The First 48

by Tim Green

  “There it is,” he said. “Look.”

  He was pointing out the window, nodding his head. The road was climbing now, heading for the west entrance to the dam.

  Jane narrowed her eyes and peered through the drizzle of the driver’s-side window. Out on the dark water, a small boat bobbed up and down on the whitecapped waves. It was being blown right down the middle of the reservoir, straight for the dam. They rolled right past the two police who were now inside the white Jeep. Mark waved to them.

  Jane saw the cop behind the wheel look up and bobble his cup of coffee. She tried to make eye contact with him, turning around in her seat, but they entered the rotunda and it was too late. The half-dome gave way to the low stone wall that lined the top of the dam. There was the boat, tossing on the whitecapped water. On the other side was the deadly drop to the valley below.

  They were halfway across when Mark flipped on his hazard lights and slowed to a stop.

  “Come on,” he said. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the console, tugging her out of the truck.

  A car behind them stopped and honked. Mark signaled for the man to roll down his window.

  “My engine quit!” he yelled above the weather. “Can you go around?”

  The man nodded and waved. Mark waved back, smiling. He yanked Jane up onto the narrow walkway that ran along the northern lip. Wind and rain whipped through her hair. She opened her mouth to yell, but the car was already past.

  She turned to look out at the water. The boat was directly in front of them now, maybe three hundred feet out and being swept quickly their way. A car sped past going the other way, its horn blaring.

  Mark tugged her to the wall, two courses of massive stone. Jane’s stomach hit up against it. She lost her breath and leaned over. The drop made her queasy, and she grabbed the cool wet stone, digging her fingers into the crumbling joints.

  “It’s a handy devil,” he said, raising the sleek black weapon. “A Taurus 454 Raging Bull. It’ll punch right through both sides of that drum. When the boat hits the dam, these waves will tip it right over, and then . . . you won’t believe what’s going to happen.”

  He led her by the arm to a jog in the wall that afforded them some more room.

  Mark let go of her and leaned up over the wall. Steadying the gun with both hands, he took careful aim at the boat and fired.

  CHAPTER 68

  From the road, Tom saw the white Bronco stop halfway across the dam. He saw Mark Allen dragging his daughter from the truck. Her long hair whipped out behind her in the wind. White water crashed up against the dam, sending geysers of spray into the air. The trees suddenly cut them from his view. The split rotunda lay up ahead. Soaring pine trees swayed, shedding the rain down on the road in fat drops. Tom punched the accelerator just as a white Jeep put on its flashing lights and pulled out across the slick road, blocking the entrance to the dam.

  He clenched the wheel and slammed on his brakes. The truck slid sideways and slammed into the car. The horn went off. Tom grabbed his pistol and hopped out of the truck.

  A cop was rounding the back of the truck, a shotgun in his hands.

  “Hold it!” he screamed. “Put the gun down!”

  Tom looked at the cop. His dark blue jumpsuit was being quickly obliterated with spots of rainwater. Blood ran down his cheek. One eye was closed. The other was looking down the sight of a short-barreled shotgun.

  “The gun down! Now!”

  Tom raised his hands and looked through the truck’s window. The cop driving the Jeep was slumped up against the broken window. Beyond, he saw the dark shapes of two figures out on the edge of the dam. Jane and Mark Allen.

  “My daughter,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Now!”

  The cop was moving closer, the gun still aimed, trembling, ready to fire.

  Tom looked at the .38 held up over his head. He let it fall. It rattled off the wet pavement and under the truck.

  “Now put your hands on the car and spread ’em,” the cop said, turning Tom and kicking at his ankles.

  Tom put his hands on the Excursion and spread his feet. He could hear the cop fumbling with his cuffs. The cop grabbed one wrist and twisted it down behind Tom’s back. The angry pop of a pistol echoed off the water.

  Tom took a deep breath. His mind spun like a gyroscope. He twisted his hand, gripped the cop’s wrist, ducked, and did a neat pirouette.

  Rubber screamed. Metal smashed into stone. Jane opened her eyes. The patrol car from the far side of the dam had skidded to a stop, slamming against the stone wall ten feet in front of her. Smoke curled from the seams of the hood. An officer leaped from the car.

  Her ears exploded. She screamed and dropped to the stone walk. Her head rang. She looked up, dazed. The cop was down. Resting up against the wheel of his car. A hole in his chest. Blood bubbling in a steady stream. A dark stain. His head sagged.

  Jane looked over her shoulder. Mark was already leaning over the wall again. Instinctively, Jane covered her ears. He aimed and fired once more.

  Tom finished his pirouette and lifted the cop’s arm up against the joint. He cried out in pain. Tom flicked his foot. The shotgun sailed away. A kick to the nose. The crunch of bone. The cop groping in the empty space. His eyes nearly shut. Tom let go of the arm. He brought the force of his next blow up from his legs, pivoting his hips. Two hundred and sixty pounds behind the chop. A perfect strike. The soft spot between the second and third vertebrae. The first thing to hit the road was his face.

  Tom scooped the cuffs off the pavement. A silver Lexus Coupe pulled up, its wipers slapping. A young man with a crew cut and bulging arms got out. He shouted at Tom. Tom picked up the shotgun and fired over the man’s head. The man’s face lost color and he disappeared behind the car door. Tom dropped the gun and clapped one of the cop’s own handcuff bracelets on his wrist, then he dragged him to the front of the truck. The other bracelet went through the hitch ring under the nose of the truck’s frame.

  Tom scooped the shotgun back up on the run and rounded the truck in time to see Mark Allen kill the cop from the other side of the dam. He saw Jane fall, and a growl burst from his chest. He was sprinting again, closing the gap to get into accurate range. If he pulled up too soon and missed, he might not get off another shot.

  Mark Allen fired over the dam. Tom stretched his stride as far as he could. He pumped his arms. His face was screwed up tight. Rain spattered against him. The wind howled.

  He saw Jane rise up. She tackled Allen. The Taurus went off. Mark Allen slammed Jane to the ground and leaned back over the wall. He was aiming straight down now.

  Tom dropped to a knee and fired.

  CHAPTER 69

  The bullet spun Mark Allen completely around. Tom saw the splash of blood on his shoulder. Allen fell to his knees. He lurched sideways, then grabbed Jane around the neck. When he stood, she was his shield.

  “Drop the gun!” he shouted at Tom.

  Tom rose. He walked slowly toward Allen. Jane’s face was rumpled and red. Her eyes were swollen. Shut tight. Spilling tears as she shuddered. The rain was teeming down.

  “I said drop it!” Allen shouted.

  “Think,” Tom said as he stepped up onto the walkway, holding the shotgun out over the edge of the dam. “That Taurus is a five-shot. You only have one bullet left . . .”

  Allen looked confused.

  Tom was close now. Ten feet away.

  “You just stop,” Mark said, putting the gun to Jane’s temple.

  She moaned.

  “You have what I want . . . but I have what you need,” Tom said, hefting the shotgun. “You give her to me and I give you this. Here.”

  Tom reached across slowly with his other hand and gripped the barrel of his shotgun. He turned the stock toward Allen.

  “Go ahead,” Tom said. “Sun Tzu said, ‘If the enemy leaves a door open, you must rush in.’”

  Mark Allen smiled as he let Jane go, shifted the Taurus from his right hand to his
left, and reached for the stock. Tom watched Allen’s good hand curl around it and lock down on its grip. His finger slipped into the trigger guard.

  Tom sidestepped the barrel and yanked it toward him. The gun went off, the shot missing him by inches. Allen was falling toward him. Tom struck him under the chin with the palm of his hand, breaking teeth and bone.

  Mark Allen let go of the shotgun and dropped the Taurus. He stepped in and hooked Tom under his arm, lowered his hips, and tossed Tom onto his back up on the stone wall. Allen was on top of him. His hand was under Tom’s chin, pushing it back. Tom saw the water above the trees. The sky below. He heard Jane’s shriek, and his chin came free.

  Jane had Mark Allen by the back of his collar. She pulled and screamed. Allen’s face turned red. He gagged and raised up. His hand loosened on Tom’s neck. Tom swept it away. He arched his back, cried out, and threw himself up into a sitting position, twisting and pulling with his stomach muscles, struggling to right himself. He saw Allen down now on the stone walk, bending for the shotgun. Tom gripped the edge of the wall and launched himself forward, over the top of Jane.

  He struck Allen from behind and knocked him forward. Allen splashed into the puddles on the road, then spun. He had the gun by the barrel. He stepped forward, swinging it like a club.

  Tom ducked the blow and hopped backward, up onto the curb. Allen swung again, closing. Tom ducked again and grabbed the gun.

  The roar of the shot echoed out across the valley.

  Mark Allen stopped and blinked. He pressed his hands over his stomach. Blood gushed from the cracks between his fingers. He staggered, then lunged for Tom with outstretched red hands. Tom sidestepped him, stuck out his foot, lifted, and kicked as he struck Allen’s back with the palms of both hands.

  Mark Allen went up and over the wall, flailing for purchase, crying out. Jane lunged for him. Their hands somehow clasped. Jane was slammed down on the top of the wall. Tom grabbed her waist. He felt the force of Mark Allen’s weight, tugging them both over the edge. With a sudden lurch, Jane slipped farther, her hips now over the wall. Tom held on, the rough stone surface plowing up the flesh on his arms.

  Mark Allen was dangling by one hand. Jane had ahold of his wrist. Tom pressed his knees into the stone wall, fighting to pull them up. His arms burned. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his back.

  Then Mark Allen looked up at Jane, his bottle green eyes slitted.

  “You have the most beautiful eyes,” he said.

  His hand slipped free. Tom and Jane tumbled backward. They scrambled to their feet instantly and darted back to the edge. Fifty feet below, where the water crashed against the stone at the base of the dam, there was a white patch of foamy pink bubbles in the turbulent chop, but nothing else. A skiff with a black barrel in its belly suddenly slammed up against the dam’s side with a grating noise. The boat capsized and slowly went down. The barrel bobbed like a cork.

  Jane threw herself against her father, sobbing. Tom wrapped her in his arms and held her tight.

  EPILOGUE

  Tom wore a dark suit with a sharp red tie. He ran his fingers over the bristles of his fresh-cut hair. The jury had already given its guilty verdict and now all that remained was the sentencing. The federal judge was a gaunt man with a bald, olive-colored head and wide-set, intelligent hazel eyes. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles hung from his neck, glinting against the dark folds of his robe. He put them on and picked up a piece of paper off his bench.

  Tom inhaled deeply and looked over at the jury. Guilty. The smell of wood polish and dust cooked by the summer sunshine glaring in from the windows filled his nostrils, along with just the hint of his own nervous sweat.

  The judge cleared his throat.

  “Will the defendant please rise?”

  Tom stood along with the lawyers on both sides.

  “Because of the magnitude of the crime,” the judge said, “and the loss of life involved, I hereby sentence the defendant to life in prison—the maximum sentence that is allowed to me under the law.”

  Tom felt numb. He tried to force a smile onto his face, but couldn’t. He hung his head and let the noise of other people’s feet wash around him. When he felt the strong grip of a hand on his shoulder, he sighed deeply and turned.

  It was Mike Tubbs, thinner than he’d been two years ago after nearly dying from a loss of blood, but still big enough. His old friend offered a smile and his hand. Tom took it.

  “Congratulations,” Mike said. “On another one.”

  He wore a black suit jacket over a Lord of the Rings T-shirt.

  Tom shook his head as the two of them walked out together. He stopped and turned to see the man he’d just put away for life being led out a side door by two deputies. The man scowled at him with weird blue eyes under big, thick eyebrows. Tom felt the smile he’d been looking for begin to take shape. Just a little. He never wanted to appear smug. Even when he was right.

  On the courthouse steps, he addressed the media. Yes, the area was a safer place. Anytime you could thwart organized crime and a dangerous designer drug operation, you had to consider it an accomplishment for everyone working on the right side of the law. He thanked the ladies and gentlemen and rejoined his friend. They walked down the steps and around the building to the parking lot, where Tom’s F-150 waited in a reserved spot.

  “I found a new spot for my office,” Mike said. “Top floor of the old electric company building. I like it. Great digs. All brick. Like a castle.”

  “Those law firms I sent your way pay that good?” Tom said.

  “No more redheaded wives getting busy in the Motel Six.”

  “No more Home Depot trips either,” Tom said.

  “God, that poor bastard,” Mike said. “They ever find his body?”

  “Only his pecker.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Only a false knight lives without jest,” Tom said.

  Mike looked puzzled. “Malory?”

  “Redmon.”

  Tom started up the truck, still missing the big 350 with its dually tires. The whine of the diesel engine. Its ticks and its shakes. But the 150 was something he could afford on a federal prosecutor’s salary and still keep his boat. The old 350 had disappeared two years ago. Tom had reported it stolen. No one had ever seen it. Motorcycle Gang 101, as Mike liked to say.

  Less than ten minutes later, they stopped at the marina. The aqua green water stretched out in front of them as far as they could see. The emerald hillsides, rich with trees, seemed as permanent as formations of rock. Just the hint of a breeze worked to cool their faces and stir the thin layer of white dust blanketing the parking lot.

  Rockin’ Auntie was still in the same spot between the big sailers, still her ugly old self. Worn, but reliable as hell. Tom shed his jacket and tie, leaving them on the front seat of the truck. He unbuttoned his shirt and changed it for a Cornell Law School T-shirt. He waited until they were out on the water before he ditched his shoes and socks, wrapped a big towel around his waist, and swapped his suit pants for a loose pair of shorts. They were anchored in Tom’s favorite spot. Mike was putting sunblock on his arms, whistling to himself.

  “Talked to Jane today,” Tom said suddenly.

  “You did?”

  “I’m going down there next week on a case,” Tom said. “I told her I’d buy her dinner. Want to go down?”

  “Heard she got a promotion,” Mike said.

  “Two.”

  “She got robbed on the Pulitzer,” Mike said. “Next time I need to talk to the committee. Fuckin’ morons.”

  Tom sat down on the seat behind the captain’s chair and pulled out a small cooler from under the seat in the back. From inside, he removed a paper bag and took out a bottle of Knob Creek.

  “What’s that?” Mike asked. There was a hint of alarm in his voice.

  Tom held the bottle up to the light and chuckled, letting the sun bounce through the brown liquid, filtering it so he could look up at the sapphire sky without blinking. H
e took a knife out of the side compartment and used it to cut into the wax around the bottle’s neck. He raised it up toward Mike, who stood there stupidly with his mouth hanging open.

  “I found it in my old file cabinet,” Tom said. “Cheers.”

  He rested his arm on the side of the boat and tipped the bottle, its contents gurgling out into the pristine lake.

  “I thought . . . ,” Mike said.

  “No,” Tom said, taking up his fishing pole from beside the seat. “I just thought we might start marinating them even before we catch them today.”

  Mike smiled at him and began rigging his pole.

  As they cast their lines and brought in their fish, the sun began to move lower in the sky. For a while, they talked while they sipped their iced tea. But then they settled into the kind of comfortable silence that can only be enjoyed by old friends.

  Tom thought about that and said, “‘Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant.’”

  “That would be Socrates.”

  “Smart man,” Tom said.

  The sun soon melted into an orange pool of light and disappeared behind the western hill. The pop of their lures and the ratcheting spin of their reels filled the quiet. Only the laughter and cheers that came from catching the big ones spilled across the water and bounced back at them.

  After a long interval without any action, Mike cleared his throat and said, “Tom, I was meaning to ask you. . . . I mean, it’s none of my business, but you giving up drinking and all, I only ask because I care, but I was just wondering . . . about Ellen. Actually, Jane asked me . . .”

  Tom smiled to himself and tossed his line out. But instead of reeling it in, he let it float and gazed off into the shadows where the trees met the water and the light swayed in the day’s final dance.

  “Oh yes,” Tom said, his heart full and his throat tight. “We still talk . . .

  “It’s different now, though,” he said, taking a sip from his can of tea. “It used to be she came when I needed her, to build me up, or keep me from falling apart.