Rose City Free Fall

by DL Barbur

  She had been constantly in my thoughts, and frequently in my dreams. I’d worried about her safety. The people we’d fought had a global reach. But she’d made it clear she wanted me to leave her alone. Her emails were infrequent and brief.

  I shook myself, made myself get up and get ready. It was out of my control. Whatever would happen would happen. I resolved to go about my day and shove it out of my mind.

  My next form of torture was physical therapy. Last fall I’d taken a nasty knife slash across my left forearm, from my elbow to my wrist. Alex had patched me up, kept me from bleeding to death. But I had lasting damage to muscles, nerves, and tendons. I could move my hand, and it didn’t hurt most of the time, but occasionally I would twist my wrist the wrong way, and my pinky and ring fingers would go numb. I still frequently dropped things when I tried to pick them up with my left hand, and my grip was weak.

  My physical therapist was fifteen years younger than me and looked like Eddie Vedder’s little brother, but he knew his business. Once he figured out that I would actually go do the exercises he prescribed, he threw himself into my case. I’d made quite a bit of progress.

  I left my forty-five-minute session the way I always did, with a sore arm and a new sheet of exercises to do at home. In the parking lot, I did my usual routine, looking for signs of surveillance, then checking the car for any signs that it had been tampered with. After finding no signs of a GPS tracker or a bomb, I could finally be on my way.

  I spent hours out of every day on things like this. Every time the car left my sight, I had to check it. A vehicle that stayed in my rearview mirror too long could trigger the need for half an hour of aimless driving around through side streets, checking for a tail. Once a cable TV crew had parked out front of the house, and I’d watched them carefully with binoculars, making sure they were legit.

  It got old. But I wanted to keep breathing.

  The smart money would have been to get the hell out of Portland, go somewhere else entirely, but I was stubborn. Portland was my home. I’d worked countless hours, bled, and nearly died protecting it. One way or another, this was where I was going to make my stand.

  In some ways, I wanted them to come for me. We had unfinished business.

  I spent a few hours at home, in front of the computer. I told myself I was working, but really I was just passing time. I checked messages, made sure my company website was up and running, it was all busy work. Clients weren’t exactly beating down my door. I’d had a few fraud investigations for local businesses, some security surveys, that sort of thing. I’d resisted doing divorce work, but soon I might have to do.

  Then I did my usual round of web searches, checking up on a company named Cascade Aviation. They were a shadowy outfit, a contractor to intelligence agencies. Some of their employees and the owner’s son had been involved in a human trafficking ring. I’d discovered it and it had kicked off the festivities last fall, which had left me with no job, a nasty scar on my arm and my best friend dead.

  There was nothing new. I don’t know why I expected there to be. There never was.

  Finally, it was time for Krav Maga class. I headed farther east, and south, to Milwaukee, Oregon and spent the next hour in constant motion, sweating my ass off. I’d tried and rejected various martial arts half a dozen times over the years. They were too intricate, too flowery and I’d find myself in the middle of class thinking “there’s no way in hell this would work,” and I’d quit.

  Krav Maga was different. The Israelis had taken the best, simplest and most brutal techniques from all over the world and blended them together. Every time I went to class, I found myself nodding my head because everything I was learning jibed with my experience dozens of fights on the street.

  Today was kick day. Steve, my favorite workout partner, was as big as me, and a glutton for punishment. We gave each other a high knuckle and wasted no time, taking turns holding a kick shield and blasting full power kicks into each other. We worked round kicks, side kicks, and front kicks for an hour, and by the time we were done there was a puddle of sweat on the mat around us and my hips and hamstrings were screaming.

  I had just enough time to gulp a bottle of water, and out of deference to my next partner, change into a shirt that wasn’t soaked with sweat, then it was time for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu had a complicated history, starting in Japan, but coming to the US via a family in Brazil. Most of the time was spent fighting on the ground, maneuvering for dominance and trying to apply joint locks and submission holds.

  I wasn’t very good at it. I took to the striking in Krav Maga like I was born to it. I like to hit things. Jiu-Jitsu was like a chess game. You defeated your opponent using sensitivity and technique, not brute strength. When I first started, I found myself routinely getting folded up like a pretzel by people half my size. It was frustrating but I stuck with it and I was making slow progress.

  Most of the class was tough going. I struggled with applying new techniques, and barely held my own. At the end of the class though, I surprised myself by applying a sneaky little weight shift and rolling my opponent into an armbar. I think Ron, my opponent, was actually happy for me, despite the pressure I was applying on his elbow. He’d displayed a tremendous amount of patience with my newbie clumsiness.

  After class, I had nothing to do. That was the biggest adjustment to life after police work. Before, I worked non-stop, chasing criminals, slept whenever I could, and then got up to do it again. I’d managed to squeeze in some time here and there with a girlfriend, but had no other life than that. Now I had hours of free time, time to sit and stew, rehash old memories and worry about the future.

  Casey wasn’t home when I got back. She ran her own computer security consulting business. I’d told myself I’d taken her on as a roommate because I needed the money. That was partially true, but the real reason was she had gone through the events of last year with me. It all seemed so surreal that I think I wanted to keep her close. I wanted somebody around me who had seen the same things, just for reassurance that I wasn’t crazy, that it hadn’t all been a delusion.

  I’d finished my second shower of the day when one of my cell phones rang. It was the one I used for my business. I got excited at the prospect of work, both for the money and for something to do.

  “Miller Investigations and Security,” I answered on the third ring, still holding a towel around my waist.

  “Dent?” It was a woman’s voice. I recognized her, but I couldn’t quite place it. I wanted it to be Alex, but I knew it wasn’t.

  “Yes, this is Dent,” I said, refusing to play the whole “who is this?” game.

  “Dent, it’s Gina.”

  Finally, the voice clicked. Gina. Al Pace’s widow, and Alex’s stepmother.

  “Gina. How can I help you?”

  “Dent, I need help with something. Can I meet you?”

  I blinked. Frankly, I hadn’t thought much about Gina since Al’s death. I’d never liked her, and had never expected to see her again. But she was Al’s wife. Even if I didn’t care for her, I cared for Al and his memory.

  “What’s going on, Gina?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not on the phone. I need to see you.” Her voice trembled like she was on the verge of crying.

  “Ok,” I said. “I’ll try to help you. Let’s meet somewhere. Downtown? Say in a couple of hours?”

  She paused for a long moment, and I thought the call had dropped when she finally said, “I can’t… I’m not able to travel right now. Can you come to me?”

  A warning bell went off in my head. If I let her set the meeting place, I was letting her control the situation. I was giving up all control. I could be walking into anything.

  I rationalized it. It was Al’s widow for crying out loud. My paranoia had to stop somewhere.

  “Ok,” I said. “Tell me where.”

  She rattled off an address in East Portland, the Hazelwood neighborhood. It wasn’t really all that far away from me. I was su
rprised. Gina’s usual haunts were over in the northwest corner of town, where the rich people lived.

  I looked at the clock. “Ok, Gina. I’ll be over in a little while. I’ve got some things to finish up.”

  “That’s fine, Dent.” She sniffed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Gina. See you soon.”

  I put the phone down, wondering what I was about to get myself into.

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