As he drove away from the doctor’s office, he found himself grudgingly acknowledging that talking about the things that still troubled him had indeed been beneficial.
Talking… Something he and Martin had done a lot of over the course of their time together. Open communication, Martin had insisted, was the key to a successful relationship. Partners should be able to share their innermost thoughts—no matter how inconsequential they may seem. It had taken Nick a long time to find his comfort zone in that aspect. Never much of a talker, he had always preferred to listen. That way, he reasoned, he could learn more about people—and who wanted to hear what he had to say anyway? He soon found out that Martin did, as his lover broke down Nick’s reticence about voicing an opinion.
“Everyone’s voice is important,” he’d told Nick, early in their relationship. “I want to know what you think, whether pro or con, whether you agree with me or not. You are important to me, so what goes on in that head of yours is important too.”
After Martin’s death, Nick had found himself clamming up again, finding it difficult to express himself, and certainly not baring his soul to even his closest friends. Only Sam had he let in, and his friend had listened with compassion and sympathy in his eyes. But now, Sam was gone too…
Nick stopped at a nearby florist’s shop and bought a bouquet of red roses. He then drove to the cemetery and checked the directory. He knew, of course, where Sam lay, but had no idea where Joseph had been buried—or if he had even been interred in the same cemetery.
An attendant moved forward asking if he needed help.
“Yeah, I’m looking for the grave of Joseph Garcia. He’d have been buried in the last couple of days, I think.”
“Garcia, Joseph…” The attendant ran his finger slowly down one of the pages he’d flipped to. “Yes, he’s here.” He gave Nick directions to the gravesite. “It’s on the west side, Plot 225.”
Nick nodded his thanks then walked the short distance to where Sam was buried. The funeral flowers had been laid to one side and the earth freshly raked. As yet, there was no stone, but Nick knew it would read, “Killed in the line of duty.” He pulled a couple of the roses from their cellophane wrapper and placed them on the dark brown earth.
“Bye, Sam.” His voice caught in his throat. “You know I miss you, buddy. I only wish things could have turned out better for you and Joseph. I know you believed there’s something better after this shitty life. Right now, I’d like to believe that too—just so I’d know you and Joseph are together again…”
Nick didn’t believe in the “afterlife,” though at that very moment he wished he did. Sam had, on occasion, kidded him about it. “Sure now, you being a good Irish Catholic boy, and not believing in Heaven or Hell,” he’d joked, his expression full of mischief. “What would your family priest say, begorrah?”
“He’d say he knew I was a lost cause the day I asked him why he was wearing a dress,” Nick had replied straight-faced, and Sam had rolled his eyes and said a couple of Hail Marys in mock dismay.
Despite everything, Nick found himself smiling at that memory. “Sam,” he whispered, “I really will miss you, buddy.”
Carrying the remaining roses, he walked quickly over to the far side of the cemetery where he’d been told he’d find Joseph’s grave. He stood staring at the narrow strip of earth surrounded by banks of flowers and for the umpteenth time since Martin died, he found himself thinking how fragile life was and how easily it could all be taken away.
“Sorry Joseph,” he said, laying roses on the earth. “Sorry I didn’t get to know you better. I was remembering how Sam used to kid me about being a ‘heathen.’ He said one day I’d find out he was right—and I sure hope he was…”
What a boon to believe that one
day all of them would meet again—he and Martin, Sam and Joseph. What a concept, he thought, standing up and making his way through the rows of gravesites.
Just one more stop…
The stone read, “Martin Keller 1967-2001. Loved by everyone who knew him.”
“Hey Martin,” Nick murmured. He knelt and laid the last of the roses at the base of the stone. “Look, I think I’m going to be leaving Pittsburgh real soon. Too many bad memories here now—and you’re not around for me to vent on.” He felt the tears prick the back of his eyes. “You understand, don’t you? I’m going to New York, try to make a new life. Wish me luck…” For a long time he simply stared at the stone bearing Martin’s name, then he bowed his head and let the tears flow.
§ § § §
Nick went forward with his plans to transfer to New York despite the opposition he met from his superiors and his friend Andy Hawkins. Andy could just about understand why Nick wanted to move away. “What with all that’s gone down,” he’d said. “But, Noo Yawk?”
Nick tried to explain his reasons—his friends Jim and Donna having moved there—but Andy, sounding hurt, had argued with him about those reasons.
“You’ve got friends here, family too—your sister Doreen, Rich, the kids. You got me and Margo. Who do you know in New York beside those two, huh?” Andy had never liked Jim Hollister’s wife Donna, considering her too “uppity,” as he called her.
“I’ll be fine,” Nick had told him. “And I’ll call you when I’m in town to see Doreen and the kids. We can get together for a beer…”
Strangely, when his transfer to New York was approved, he’d found it almost as hard to share the news with Norman Phelps as he had with his sister Doreen. He’d ended up liking the guy very much. In each successive visit, he’d felt himself opening up just a bit more, finding it easier to talk about things he’d once considered no one’s problem but his own. Just before he left for New York, Nick asked Norman to join him for a drink and was somewhat surprised when the man politely turned him down.
“I thought we’d become friends,” Nick told him, trying to hide his disappointment.
“We have, Nick.”
“Well?”
“Okay, I’ll level with you.” Norman stood and walked round his desk to where Nick sat. “Not that this is going to change your mind about leaving, and as you’re a patient of mine, I don’t have the right to say what I’m about to say.”
Nick looked up at him, smiling but puzzled. “What the heck are you talking about?”
Norman knelt down so that his eyes were level with Nick’s. “Nick, over the past several weeks, I have grown fond of you—too fond of you. If this was not our last session, I would have to have recommended you start seeing someone else.”
“Doc…” Nick looked at him, his eyes widening.
“You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s way too soon for you to be interested in anyone else—I’m probably not even your type.”
“Doc…” Nick said weakly.
“Let me just finish. You’re a great guy, Nick. You have your problems, sure, but you’re going to be just fine. You’ll meet someone, one day, who will make you very happy. I just wish that guy could have been me.” He stood up and Nick rose from his seat to face him. Nick remained very still as Norman Phelps put his arms around him and kissed him gently on the lips. “Good luck in New York,” he whispered. “Think of me now and then, won’t you?”
Chapter Four
Laguna Beach: Present day
As Nick had walked from the office to his car that day, he could scarcely believe what had taken place. He figured he had to have been deaf and blind not to have seen Norman’s growing affection for him. His confusion was made easier by the fact that he had never seen Dr. Norman Phelps again. They had talked on the phone a couple of times after Nick had moved to New York, but Norman never knew that what he had prophesied had come true. Nick found himself wishing that he had called him to let him know that he had indeed found the guy who made him happy.
“Nick…” Monica’s voice on his intercom brought Nick back from the past. “Uh…it’s lunchtime. I’ll be out for about an hour, if that’s OK?”
“Oh, yeah go right ahead, Monica. Thanks.” Nick rose from his desk and stretched his stiff muscles. “Been sitting way too long,” he muttered to himself. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that it was indeed lunchtime. He punched the number for the gallery and smiled as he listened to Eric’s mellow voice.
“Peter Brandon’s Gallery. How may I help you?”
“Let me count the ways,” Nick said, his voice low and husky.
“Hi. You must be hungry.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Only when you’re hungry,” Eric replied, chuckling. “Wanna meet for a bite?”
“Uh huh. Only, I’m expecting a call. Can you pick something up and bring it over?”
“Hmm. Well, I did have this other invitation to lunch at the Ritz-Carlton—but gee, you make your offer sound so much more inviting. So, I’ll be right there!”
“Thanks, Eric. I’ll show how grateful I am when you get here.”
“That’s why I love you. See you in a few.”
Nick was smiling as he put the phone down and walked over to the window, throwing it open and breathing in the fresh, slightly salty air. Nick liked living in Laguna Beach, even though it was as different from Pittsburgh and New York as it could possibly be. He missed his friends, Jim and Donna, Andy and his wife Margo, and he missed his sister Doreen, her husband Rich, and their kids. But he had friends here in Laguna; more importantly, he had Eric, and that made everything all right. He thought Norman Phelps would be happy for him.
He turned away from the window as the phone rang. Glancing at the ID screen he grunted. “Hey Tom, whatcha got for me?”
“So, here’s the scoop.” Tom’s voice sounded even more nasal than usual. “Garcia had help on the inside.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah, two guards from all accounts. They’re up on charges already, dumb schmucks. One of them said Garcia was heading for Florida, trying to get to Puerto Rico, but word is he’s still in Pennsylvania. Cops have the roads and airports under surveillance.”
“You talk to Andy?”
“Yeah. He’s shipped the wife and kids out, and he’s pretty much living at the precinct.”
“I’m glad he took this seriously.”
“He had no choice, Chief’s orders till Garcia’s caught. So that’s all I got, but I’m still working on it.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“So, you like it out there in Caleefornia?”
Nick chuckled at Tom’s take on Arnold, the Governor. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch.”
§ § § §
Pittsburgh: Same day
Francisco Garcia looked carefully at his companion, and then at his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced with satisfaction. The disguises they had been provided with were perfect. It changed them sufficiently enough that either one could escape detection by even the most keen-eyed cop or airport official. Now he was free to carry out what he had sworn to do every day of his captivity. He would avenge his son Joseph’s death, and he would set Alfredo free. He knew that the tasks he had set for himself would take every ounce of his cunning and ingenuity—but the need for revenge burned deep in his heart and had done so since the day his son had died. He still blamed himself for Joseph’s death. For the past three years, as he had festered within the confines of the state penitentiary, he had suffered the deep remorse of having put his son in harm’s way.
If only he had not insisted the boy accompany him to the meeting on that fateful day. He had never asked him to do that before; he had always kept Joseph apart from the necessary negotiations that were an integral part of his “business.” But Joseph had become rebellious and distant and had to be brought to heel. Perhaps, Garcia had thought, it was time for him to understand where the money that paid for
his education and good life came from. It would do him good to see what his father and brother had to face in order to provide all that he took for granted.
Garcia winced now as those memories jarred in his mind. He turned to the third person in the room. “You have the IDs?” he asked, looking at the shabbily dressed man who stood watching him, a wary look in his eyes.