“I’ll give you something for the pain when you’re ready to leave.”
Turning my head to the side, I stare again to Amy. I watch her heart rate monitor for a moment, almost making myself believe I can hear the steady pulse of it.
“Go ahead and get it now.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hey, Uncle J,” Bryce Lucas says as Jensen Spiers approaches. Gone is the previous exuberance he had when Spiers stopped by the house earlier in the day. The unbridled joy, causing him to hop up and down, about to burst with energy.
In its place is a sort of resolved solemnity. The type of mode everyone seems to gravitate toward in hospitals, no matter the occasion.
The bare tile floors. The antiseptic smell in the air. All the people in hospital gowns and breathing tubes, colostomy bags and walkers.
If given the choice, Spiers would rather meet his end in a sketchy hotel room like the one at The Sundowner than on the table in a place like this.
Sitting in a chair outside Wilton Lucas’s hospital room, the boy is tilted to the side, one foot just barely reaching the floor. A knit blanket is wrapped around him, a thin hospital pillow behind his head.
On the seat beside him is an iPad, a menagerie of color shining from the screen, one of the few points of light in the hallway.
“Hey, buddy,” Spiers says, his voice low. Holding his hand up, he asks, “How you doing?”
Bryce returns the gesture, the high five downgraded to little more than touching palms. “I want to go home.”
“I know, buddy.”
“I want all of us to go home.”
Unsure how to respond, Spiers stands, his mouth agape. In the last couple of hours, he’s begun to put the search for his wife and whomever the other woman was into action. He’s imagined everything he’d say to them. Everything he’d like to tell that bastard Hector Lima.
He’s not prepared for speaking with a child. He has no idea what to say in this situation, his relationship with his own stepdaughter tenuous at best.
“My God, Jensen, are you okay?”
The voice saves Spiers from having to consider the conversation with Bryce any further. Turning toward the door to the room, he sees Lucas’s wife Esme leaning against the frame.
Just north of thirty, she is much younger than Spiers and his partner both, and it shows. The embodiment of the California stereotype, she has hair sun-bleached blond, her skin the color of honey.
A few inches shorter than Spiers, she is dressed in yoga pants and a zip-up hoodie, the front held in place by her arms folded across her torso.
Her eyes are red and puffy, as are her nostrils.
Reaching up, Spiers touches his fingertips to the plastic mask stretched across the upper half of his face. Cinched into place by a pair of Velcro straps, already the contraption is hot and itchy.
How many days he manages to give the thing before casting it aside is anybody’s guess.
But it still seems like a decent tradeoff to going into surgery.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be okay.”
He considers adding that it was a shattered nose, that they got him, too, but he doesn’t bother. Not with the woman’s husband lying in there now with multiple gunshot wounds. Not with having no idea who the woman was who did it or where she might be now.
Pressing her lips into a tight line, Esme drops her gaze to the floor. She nods once, her blond hair swinging free from behind her ears, before she looks up, red lines spread like spiderwebs across the whites of her eyes.
“What...what the hell happened?” she asks. “One minute, I’m in the kitchen making lunch. The next, he’s running off with you to—”
Stopping just short of the punchline, she flicks her gaze over to Bryce. Following her gaze, Spiers can see the young boy staring intently their way, listening to every word, not so much as glancing to his iPad.
As kids his age are prone to doing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Just been a long day.”
It has been, for all of them, Spiers’s threatening to go much longer still before he can slow down.
“Has he been awake at all yet?”
“A little bit,” Esme replies. “In and out a couple times through the night.”
“That’s good news,” Spiers replies. “Damn good news.”
Given the placement of the wounds, Spiers wasn’t worried about the shots themselves putting him down. At the time he’d helped load him into the ambulance, he’d been much more concerned with blood loss and possible brain damage.
To say nothing of the obvious nerve and muscular shortcomings that were probably on the horizon.
Still, it was good news. The first in a day filled with things from the far opposite end of the spectrum.
Managing barely a bob of her head, Esme adds, “He’s still pretty sedated, though. Doesn’t do much more than mumble.”
“How are you doing?” Spiers asks, knowing already how the answer will go, but needing the question to set the stage for his next move.
Bracing, he watches as a handful of reactions float across Esme’s face, not the least of which is loathing. One that seems to arise with greater frequency the longer he and her husband work together, he can only imagine what things will be like moving forward.
One thing at a time, though.
“How am I?” she asks, her eyes bulging slightly. Blood flushes her cheeks, a torrent about to be unleashed, before she again glances sideways to her son.
Pulling up short, she visibly swallows, a lump traveling the length of her throat.
What all is wrapped up with it, Spiers would rather not think about at the moment.
“We’re hanging in there.”
Fishing into his pocket, Spiers comes out with a rumpled wad of cash, some of the edges stained with the combined blood of him and his partner. He thrusts it toward her.
Behind the plastic mask, it is difficult to force a look of sincerity. Even more so with the pain that accompanies each breath and the slight tint of fog that seems to hang over everything as the last of the morphine lingers in his system.
“Here, why don’t you take Bryce down to the cafeteria for some ice cream or chocolate milk?” Flicking a glance over to the boy, he adds, “Do you some good to get up and walk around for a while, too, I’m sure. I’ll stay here with Wilton.”
For an instant, it appears that Esme can see right past the ruse. That she gets he is only trying to get rid of them for a few minutes, needing to talk to his partner, no matter the state he is in.
Her features cloud, more vitriol about to be sprayed, before it passes. A sigh allows her shoulders to slump, her form growing smaller before his eyes.
“Actually, that would be great. I could really use some coffee.”
“I’m sure,” Spiers repeats, again extending the money. “And it looks like Bryce could use a pick-me-up too.”
Glancing down uncertainly to the bills, Esme looks up at him. More moisture pools in the corners of her eyes as she draws in a deep breath, the edges of her nostrils pulling inward.
“I know this is one of those things you try to tell yourself is a possibility every time he leaves the house, but you just never think...”
Leaving the thought unfinished, she pushes away from the side of the door. Snatching the money from Spiers’s hand, she doesn’t so much as look up at him, crossing out into the hallway.
“Come on, buddy. Let’s go take a walk.”
Remaining rooted in place, Spiers keeps his head down. He listens as they head off in the opposite direction, following the sound of their feet shuffling against the bare tile. Not until they make the corner, any noise at all falling away, does he raise his gaze and take a step forward into the room.
The words of Esme just a few seconds before come to mind as he does so, the place a snapshot of the images that every person to ever wear a badge sees in their sleep. Whether it be themselves, a partner, a colleague, or just a fellow officer, every last one has at on
e point or another been faced with the reality of what they do.
A reality made all the more poignant in a place like Los Angeles.
The room is rectangular in shape, the entire space designed for functionality. The centerpiece of it is the bed positioned in the center of the far wall. On either side, plastic siderails have been raised. The mattress is elevated at a pitch to keep blood from pooling around the injury to Lucas’s chest.
Crowded around the headboard is a series of monitors and breathing apparatuses, all emitting a faint glow from their faceplates. A few beep in even intervals.
Shuffling forward, Spiers sees the chair that Esme had been sitting in. Her purse and a shoulder bag are both on the floor behind it. A near-empty Diet Coke bottle and an out-of-date copy of a gossip magazine are on the floor between the front legs.
Seeing and dismissing all of that in an instant, Spiers instead focuses on his partner lying on the bed. Long known for his dedication to the gym, for looking like he’d been chiseled from a slab of white and blond marble, his form seems to have withered by a factor of three.
Like a balloon deflated, his chest has receded back to even with his shoulders. His arms seem barely large enough to hold the various cuffs and sleeves wrapped around them.
His chin lists slightly to the left, his eyes closed.
“Hey, partner,” Spiers says. Moving in short, choppy steps, he slides into the room and drops into the chair, the cushion still warm from Esme. “How you feeling?”
Pausing, allowing for a response if there is to be one, Spiers hears nothing in return save the steady pulse of the heart rate monitor.
“Hell of a day, huh?”
For the second time in as many minutes, the words of Esme return to him. Twelve hours before, it was a normal Sunday. She was home making lunch.
And then he showed up.
Lucas would have been irate if he’d gone to The Sundowner without him. He would have pissed and bulled and generally been a dick to be around for the next few days.
But he would be okay. He’d be at home in bed right now. And so would Esme and Bryce.
This day, this entire week, is on him. It is on him for bringing them all into this and for not doing a better job of managing things. For allowing the situation to grow past his reach, other people encroaching on what they’ve so carefully put together.
That ends now.
“Wanted to come by and give you an update,” Spiers says. “Let you know where everything stands.”
Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. He keeps his voice low.
“We were able to pull traffic footage on the woman that did this to us. Clear shot of the make and model and plate number. Have a BOLO out on it as we speak.”
He pauses, knowing even as he says it that the information won’t turn out to mean anything. Because of the way things went down, too much time passed between the shooting and them finally getting the word out.
The woman his wife and stepdaughter left with was a pro. She’d clearly had training, had been called in to take them away.
The car is a ghost at this point. It is either currently on the rack at a chop shop somewhere or is actively burning in an abandoned lot.
The plates were registered to a guy that died three years ago.
“Didn’t get much of an image on the driver,” Spiers says. “The one who pulled the trigger,” motioning to his own face, he adds, “did all this.”
No matter how many times he’s tried to replay the incident in his mind, there are too many holes to nail anything down definitively. One moment he was atop his wife, the next the world was flipping end over end.
And it only got crazier from there, the combination of the concussion and the drugs doing little to help.
He doesn’t bother saying a word about Lima. There is no need to add anything there, him being the catalyst for what had taken them to The Sundowner that morning to begin with.
Clearly, nothing has moved forward on that front, there being no need to belabor the point. Doing so will only make him angrier, and already he is having a difficult enough time staying focused.
So much, he wishes that his partner would wake. That he would listen to everything being shared, synthesize it and bounce some ideas back. Add any recollections he had to the mix.
Something that might help nudge things along.
“Anyway,” Spiers says, placing both hands down on the arms of the chair. His bottom no more than rises from the seat before the steady rhythm of the monitors shifts.
Not a lot, just barely enough to be noticed. An extra tick between pulses. A clap that lands on two and a half instead of three.
And more than enough to push a ripple of sensation up through Spiers’s core. Dropping himself back into the seat, he shoots a hand out. He grabs Lucas by the wrist, squeezing softly.
“Wilton? You with me, buddy?”
The beeping picks up again, dropping on one and two and holding steady. Lucas’s lips part, a slight moan passing through them.
“What?” Spiers says, bringing himself forward. Folded into a ninety-degree angle, he hovers just above his partner’s face, only inches separating their noses.
Again, Lucas’s mouth opens, his eyelids fluttering just slightly.
“Taaaaag.”
Chapter Thirty
I am just past Salt Lake City as the sun crests in the east. Sitting in the dead center of the Rockies, the glow of it arrives long before the actual orb, the sawtooth pattern of the peaks out the passenger side cutting haphazard chunks through the bottom of it.
The instant it appears, the entire interior of the car is filled with golden light, the temperature rising a few degrees. Reaching out, I cut back on the heat, careful to keep the warmth even inside the car.
Leaving Shag’s the way we did was not optimal. I knew it as it was happening, have spent most of the night reaffirming it a thousand times over in my head.
The curse of the open road. A shitload of time to think and not a damn thing to do about any of it.
Especially with two sleeping people nearby. No music on the radio, no listening to trucker banter over the wire. Nothing but internal monologue for more than eight hours.
And considering how much I love the sound of my own voice...
For as bad as loading Amy up and driving away was, the night has done what we needed it to. We’ve been able to put more than six hundred miles behind us, shoving aside any lingering concern for LAPD or even California Highway Patrol.
As pissed as they might be about what happened in that hotel room, I highly doubt they’ve put out a national call for us.
Besides, aside from maybe our physical descriptions, it’s not like they’d have anything to work with. That Explorer is now cut to nothing more than spare parts and scrap metal. The Forester we’re now in is silver in color and has Wyoming plates. The cruise control has been set at exactly five miles an hour over the limit since we left. We’re all wearing seat belts.
Out here, we might as well be invisible, just one tiny fish in a sea of moving parts.
The sideways glare of the sun continues to rise. Bright as hell, it floods into the car, my right eye pinched almost shut to keep it out. Propping my elbow on the middle console, I cup my hand along my cheekbone, left wrist draped over the wheel.
“Mmf,” Amber moans from the passenger seat, the sun strong enough to penetrate her sleep. She shifts her body sideways, leaning against the door. Tilting her head back against the window, she remains in that position only a moment before the vibration becomes too much and her chin dips forward, her eyes blinking open.
Another groan passes through her nostrils, the telltale sound of a slumber that has ended too early.
“Good morning,” I say, looking over at her before turning back to the road.
Getting her into the front seat the night before was not an easy sell. No matter the eight hours we had spent inside the makeshift waiting room at Shag’s, that initial conversation was the mos
t concentrated discussion that had taken place.
The rest of the time, she’d merely stolen sideways glances, examining me like an animal at the zoo.
For my part, I pretended not to notice, letting her go right ahead. There is no way I can try to wipe away the initial impression I made in that hotel room, nor can I try to tell her that what she saw was wrong.
All I can do is present myself to her in as straight a manner as possible, allowing her to hopefully draw the correct conclusions on her own.
Whether she likes me or not, I’m not much interested in. But I do need her to know that she isn’t in danger with me. Nor is her mother.
At some point, we’re going to need gas. Or food. Or something that brings us in contact with other people.
And nothing raises red flags like a child that is clearly petrified of the person she’s with.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“Just past Salt Lake City,” I reply.
Her brows come together slightly, her mind still waking. “Utah?”
“That’s right.”
A moment of silence passes as she considers the information. “What’s in Utah?”
One corner of my mouth curls upward, returning to place as fast as it rose. To someone that’s lived the life I have, I can’t help but laugh at the question. Even more at the automatic response that comes to mind.
A shitload of white people and mountains.
“We’re just passing through,” I say. “Be out of here in about an hour.”
“And then where?” she asks.
“Idaho.”
I’d recognized the hidden meaning the instant I flipped through the file Mikey had given me. It was what had made me take my phone out and call back within seconds of seeing it, why I have been driving like mad for what feels like a solid day ever since.
Why I keep kicking myself, even now, for wasting precious time not opening that file as soon as Mikey handed it to me.
“That’s where your mommy and I grew up.”
Twenty years ago, Amy Lee Salway and I had first met at a place just outside of Ketchum, Idaho. Together, we spent the better part of our childhood there, effectively hidden from the outside world.
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