by Rick Reed
While Liddell called Angelina’s cell phone, Jack filled in the other members about her involvement. They agreed that Garcia would be an immense help. If she agreed.
Liddell got off the phone and smiled. “Fuck Double Dick and the mayor he rode in on,” he said. “Her exact words.”
“Let’s start again early tomorrow,” Jack said. Then, remembering that Crowley had driven for an hour, he added, “If that’s all right with you, Mark?”
Crowley grinned. “Well, I was thinking of heading down to the riverboat and trying my luck anyway.”
Liddell took out his cell phone. “I can get you a free room at the casino hotel,” he said.
“Can you get me some playing money, too?” Crowley asked, unashamedly.
Liddell just rolled his eyes.
He’d been surprised that there was nothing in the newspaper about him beating that Indian woman at the motel. Eddie could tell he’d hurt that woman badly. He’d beaten and stomped her unconscious, and there was a lot of blood. So much, in fact, that he’d had to stop at a nearby car wash and spray the blood off his boots. Surely the cops were combing all the cheap motels trying to identify him. But it had been three days since the killing at Kids’ Kingdom and there was plenty in the newspaper about that, but not a thing about the motel.
In a way it pissed him off that he’d rushed out of his room and spent his dwindling cash supply to lay low. If he’d have known the police didn’t give a shit about some Indian broad, he’d have just woke her up, dusted her off, and given her a few bucks for her trouble.
He had laughed the incident off, but Bobby had gone ape-shit at the time. There you go thinking with your dick again, Bobby had said. Are you trying to get us caught?
Eddie wasn’t trying to get them caught. But he wasn’t going to take any shit off some fucking motel maid either. He was beginning to think that Bobby had lost his nerve, and that wasn’t good. It bothered him that Bobby was so quiet. Quiet unless he had something bad to say about the way Eddie was doing things.
If Bobby wasn’t the only family he had left, he’d tell him to go to hell. But it had always been him and Bobby against everyone else—when they were kids, when they grew up, while they were in prison, and back on the street. Bobby was the only one he could count on. He wanted to tell Bobby how he felt, but he knew Bobby’d just tell him he was acting gay or something.
Eddie looked at the newspaper on the table in front of him. DETECTIVE MURPHY STILL ON SUSPENSION, the headline read.
“Do you think they figured it out?” Eddie asked his brother. “Do you think they pulled Murphy off the case? Or did he get scared and quit?”
“Eddie, get your head outta your ass,” Bobby said. “They think we won’t finish this if they pull his ass off the case. They think we’re weak, or stupid, or both.”
“What are we gonna do, Bobby?” Eddie pushed the newspaper off the table and onto the floor with the fast-food containers and empty beer cans.
Bobby looked at him and shook his head sadly. “Whining don’t get the job done, bro.”
Eddie winced at the reprimand. There Bobby went again saying shit that the preacher used to say. “I ain’t whining, Bobby. This was your idea in the first place.” Eddie was getting mad, building up some steam as he spoke. “So why don’t YOU quit complaining and calling me dumb and come up with a fuckin’ idea?”
Bobby didn’t seem to notice Eddie was mad. Or if he did notice he didn’t seem to care. He just sat on the couch and rubbed at his right eye with a knuckle, like he had something in it or had an itch. Eddie had noticed him doing that a lot lately.
Finally, Bobby stopped rubbing his head, and said, “Okay, here’s the plan.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jack sat in his Jeep, behind his cabin, the engine running. He wanted to check on Katie, but the last time he’d spoken to her she had broken down crying and then wouldn’t tell him what was wrong.
He made up his mind to go inside and put his feet up, have a beer, try to relax enough to think this stuff through. He’d call Katie. See which way the wind was blowing.
He stepped out of the Jeep and hit the lock button on the Jeep’s key. Some part of his mind connected hitting the button with the sound the Jeep’s horn made, with the sudden blackness and pain that crawled behind his eyes. Then he was down.
Jack opened his eyes and a tide of pain washed over him like a debilitating hangover. He was nauseous and could feel himself spinning and floating. He could see a shadow moving across the moon, but he couldn’t tell if he was sitting, standing, lying down, or even alive. He wondered for a moment if he’d had a stroke, but the pain behind his ear told him different.
And then it started raining, and something was buzzing inside his head, over and over, like a stuck record, finally settling into separate noises, muffled words, then nothing at all.
When he opened his eyes again, the pain was still there. The moon had come out from the shadow, and the spinning had stopped. It was no longer raining. He tried to lift himself up and felt something click off inside his head.
“If you killed him, Eddie, the game’s over bro,” Bobby said.
“He ain’t dead, Bobby. I seen him being put in the ambulance,” Eddie said. He pronounced ambulance am-boo-lants. “Besides, I only hit him the once.”
Bobby sat on the rocks at the edge of the river. The same place where they had watched Jack’s cabin the first time. Bobby was shaking his head, but Eddie didn’t want to hear any more of his shit, so he said, “You were the one that said we needed to shake things up. Get him mad so’s he wouldn’t quit.”
“Ain’t this just fucking dandy,” Bobby said.
“Jack. Jack,” the voice said softly.
He squinted his eyes open just a slit. The light was dim. He was vaguely aware of noise, talking in the background, something rattling, a muted laugh, a cough.
“Oh, Jack,” came the voice again. It sounded familiar. His eyes closed again, and he eased back into the friendly darkness.
“Welcome back, pod’na,” Liddell said, seeing Murphy open his eyes.
Jack looked around and realized he was in a room, in a hospital, in daylight. It was hard to mistake the mint-green paint and the hospital smells.
“What happened?” he asked, cutting his eyes instead of turning his head. The back of his neck felt like a piece of wood.
“Somebody whacked you in the head,” Liddell said. “You’ve been out of it for a while.”
Jack motioned for Liddell to come closer. Liddell scooted his chair closer, and Jack said in a low voice, “Get me out of here. No more hospitals.”
“I don’t think that would a good idea, sir.” The nurse had appeared from out of nowhere and stood at the bottom of Jack’s bed. “You’ve had a serious concussion.” She moved around to the side of the bed and offered him a sip of water from a Styrofoam cup with a straw sticking out.
Jack took a sip, and the coldness caused a spear of pain to shoot up the back of his throat and into his skull.
“Can you tell me your name?” she asked.
“Mud,” Jack replied.
“What day is it?” she persisted.
Jack just looked at her. She made a note on his chart.
“One last question, Mr. Mud,” the nurse said, and Jack tried not to smile, but did, and it hurt. “Do you know who the President of the United States is?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” Jack answered. “They’re all a bunch of assholes.”
“Yeah, he’s back to his normal self,” Liddell said with a chuckle.
The nurse took the chart and left the room. Jack knew the doctor would probably be in soon to tell him all the things he couldn’t do for a while.
“Get me out of here,” he repeated to Liddell.
“Let’s talk to the doc first, Jack.” Liddell handed him the morning newspaper.
Jack looked at the date, then up at Liddell’s concerned face. He’d been out for two days.
“I told you tha
t you got whacked,” Liddell said.
“What with? A truck?”
“Doc said it might’ve been an axe handle or something. I’ll let him explain.”
“Katie?” Jack said, and then thought how strange it was that his first concern was about Katie and not Susan. Katie wasn’t even talking to him.
“She’s fine. She’s been up here a lot. Marcie and Susan, too.”
Jack closed his eyes again and felt the room tip slightly.
“Don’t go into the light,” Liddell said.
“Fuck you,” Jack said and looked at his grinning partner. “Where are my clothes?”
Liddell ignored him and explained the condition he’d found Jack in.
“Clothes,” Jack said again and tried to sit up. He didn’t make it. The room was spinning.
“Susan and Katie went to the cabin yesterday and brought a clean set of clothes for you,” Liddell said.
“So who found me?” Jack asked. “Wasn’t that old guy with the dog was it?”
Liddell laughed out loud this time. “No. His luck has gone away. I found you, buddy. Again. It’s getting to be a habit with us.”
Liddell was referring to the incident a few months back when Jack had nearly bled to death. Jack’s fingers unconsciously traced the scar that ran down his neck and chest, and he thought about how he had cheated death not once, but twice before. And how he would have died back then if Liddell hadn’t somehow tracked him down and stanched the flow of blood until medical help got there.
He closed his eyes, but it made the dizziness even worse. Thoughts flashed through his mind about how he had chased the robber down an alley, lost sight of him, and then saw the discarded shotgun on the ground. It had been raining, coming down so hard he couldn’t see ten feet in front of him, couldn’t hear anything but the heavy droplets pinging on the metal roofs of buildings on either side of the alley. Then an arm, a face, something slashing down. Jack opened his eyes, not wanting to see the blade coming at him again. He had to get his mind around something else and said, “Was it raining again?”
“What?” Liddell said.
“When you found me, was it raining?”
Liddell’s mouth pinched into a tight line, and he said, “Get some rest. I’ll fill you in later.”
Jack closed his eyes and slept until the doctor came in.
The doctor was a small man with dark hair and a short growth of beard on his chin. He asked the same questions the nurse had asked. The doctor didn’t have a sense of humor either.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jack was in the hospital for another full day while they ran tests, MRIs, X-rays, and probed and prodded his nether regions before the doctors finally gave in and released him. He was still having dizzy spells, but that was the least of his worries. It had been almost a week now since the killing at Kids’ Kingdom, and there had been no other incidents, but also, no new leads.
Liddell had picked him up at his cabin this morning and driven him to Two-Jakes, where the others were scheduled to gather in the war room. As Liddell’s unmarked Crown Vic pulled up in front, Jack felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The familiar glass façade of the main restaurant wasn’t comforting anymore. It felt too open, too exposed.
“You okay, pod’na?” Liddell asked.
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Jack answered.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Liddell asked, and displayed his middle finger to Jack.
“You’re a fucking riot, Bigfoot.”
Vinnie was waiting at the front door to let them in. He locked the door behind them and then rushed away toward the kitchen without saying anything. He knew when Jack was in a mood, and he knew when to disappear.
As Liddell and Jack entered the war room, Jack looked around. The only new face was that of Angelina Garcia.
She gave him a sympathetic smile and said, “You don’t look too good.”
He had news for her. He felt even worse than he looked. This morning when he’d dressed he noticed that he had dark rings around both eyes and the roof of his mouth was tender.
A round of greetings and sympathies was given before they settled down to business. Mark Crowley asked the question they had all been thinking.
“Do you have any idea who it was, Jack?”
Jack knew that Crowley was, of course, referring to the remote possibility that it could be the killer they were hunting. Jack didn’t know how to answer. He felt that he knew who the killer was. It was as if the name was just out of reach of his conscious mind. But whoever clobbered him was a shadow.
“I really can’t say,” Jack answered and could see the collective disappointment in their faces. “One minute I’m getting out of my Jeep, and the next I’m in the hospital.”
“We do have something, though,” Liddell said, looking at Jack.
Jack gave a nod, and Liddell continued.
“I already told you all that I had been calling Jack, and when he didn’t answer I went to his cabin to talk to him, and that’s when I found him on the ground.” Liddell took a breath and looked at Jack again. Jack looked embarrassed and got up and left the room.
When he was gone Liddell cleared his throat and continued.
“Well, there’s some things I didn’t tell you folks.”
So he told them. And when Liddell finished the story everyone remained silent until Mark Crowley stood up, anger in his face. “The bastard urinated on him?”
Liddell felt like shit. Some sick fuck had almost killed his partner and then had pissed on him while he was down. He hadn’t been there when Jack needed him, and it didn’t set well.
“Yeah, that’s what I said, ain’t it?”
Crowley saw the red creeping into Liddell’s face and said, “Hey, I didn’t mean anything bad. Sorry if I sounded insensitive, but I just can’t get my mind around someone doing that. You know?”
“Forget it, Mark. I’m just a little touchy. But…” He paused and looked at everyone. “I don’t want none of you talking about it around Jack. He’s not even supposed to be on his feet, but the guy’s too stubborn to lie down.”
Tony Walker asked the obvious question. “Did you keep any of that stuff for me?”
Liddell looked chagrined.
“Tony, we can’t use it. I didn’t even make a report, so it would never be usable as evidence.”
What he said was true, but Liddell still had Jack’s soiled clothes. He had bagged them at the hospital and put them in the refrigerator in his own garage. He wanted Jack to file a battery report, but Jack wouldn’t budge.
“But if we can match the DNA to the evidence from my case, at least we can be sure it’s the same person,” Mark Crowley said.
Liddell looked at him directly. “Your partner wasn’t almost killed. The reason I waited to do anything until now was to be sure it was what Jack wanted. After all, it was his head that was caved in. If he don’t want to make a report, he don’t have to make a fucking report.”
Crowley stood his ground.
“I just want to be sure what we’re doing here, Liddell. It feels like we’ve crossed some kind of line. I don’t want to see this guy get away with what he’s done while we all lose our jobs—or worse—for doing things outside the system.”
Liddell understood exactly what Crowley was saying. They had crossed the line. If Double Dick got wind of this informal alliance and what they were doing, they’d all be charged with obstruction of justice. But he also knew he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, and that what they were doing was the right thing. The system wasn’t working. Double Dick had assumed the driver’s seat in the investigations and was driving like an old woman with cataracts.
“Don’t worry, Mark,” Liddell said. “If it comes down to it, I’ll swear you were never here.”
Crowley shook his head. “I’m not saying I won’t keep helping, Liddell. Man, I’m just worried that we could be getting too far over the line.”
“I know, Mark,” Liddell said. “Sorry I got angry.�
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Mark Crowley leaned forward and said, “Okay. Let’s all agree that none of us will do anything illegal. We’re all doing this on our own time, so we haven’t done anything really illegal yet. Except maybe violate some departmental rules, so let’s keep it that way. Right?”
And they all agreed. Garcia had been listening to all of the talk closely and had not said that maybe the men hadn’t broken any laws, but she had stepped way over the line when she hacked into the police department’s computer system and was even accessing confidential federal and state databases. She was a professional and didn’t take breaking laws lightly, but the bastards they were after didn’t care about breaking laws, didn’t mind killing kids, and she would be damned if she let them get away with it.
Jack entered the restaurant kitchen and found Jake Brady doing something at the stove, his back to him. Besides being his partner in Two-Jakes, Brady had been in Jack’s life so long that he was like a second father. At sixty-eight years old, he was as strong as Liddell and a little taller, with thick arms covered in coarse red hair.
Brady was mumbling something, or maybe humming, or even singing; it was hard for Jack to tell the difference sometimes because of Brady’s gruff voice. He started forward, but a wave of vertigo overtook him, and he held on to the wall behind him.
His hands shook, and his head felt like his skull would split. He closed his eyes to block out the pain and gasped when he saw something shiny flashing toward him. He flinched and felt the bite of the blade cut through his face and neck and deep into his chest. He opened his eyes, and it was gone—the pain in his head, the dizziness, the burning in his neck and chest. He looked up to see Jake Brady staring at him with concern in his eyes.
“What is it, son?” Brady said.
“It’s nothing, old man,” Jack said and tried to smile. “I just realized how hungry I am.”