Just as obvious is the fact that they both know there’s no actual way he can do that.
“You’ll get your damn money,” Spiers mutters. “Just keep your asses out of our homes.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“When was the last time you slept?”
The question precedes the squeal of the hinges on the front screen door by only a moment, the thin wooden frame opening wide. Even without turning around, I recognize both the voice and the even strides slapping against the wooden porch.
A shoulder pressed firmly against the same support pole with my name and Amy’s carved into the bottom of it, one corner of my mouth flickers slightly. Remaining in position, I wait until Glenda appears in my periphery before replying.
“Looking that rough, huh?”
A smirk is her first response. “Simple math, actually. Based on what you told me, you had to have driven through the night to get here. And I can’t imagine you slept much the night before getting to her.”
My gaze aimed out over the grounds, I remain silent, contemplating the question.
In the last sixty hours, I’ve slept maybe three. Not exactly quality, each of those was spent lying on the flatbed of my old truck, trying to keep agitation with Mikey for showing up unannounced at bay.
Right now, I’m okay. I’ve done many stretches longer than sixty before, some under much harsher conditions.
But those were all in different times, moments when I was still in the life, used to such things.
And it’s not like I’ve gotten any younger.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“She was awake briefly,” Glenda replies, “but too weak to do anything more than take in some fluids and fall back asleep. By morning, she should be well enough to talk.”
Grunting softly, I nod my head. Despite every part of me still wanting answers to the untold number of questions I have, there is no point in pressing it tonight. Especially if the quality of what we’ll get is suspect.
Staring out, I am careful to keep my back to the light of the house. Preserving my night vision, I stare at every shadow, listen hard to every rustle of leaves.
Of the entire world, this is one of the few places I have ever felt safe. Truly believed that nothing bad could befall me, that once the gate across the driveway was shut, no evil could penetrate.
Little more than the delusional wishes of a child, the time since leaving has taught me that no such thing exists in this life. That no matter how careful or prepared we might be, there is no way to ever truly fortify against those bent on destruction.
All we can do is prepare ourselves in the best ways possible to prevent it.
Or, in my preferred manner of doing things, eliminate the threat.
Starting tomorrow, Amy will be awake. We will be able to see what that was all about at the hotel. Why she had needed to reach out after so long, pulling her daughter and this place into the fray.
How in the hell she ended up married, her husband being the one that had her pinned down atop the bed.
I can start to formulate a plan, devising a way to make this all go away. Get rid of the man and the problems he represents before anything more can befall Amy or this place.
Until then, all I’m left with is standing watch. Trying to impart that same sense of safety I once felt on these grounds to the girls tucking in for the night out back. To Amy and her daughter.
“You should rest,” Glenda says, her voice barely penetrating my thoughts, earning little more than a grunt in response. “Nothing will harm her here. There’s an alarm on the gate and motion sensors around the perimeter.”
My eyebrows rising slightly, I resist the urge to glance over. Apparently, the upgrades that were recently made included more than just structural changes.
“I’ll even stay up and watch, if that’ll help.”
The thought of forcing Glenda to stay up on my behalf does nothing to settle my nerves, though I can’t rightly argue with her observation that it has been days since I last rested. Or tamp down the feeling that I have no idea what lies in the future.
My reserves are doing just fine for the time being, but there is no way of knowing how long I’ll need to last moving forward. People are counting on me, the thought of losing stamina or focus due to fatigue unacceptable.
“Always rest when you have the chance,” I whisper.
“Rest and fuel,” Glenda counters. “Two things that no amount of training can ever replace.”
The words are ones I’ve heard a thousand times over the years, the wisdom in them no less now than the first time they were uttered.
“Couple of years ago, I met this old Native American,” I whisper, my gaze never leaving the spread before us. “Still believed in the ancient ways.”
The man was actually Mayan, though I am careful not to say as much. No matter how much I trust Glenda, I cannot put her into the position of knowing anything beyond the essential. If anybody should ever come looking — whether from my past or from whatever this turns out to be — I need to know she is safe.
That they won’t target her to get to me.
“Visions and signs and what not. Indicators of what lay ahead.”
I’ll never forget coming up on the solitary figure out in the desert. Dressed only in ragged shorts, he was tanned to the point of having leather for skin. His form had withered such that his skin no longer fit his body, hanging from his bones like a loose shawl.
He must have been ninety if he was a day old.
“I had respected the man because of his age and because that’s what you taught me, but I remember thinking that it was nothing more than a bunch of shit. The kind of thing people from the last generation still clung to, trying to preserve a way of life long gone.”
Again, there is no judgment as Glenda sits and listens. Her gaze locked on a parallel path to mine, she merely prompts, “And now?”
Exhaling slowly, I push myself away from the post.
“Something’s out there,” I whisper. “I don’t know what exactly, but it’s coming.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Hector Lima hears the car pull up from his perch on the couch inside the redone church. Seated in the same spot as when Jensen Spiers showed up earlier in the day, he lifts his gaze away from the phone in his hands and stares at the side entrance.
Even though he has a good idea of who it is — as much from the time of night as the fact that the car pulled right up to the side of the building — he still feels a tiny uptick in adrenaline. Lowering the screen before him, he flicks a glance to the table, knowing that a balisong knife is secured to the underside, ready to be accessed if needed.
As fast as the thought arises, it drifts away as the sound of a key being pressed into the lock can be heard. A moment later, the dead bolt holding it closed turns with a click, the door opening wide, revealing Bocco on the threshold.
His eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of Lima sitting on the couch, he says nothing until the door is shut behind him. Shrugging off his zip-up hoodie, he tosses the garment over the arm of the adjacent sofa and drops down into it, the springs on the cushions moaning softly under his weight.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Bocco says. The words are free of inflection, merely an observation.
“Seemed a good idea,” Lima replies. “After Spiers showed up trying to slam it on the table earlier.”
An indecipherable sound escapes Bocco as he nods. Glancing toward the door, he says, “No sign of him out there.”
Nodding in turn, Lima shoots his gaze toward the door as well. Staring at it, he can almost see the silhouette of the man standing there, his hands all balled up into fists. Walking in, tossing the pictures they’d left for him on the table, as if he might actually do something about it.
When Lima had first read about the Special Investigation Division Spiers was trying to get off the ground, he’d almost laughed. For a single detective to think they could siphon off an entire facti
on of crime and make it their own was absurd. It reeked of hubris, of someone that was tired of being nothing more than a paper pusher and wanted to make a name for themselves.
After seeing it, he hadn’t given things a second thought.
Not until Luis, anyway.
“How about the Eldorado?” Lima asks, already knowing the answer but wanting to check just the same.
“Naw,” Bocco replies, cracking a quick grin, nothing more than a flash of white teeth before his features go neutral again. “Them boys are gone.”
An assessment Lima can’t help but agree with. Neither of the boys they’d rousted the day before were more than twenty-four, each weighing south of two hundred pounds.
They were kids, looking to impress the only people they outranked on the social ladder. If they managed to snag a few followers, maybe even grab a couple customers along the way, all the better.
Not significant threats, but definitely the kind of shit they didn’t need in their neighborhood.
Looking the other way was what had put them in this position to begin with. It was why they were sitting here now as a pair instead of a trio.
The slow erosion of outrage, the moving target of what they were willing to accept climbing forever higher.
“Think Spiers will actually have the money?” Bocco asks.
Blinking twice, Lima rolls his gaze back toward the opposite couch. He considers the question a moment, again recalling the encounter earlier in the day.
“You see that boy’s face?” Lima replies.
“Yeah,” Bocco agrees. “Looks like we’re not the only ones that he’s in deep with.”
“Exactly,” Lima says, voicing for the first time the thought he’s been having all afternoon. How that will affect their interests, he hasn’t yet deciphered, though the threat it presents is clear and real.
Opposite him, Bocco sits silent. Outside, they can hear a car roll by, the sound of bass thumping out a steady rhythm. Not strong enough to be a nuisance, but certainly sufficient to be heard.
“You think maybe he’s going to try to play the two sides against each other?” Bocco eventually asks. “Us and whoever did that to him?”
The second part of his statement is unneeded, Lima knowing exactly what he meant. All evening he’s been having the same thought, thinking it would be directly in line with everything they know about Spiers.
Show up and make some empty threats while at the same time trying to get others to handle the real heavy lifting.
“Possible,” Lima concedes. “Maybe even probable.”
Staring off, he lets his eyes glaze. He thinks about what it must have taken to take down Spiers and put his enormous partner in the hospital.
“And,” Bocco asks, “how do we handle that?”
Chapter Forty
The chill of the early morning picks at my wet hair as I step outside onto the porch. A week into September, the overnight lows are already starting to dip, easily the coolest temperatures I have experienced in years. Goose pimples line my arms as I walk to the edge of the front porch and extend my hands high overhead. Lacing my fingers, I lengthen my spine, letting the pose lift me onto my toes.
On the horizon, the first faint glow of sunrise is just visible. Passing through the thick tangle of forest surrounding the spread, long shadows play across everything. The dew lying heavy on the ground shines slightly.
In just a few minutes, the entire world will be aglow, the moisture reflecting the bright light like a thousand tiny crystals.
“How was your workout?” Glenda asks. Opening the screen door just far enough to push the left side of her body through, she stands with it pressed against a shoulder.
A woven cardigan sweater covers her top half, hanging open in the middle. The sleeves are a couple of inches too long, covering the palms of her hands, fingers wrapped around a hand-fired mug.
“Sorry,” I reply. “Was trying to be quiet.”
“You were,” Glenda replies. “I was awake and heard you head out.”
The space was what we referred to as a gym, though it was much closer to a scene from Rocky than 24 Hour Fitness. Sectioned off from the haymow in the top of the barn, the place has a speed bag, a heavy bag, and a pull-up bar. Free weights that were manufactured at some point in the sixties. A treadmill that is self-powered, using rollers and manpower to last as long as the person on it.
Reclining my head slightly, I counter, “Doesn’t look like the place has gotten much use lately.”
“It hasn’t,” Glenda replies. “We put a new one in the bunkhouse when we built it. New equipment, fans, electricity. You should check it out.”
The thought borders on repulsive. Just considering it, I can imagine the gyms in places like LA or San Diego, sitting right on the street, sun-bleached Barbies in spandex and makeup riding elliptical machines for everybody that drives by to see. Water fountains and vending machines every fifteen feet. The constant distraction of music or television.
No thanks.
Give me an empty barn and the smells of alfalfa and horse shit anytime.
“I’ll do that.”
A crooked half smile pulls back part of her mouth, the wry grin letting me know she doesn’t believe that for a second. “I like your hair that way.”
I flick a glance to the wet tendrils swinging free along the side of my face. With it like this, the shaved portion of my head is hidden from view. For the brief time I choose to leave it hanging down, one can’t tell I don’t have a full mane.
“Thanks.”
Once more she looks at me, staring as if taking things in for the first time. “In a little while, I need to make another supply run. It’s supposed to be Marianne’s job this month, but if you want to get out and stretch your legs...”
“Of course,” I reply, not because taking the trip into town is anything special, but because I have no doubt the reason for it is the unexpected arrival of the three of us on her doorstep.
“Okay,” she says, nodding slightly before jerking the top of her head to the side. “After, then.”
“After what?” I ask.
“After we talk,” she replies, the door closing as she drifts inside. “Amy’s awake.”
Chapter Forty-One
I’m not a hugger. In fact, I hate being touched.
And if I’m touching you, it likely isn’t a pleasant experience.
Even still, it takes everything I have not to rush forward from the side of the bed and snatch Amy up. To wrap an arm around her poorly dyed hair and pin her face against my shoulder, squeeze her as snugly as I can, let her know that I’m here and she’s safe.
Come what may.
On a knee beside her bed, I instead grasp her right hand in both of mine. A few feet away, Glenda has pulled a chair up beside her, clutching her left. At the foot of the bed sits Amber, her body turned so one foot is up off the floor, a hand on her mom’s leg.
Outside, the sun has risen high enough to shine like a spotlight through the front windows, the room bathed in an almost ethereal glow.
Which, again, I may just be imagining. Or it might actually be the presence of Amy.
Propped up in the bed, she leans back at an angle. Her weight supported by a bevy of pillows, her body is pitched to the side, ensuring there is no direct pressure on her kidneys. After two days of travel and recovery, her hair is matted flat, the faint smells of sweat and grease on her skin.
Kneeling beside her, I have no way of knowing what the last few years have held for her. I know she stayed in Los Angeles, that she married a cop, and eventually something bad enough happened to make her call me.
I know she had her kidney punctured and endured surgery in a makeshift operating suite.
What I can see is all that and more visible on her features. The sun and the color of her hair do a lot to hide things, but certain telltale features are obvious as my gaze traces over her, taking her in.
Things like the bags hanging under each eye, the skin shaded dark. And
the fine lines around her mouth and nose. And the creases along the underside of her neck.
All things that hint at a life of stress and worry. Little stuff that someone thirty years old shouldn’t already be experiencing.
“Welcome back,” I say, giving her hand a small squeeze.
“Welcome home,” Glenda adds, doing the same across from me.
Turning her head in time with our voices, Amy smiles. Not quite the same effervescent megawatt grin I remember, the effort it takes to do so obvious, but a smile nonetheless.
After three years and the last couple of days, it’s a start.
“Hey, mom,” Amber says, shaking her leg slightly.
“Hey, baby,” Amy replies, drawing in a deep breath. Moisture rises to the surface of her eyes, the sun shining off it. “You okay?”
“Yeah, mom, I’m okay,” Amber replies. It is clear there is much more she wants to say, that she is visibly fighting the urge to embrace her mother as well, to climb right up into the bed beside her.
There will be time for all that. Hours and days and weeks for them to do that very thing, enjoying the relationship I’ve always imagined they have.
But right now, we have more pressing matters.
“Amber, can you give us, like, fifteen minutes with your mom?” I ask. Turning to face her, I can see the objection on her face, mouth open, about to fly back at me.
Just as surely as she can see the look on my face, relaying that it wasn’t actually a question.
“And then you can have the rest of the day with her,” Glenda inserts. “We promise.”
Jaw still slightly agape, Amber looks to each of us, her gaze eventually landing on her mom at the head of the bed.
“It’s okay, honey,” Amy says. “They just need to talk to me about some stuff for a minute.”
A full moment passes, nobody saying a word, before Amber gives her mother’s leg another squeeze. The bed wheezes slightly as she stands, crossing to the door and closing it behind her without looking back.
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