by Vicki Tharp
Martin mingled with a drink in one hand, not paying Jack any attention since the kid had arrived.
There came a loud crash. A woman screamed. Gil spun toward the sound, his heart ramping up a notch as his hand went to the butt of his gun beneath his suit coat. Then the laughter came, and one of the waiters bent down and started picking up the shattered wine glasses and setting them on the serving tray.
Gil turned back around, his eyes scanning, making sure that wasn’t some sort of diversion. Conversations had returned to normal levels, another song, the volume set low, played through the outdoor speakers.
When he was confident no external threat existed, he returned his attention to the pool to check on Jack.
He wasn’t there.
Burton came up to Gil. “Take fifteen. This is gonna be a long night.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“How should I—”
Gil pushed past him before Burton could finish the sentence. He jogged over to the deep end of the black bottom pool. Jack’s plate was still at the end of the board. He glanced down into the pool, but with the black bottom and the fading light reflecting off the surface, he couldn’t see the bottom.
Then the automatic outside lights clicked on, then the pool lights.
There.
Jack. At the bottom of the pool.
Gil didn’t hesitate. He didn’t take off his shoes or take the time to toss his cell phone or his gun. He dove in, kicking hard with his legs, pulling with his arms, the weight of his wet clothes restricting his movements making it a struggle to reach Jack.
Gil felt like he was trying to free-dive the wreck of the Titanic.
The pressure built against his eardrums, the steady thrum of his heart the only sound he could hear. Jack lay at the bottom of the pool, his eyes stark, his arms paddling, his legs kicking, but he barely moved.
Jack blinked, and a rush of bubbles escaped from his mouth. Gil saw the moment water rushed into Jack’s lungs, witnessed Jack’s eyes go wild, his body flail, his mouth open, as if to scream.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Gil kicked harder, and fisted his hand around Jack’s belt, pulled him against his chest and shoved off the bottom of the pool with all the strength he possessed.
Hang on, Jack!
Gil fought his way to the surface, not daring to think about how devastated Tessa would be if anything happened to her son. His mind couldn’t go there, not without threatening to shut him down. He pushed that terrifying thought into that box in the back of his brain reserved for all the horrors and tragedies and deaths he could do nothing about.
He broke the surface, grabbing the edge of the pool. Hands reached down, hauling Jack out of his arms. There was some shouting, but Gil couldn’t focus on the words. He climbed out of the pool and crawled the couple feet to where they had Jack laid out. Jack’s lips were blue, and there was no rise or fall of his chest.
Gil rolled Jack to his side, the water flooding out of the boy’s mouth. A quick touch of his finger to Jack’s carotid artery.
A pulse.
Faint.
Gil pinched Jack’s nose, tilted Jack’s head back and covered the boy’s mouth with his, blowing into Jack’s lungs. Once, twice. Jack’s chest convulsed. Jack coughed and gagged. More water came up. Gil rolled him to his side again.
“Jack,” Gil patted him on the cheek. “Jack, come on, son.”
Then Jack took a large heaving breath, then another and another, coughing and sputtering and crying. In the distance, Gil heard sirens. Jack’s color shifted from blue to gray to pale pink as oxygen returned to his system. Jack’s eyes fluttered as he started to regain consciousness. As much as Gil wanted to gather Jack up in his arms and hold on tight, as much as he wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay, he couldn’t.
He couldn’t risk being recognized.
This wasn’t a game.
This could be life and death.
Someone must have found Martin because he showed up about the same time the paramedics arrived. Martin started giving orders, and the guests fell away.
Gil made it to one of the patio tables before his knees gave way. He collapsed into one of the chairs, his forearms on his knees, his head hanging between his shoulders, water pooling beneath him.
His chest tight, Gil’s breaths came in harsh pants. It had nothing to do with his exertion and everything to do with how he couldn’t get that flash, that moment out of his mind when Jack couldn’t fight the overwhelming need to breathe.
The biggest mind fuck of all was that now that Jack was safe, Gil’s brain kept flashing the what ifs. What if he hadn’t found Jack in time. What if he had to tell Tessa her son was dead. She would crumble, she would shatter, she would never be whole again, and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing he could have done to make it any better.
Ever.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Gil sat back and looked up. Burton stood beside him, his expression a stoic shit-that-was-close.
“You all right?” Burton quickly regained his composure. His tone came out even, one of those questions you throw out when you know everything is okay as if Gil had stubbed his toe, but the tension around Burton’s eyes gave him away.
“Sure,” Gil said, maintaining the ruse. After all, the kid was supposed to be nothing to him, right?
Gil peeled off his suit coat and shrugged out of his shoulder harness, chlorinated water pouring out of the leather holster.
“How do you know the kid?”
He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his pants and set it on the table beside his holstered gun, proud of himself for not letting his movements falter. “I don’t.”
“You called him Jack.”
“Did I?” Water continued to pool at his feet, the puddle ever expanding. He tugged on the front of his sopping wet shirt, the breeze off the mountains stealing the heat from his body. He suppressed a shiver by giving what he hoped looked like a half-hearted shrug. “Must have heard someone use his name.”
Burton’s eyes narrowed. Gil took him for a naturally suspicious man and then throw in the fact Martin paid him to be even more so, meant that Burton didn’t give up until he was satisfied. “You had to have been watching him awfully close to notice him falling in when no one else had.”
Gil stood and turned it around on Burton, taking advantage of his superior size. Tough guys never admitted it intimidated them, but Gil knew that on some level it always did. “I do something wrong here? I get paid to be observant, to watch for danger, to notice inconsistencies. I was doing what Mr. Martin pays me for. My job. No more. No less. Is that a problem?”
Burton took a half-step back, unconsciously giving ground. Before he could answer, Martin walked up. “Burton, reorganize the men so Goodwin can get dried off and changed.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Burton stepped away, barking orders at the closest security guy.
For the first time since he’d pulled Jack out of the pool, Gil tuned back into his surroundings. The music still filtered out of the outdoor speakers, guests still milled about, though they gave the paramedics who were packing up their gear room to work. Off to one side of the pool, a few women had started to dance. Then it hit him. The party hadn’t ended, it was just getting started.
“Thanks.” Martin stuck out his hand, a look of chagrin on his face as if it would have been embarrassing… no embarrassing was incorrect… inconvenient, if things hadn’t turned out the way they had.
Gil shook his boss’s hand. He didn’t quite know what to say. Somehow ‘you’re welcome’ didn’t quite seem appropriate. “I should get changed.”
“Hold up. The kid wants to meet you. Says you’re a hero.” Martin made a noise in the back of his throat as if that idea was preposterous. Not that Gil considered himself a hero. He wasn’t. He’d been at the right place at the right time. That was all. “That’s what happens when his mother surrounds him with law enforcement types. Makes the kid think caped crusaders are real.”
One of the paramedics gave Jack a hand off the gurney. Jack’s color was off, but he was steady enough on his feet. The other paramedic stacked the gear on the stretcher and started wheeling it away. Wait. They weren’t taking the kid to the hospital? “Shouldn’t he go to the hospital, get checked out?”
“He’s fine,” Martin said. “Besides, it’s not your call.”
Martin turned toward Jack, his arm outstretched. “Come here, son.”
Son. Gil had suspected, but now Martin confirmed it. Gil didn’t know what that meant for the investigation. All he knew was he was about three seconds away from having his cover blown by a seven-year-old.
“You weren’t at dinner,” Mia said with a hint of accusation.
Mia noticed? Tessa glanced up from the stall she was stripping down to the dirt. She’d needed something physical and mindless to keep her thoughts off Jack. Jenna had obliged with the back-breaking chore. Though she had blisters on her hands despite the gloves, and sweat rolling down between her breasts, her mind raced, and she had this pain in her chest where her heart used to be.
“Wasn’t hungry,” Tessa said.
Mia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the open stall door, the laces loose on her desert colored combat boots. “I heard.”
Tessa knew she was talking about Jack. Chatty Cathy, Mia was not, but there was no need for elaboration. Tessa kept on shoveling. Mia had made a statement. Tessa had nothing to add. In fact, she preferred not to talk at all. If she’d wanted company, she would have joined the others at dinner, not hidden away in the barn.
Mia sat in the doorway, wrapping her sleek, muscled arms around her legs, making Tessa wonder if Mia spent all her free time doing push-ups. “Those fuckers always win.” Mia spat as if the thought had turned bitter on her tongue. “Sucks.”
Intrigued, and because there were so many to choose from, Tessa asked, “Which fuckers? You have to be more specific.”
One side of Mia’s lip lifted, more smile than sneer. “The ones with all the power.”
With a boot to one arm of the manure fork, Tessa went in for another scoop of dirty shavings. They weren’t talking about Jack anymore. Tessa laughed, bitchy and bitter. “Tell me about it.”
Night had fallen and with it had come the cold, but even in a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, there were no goosebumps on Mia’s arms. Tessa figured that deep-seated anger she wore like an avenger’s cloak kept her plenty warm twenty-four/seven.
“What are you going to do?”
“Fight. For my job, for my kid.” Tessa dumped another forkful into the wheelbarrow. The muscles in her arms burned and her back complained as if she’d been stacking bales of hay all day. “That’s all I can do.”
Her real estate agent had two houses lined up for her to see the next afternoon after her preliminary meeting with Internal Affairs, IA.
Tessa had enough drama in her life, but because she needed something, anything to keep her mind off her own problems and because she had the sense that Mia wanted to share, Tessa asked, “What about you?”
Mia’s two-hundred-yard stare focused back on Tessa. “What about me?”
“Are you going to fight?” Tessa held eye contact long enough to let Mia know she wasn’t going to pry, but she would listen.
Mia stood and brushed the dirt off the seat of her jeans, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her own problems. “You know what they say… you can’t fight Uncle Sam.”
Mia turned to leave, and Tessa said, “Bullshit.”
Mia turned back. “What?”
“That’s bullshit. You, me, and every other woman in the military have been fighting Uncle Sam from the get-go. Clawing our way in, fighting for our right to fight for this country like the men. We fought, we are fighting, and we are winning. Whatever issue you have, you should fight, too.”
“Hard to battle back when you’ve been dragged down a back alley and had the shit stomped out of you.”
“You seem like the kind of woman who would come back up swinging, not huddle in the grime on the ground and give up.”
“I didn’t give up.” This time Mia did smile, thin and grim. “I self-destructed. At least that’s what the shrinks all said.”
Gil shifted, putting Martin’s body between him and Jack, but that would be like the Hulk trying to hide behind a tree sapling. Jack started walking over, his steps slow, but steady, the towel draped around his pint-sized frame dragging along the pool deck.
Jack’s eyes traveled past his father, landing on Gil.
Shit was about to get real. Gil laid a hand on the patio table near his gun, unsure if he was going to have to shoot his way out or make a run for it.
In slow motion, Gil watched the whole thing, the anticipation on Jack’s face turning to recognition and then confusion. Jack’s steps faltered, then Jack’s grin spread on his boyish face.
In that splinter of time, when Gil was still Goodman, all sound faded, his vision narrowed, and his knees went weak. He leaned his hip against the table to steady himself. Had anyone ever looked at him that way before? No fear. No judgment. Just pure joy and unabashed adoration?
It wasn’t deserved, but that didn’t take away the power of the emotion that almost toppled a giant. Even as adrenaline seeped into his system, preparing his body for fight or flight, the backs of his eyes stung, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t keep the return smile off his face.
Off to his left, someone called out for Martin. His boss stepped away as Jack took the last five or six steps at a run, his sopping wet sock feet leaving a trail behind him. Gil went to a knee and pulled Jack in for a hug. He didn’t know who’d needed it more, him or Jack. The boy shook in his arms, Jack’s chin quivered. Then the brave front Jack had put on had disintegrated.
“Mr. Gil,” Jack choked out.
“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.” Over Jack’s shoulder, Gil took a quick glance around. Martin was gone. Burton was calmly talking with one of the men, not shouting and telling his men to get Gil. There were no guns pointed at his head. In fact, no one paid them any attention.
When Jack’s hitching breaths slowed, Gil held him out at arm’s length. “You okay?”
Jack coughed and nodded, his hair damp and falling into his bloodshot eyes. The chlorine wafting off them both stung his eyes.
“You want to call your mom?” Gil didn’t know how he was going to manage that, but if Jack wanted to, he’d find a way to make it happen.
“My dad would be mad. He says big boys don’t go crying to their moms.” Jack hiccupped, and Gil cupped his cheek and brushed away the tear.
Gil didn’t know what to say, but for some stupid reason, “I can talk to him,” came out, as if the kid didn’t already pose a serious risk to his cover.
Jack swiped his sleeve under his nose and dried his cheeks with the palms of his hands. He stood straighter and shook his head. “What are you doing here?”
The only way Gil thought he could buy the kid’s silence was to tell him the truth, or at least the stripped down, G-rated, Disney version of it. “Can you keep a secret?”
Gil sat him in one of the patio chairs. He took one of the others, not caring that the cushions probably cost more than his suit. He glanced around again. Burton’s eyes skimmed over him but kept going. The voices and laughter of the guests had picked up along with the alcohol consumption. Jack and the near-drowning already out of their minds.
“I can keep a secret.” Jack’s eyes lit, and he leaned in. “This year I found out the Easter Bunny isn’t real, but I never told Mom, because Evie says Mom likes hiding the Easter eggs and I didn’t want her to not hide them and be sad.”
Yeah, this was not close to the same thing. “This is a different kind of secret, but just as important. I’m on a secret mission. No one can know that you know me from before today. No one can know who I really am, not even your dad.” Gil added a wink. It made Jack smile.
“Like Bruce Wayne is really Batman? He fights the evil guys, but no on
e knows it’s him.”
“Yep. Only I don’t have the cool suit.”
“Does that make me Robin?”
Gil smiled. “Yeah, Squirt, I guess it does.”
12
Monday morning, Tessa walked into the sheriff’s office with a knot in her belly and determination steeling her spine. IA investigations were never pleasant. This one wouldn’t be either.
She held her head high as she walked down the halls toward Spinks’ office where the IA interview would take place. She got a couple of sideways glances from the deputies and one of them said something along the lines of how he’d like the chance to rev her engines, but she ignored them. Punching an LEO right before an IA interview wouldn’t help her situation.
Even if it would feel good.
At Spinks’ open door, she rapped on the door frame. She was a few minutes early, and the IA investigator hadn’t arrived yet.
“Come in,” Spinks said. “And close the door.”
Tessa hesitated. The last time she’d closed the door, it hadn’t gone well. She stepped inside and did what she’d been asked.
“Sit.”
She sat.
Spinks closed the lid on his laptop and gave her his full attention. “Heard from Brant this morning.”
Tessa’s mouth went dry, her palms went sweaty, and the room felt ten degrees too hot. What was that supposed to mean? Why was he telling her? Had Brant seen the newspaper?
Tessa blanked all expression from her face even though her jaw wanted to hit the floor and her eyes wanted to pop out. The struggle was real.
“What is your relationship with Bradley Martin?”
This time her jaw did drop. Of all the things she’d expected Spinks to say, the least of which was nothing short of a Trump-like ‘you’re fired!’ was for him to bring up her ex.