The Righteous Path

by James D F Hannah

  Chapter 37

  Crash showed up at the front door holding flowers because she thought that was a thing you did in circumstances like this. Truth be told, she didn’t know what circumstances like this were. Matt wasn’t a man inclined toward receiving bouquets of flowers, but it felt like the polite thing to do.

  Rachel hugged her before she had even got through the door. She took the flowers and wiped back tears. “Good to see you, Crash.”

  “Good seeing you too. How you holding up?”

  “Good. Real good.” She said it in that way meant to affirm herself more than anyone else.

  There was a long pause before Crash said, “It okay if I come in?”

  Rachel’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. My brain’s a million places these days. Come on in.” Rachel closed the door behind Crash and led her into the kitchen.

  “He’s asleep on the couch,” Rachel said. “His meds wear him out. He starts watching something on Netflix and then he falls asleep. I have to pause the movie as soon as he’s asleep because otherwise he feels bad for sleeping. Sometimes, he’s out so long, the sun goes down and he wakes up and it’s nighttime and he’s confused. I’m not sure always how much of the confusion is the meds and how much of it is just the exhaustion.”

  She rummaged through cabinets until she found a green vase she filled with water and set the flowers in. Crash took a seat at the kitchen table.

  From the refrigerator, Rachel produced a bottle of red wine. “Care for some?”

  “Sure. Is it any good?”

  Rachel opened the wine and poured Crash a glass. “No clue. The label’s pretty, and sometimes that’s all you need in life.”

  Crash sipped the wine. It was cold—she had read somewhere that was a no-no for reds but she didn’t care—and it was sweet with a twinge of bite underneath it. She took another sip. “It’s not bad.”

  “I guess that’s all you can ask from cheap wine,” Rachel said as she poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down across from Crash. She held her glass out across the table. Crash touched the rim of her own against Rachel’s.

  “To drinking wine that might be shit, but not caring anyway,” Crash said.

  Rachel drank some of her tea and set the glass down. “Thanks for showing up in civvies.”

  Crash had changed into jeans and a snap-button shirt before coming over. It had been a request from Rachel, not wearing her uniform. Crash understood Rachel’s reasoning.

  “Not a problem,” Crash said. “I got into a roll with a dude today—wanted to give me grief because he got a speeding ticket. Came by the office pissed off at the world.”

  “You kick his ass?”

  “I told him we take a zero-tolerance attitude toward bullshit in the sheriff’s department. He was limping when all was said and done, though I guess I did most of the doing, and he didn’t have much to say afterward.” She smiled. “Matt would have liked it.”

  “I’ll bet he would have.”

  “You still on leave from the school?”

  “Yes. Insurance offered to have a nurse here during the day with him, but it seems so unnecessary. One comes in during the mornings, checks in on him, but I’d rather be here in case he needs anything.”

  “What about you and work? You can’t stay here forever.”

  She drank more tea. “He’s scheduled for surgery in two days. Gets himself a brand new liver. Which I suppose is like a new used car; it’s new to him. It’ll be better than the one he’s got.”

  “He ready for that?”

  “Doesn’t matter if he’s ready; he’s on a schedule now. They’re saying if it’s not now, it’s too late. Might be too late anyway.”

  “How’s he feeling about it?”

  “Fine. As fine as you can, I guess. Part of me worries he doesn’t care. Everything happened so fast. I don’t know how many more fights he has in him.”

  Crash finished her wine. The last sip was strong, as though all the sediment had found its way to the bottom. Which it likely had. That was how sediment worked.

  “Does he know?” she said.

  Rachel lifted an eyebrow. “About what?”

  “We’re both smart people here, Rachel, so let’s keep acting like we are.”

  Rachel laughed. “I haven’t told him. Not yet.”

  “Gonna tell him?”

  “When the time’s right.”

  “Who’ll decide that time?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose I will. Not sure what to say to him. Not a thing I practiced or prepared for.”

  “He’ll take it the way he takes everything.”

  “So goddamn stoically it makes you want to puke.”

  “Basically.”

  From the living room, a voice said, “Crash finally get her ass here?”

  The women smiled at one another.

  Crash called back, “No!”

  There was laughter, and Matt said back, “Jesus but don’t make me try to get in there. You’re young and fit, and not dying, to boot. So if you please…”

  Rachel shook slightly at the words. Crash stretched her arm across the table and rubbed Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel’s face bunched up, straining out a smile through a pained expression, working to hold back tears.

  “You go deal with the asshole,” Rachel said. “I’ve got dinner to finish.”

  The last time Crash had seen Matt had been at the hospital, after the shooting, and he had been unconscious. The doctors kept him sedated, unsure of how he would be when he woke up, and needing him to remain as quiet and still as possible. When he did wake up, he told Rachel he wanted no visitors. Crash had debated on showing up to the hospital unannounced, then thought the better of it, knowing Matt, even in a bed, might raise enough ruckus to make a person regret an effort toward kindness. Matt was that kind of guy.

  Crash checked in with Rachel a few times a week to see how he was doing, to see how she was holding up. He was home a week before he agreed to let Crash come by. She hadn’t been sure what to expect.

  It might have been worse than she feared. He was propped up on the couch, sitting up but using one arm to hold himself upright. Dressed in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, and ready to be swallowed up by the clothing. His cheeks sunk deep into his face, and his eyes seemed ready to bulge free from their sockets. There was more white than dark in his hair now, longer than she had ever seen it, growing out awkwardly with points poking out everywhere. He had let a scraggly excuse for a beard grow; it was almost a checkerboard of colors. The beard might have been a saving grace since it hid the yellow in his complexion.

  Matt caught her looking, not saying anything, standing in the living room entrance as if she were a child about to be admonished by a parent. He smiled and motioned to a chair. “Sit your ass down and stop staring at how bad I look.”

  Crash couldn’t help but laugh and do as she was told. Matt snatched the remote control from the back of the couch and muted the TV. The basketball game went silent.

  “Who’s playing?” Crash said.

  “No goddamn clue. When I fell asleep, guys were shooting each other. I wake up, it’s this. How’s life behind the big desk?”

  “Just keeping it warm until you get back.”

  “I would not hold my breath on that occurring anytime soon.”

  “Whatever. Give you a little more time to heal up, you’ll be back.”

  “That’s real sweet of you to say, Crash, but you have no poker face whatsoever, and I saw you when you came through that door. I’m well aware I look like poorly warmed—over death. The sad thing is from how high of a peak I fell.”

  “It is a tragedy.”

  “Truly. I was so goddamn good-looking. Lucky for me, Rachel’s vision isn’t getting any better, so there might still be hope. You holding it all together?”

  “We haven’t collapsed into chaos or anarchy yet, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve kept Parker County societ
y from falling apart somehow.”

  “Good job. Guys treating you okay?”

  “They’re treating me like their boss, which was all I wanted. Everyone’s still a smartass. You talked to Carl?”

  “He’s come by a few times. He wheels himself in here and gives me grief about lying around on the couch when he’s out there in the world, doing things, asking when we’re going fishing again—shit like that. I’m confident that Amy’s glad to get him out of the house.”

  “No doubt. You mind I ask you a question?”

  “Why’d I let him come over before you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he and I have a lot of years chalked up together. Seen a fair amount together. Plus, after he got shot, I worked to be there for him. Now, he gets to be here for me. It had a lot more to do with him needing something than with you needing something. You’ve got plenty to juggle right now. Carl needs a thing, whatever it is. Besides, he wanted to know why it was, he got shot, he got a wheelchair and a catheter, and I got shot, now I’m getting a new liver. He doesn’t think it’s fair.”

  “Rachel told me they found a donor.”

  “They did. Once I got healed up enough they surmised I’ll survive the surgery, they decided it might be the right time to pull this parlor trick. It seems like I’m not going to hang around much longer otherwise.”

  “You’ll be around forever, Matt. You’ll throw dirt on the graves of your enemies.”

  “How many people you think I’ve pissed off, Crash?”

  “Over a lifetime, I can’t say, but I imagine today alone, almost anyone you’ve come in contact with.”

  “Just as well I don’t go anywhere.”

  A smile crossed Crash’s face. “I brought you flowers. Rachel put ’em in a vase.”

  “Much appreciated. Everyone brought me flowers and houseplants for a while. We managed to kill most of ’em off, so we’ll see how these do.” Matt stretched his legs out and brought his feet out onto the coffee table. He wore house slippers. “They gonna do a special election, fill the office?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. Sounds like the plan is to wait until next November. County doesn’t want to deal with the expense, and I can’t say I blame ’em.”

  “You gonna run?”

  Crash shrugged a shoulder. Wanted to come off half-hearted and disinterested. “Maybe. I like the office. The space, if not the title. The view’s nice.”

  “The view’s terrible. All you can see is Serenity.”

  “If you didn’t know what you were talking about, that would sound great. But yeah, I’ll run. I hear there are a few folks talking about throwing hats in there. There’re pocketbooks opening up, offering to help out. I’m not sure everyone enjoys having a female sheriff barely old enough to drink.”

  “Especially one who looks like she’s missing a sophomore English class. Regardless of how badass she is with a stun gun.” Matt reached to an end table for a glass and drank some water. “Anyone from within the department talking about running?”

  “No one wants the headache.”

  “It is a fucking headache, ain’t it?”

  “I got people showing up all hours of the day to bitch and complain about every little goddamn thing you can imagine. I fantasize on a daily basis about how satisfying it’d be just to punch ’em in the mouth. Line ’em up one by one and hit ’em, and then let ’em get on with whatever they want done.”

  “But first, a punch.”

  “Definitely.”

  “But it’s still a great job, isn’t it?”

  “Completely. Which is why I’ll be stupid and try to fight for it.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  “I might find out about annoying ’em over at the state police. I’m sure me and Jackie Hall would get along great.”

  “You likely would. Though he may not be the level one jack hole I’ve always made him out to be.”

  “I didn’t figure he was. You, on the other hand—”

  “Total level one jack hole. All day, every day.”

  Crash didn’t stay long. She said something about having somewhere she needed to be, but Crash knew she couldn’t lie for shit, and Matt smiled as she said it. He was tired anyway. Rachel walked her to the door. By the time Rachel came back, Matt was asleep.

  Rachel poured herself more tea and went out onto the back deck. The air was getting cool. Seasons would change soon.

  She wanted a cigarette but shook the feeling off. She had gotten rid of the pack she kept hidden near the bushes two weeks ago. Kept telling herself it was a bad habit anyway.

  She considered calling the school tomorrow, asking when she could start back. She needed to be there for Matt, but Crash was right that she needed to be there for herself also. She realized sometimes she was a woman who’d built her identity on the backs of the men she attracted. It was a nasty trait, something a lot of women did, she thought. She remembered her mother having gone through a series of husbands—her father was the third of five—before finally ending up by herself, dying alone, angry and bitter because none of those marriages had brought her the happiness she thought she had deserved, that she believed was her right.

  Rachel had been in the hospital while her mother’s heart gave out and she died. Rachel had fancied the concept that her mother had died of a broken heart, but that gave her mother too much credit. That implied a love and compassion the old woman hadn’t always been capable of, and that had somehow both attracted and driven away five husbands and countless other men who had been lucky enough to escape.

  She didn’t hear the door slide open, so lost in her thoughts, and it startled her when Matt slipped into the lounge chair beside her. The temperature was mild, but he had put on a heavy sweatshirt. She moved to get up.

  “What are you doing out here?” she said. “You’ll freeze yourself to death.”

  Matt took her hand and said, “Sit back down. I’m fine. Let’s be here for a moment.”

  Rachel considered this, then lowered herself back into the chair. Matt didn’t let go of her hand, and their fingers intertwined with one another.

  Matt said, “What are you out here thinking about?”

  “Not much. That we should get some new bushes in the yard.”

  “We could do that.”

  “But if we move to Charleston, how much money do we want to sink into this place? We’ll never get all of that back in the selling price.”

  “No, but sometimes it’s nice just to have pretty things to look at.” He gave Rachel’s hand a small squeeze. “With that in mind, we could put up a big privacy fence and you could sunbathe naked.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Guilty as charged. Though I bet we could get a privacy fence in Charleston too.”

  “Are you giving it some thought now?”

  “Some. Your brother keeping the offer open?”

  “Always. He’d love to have us closer anyway. It’d be more money than you make now, and regular hours. You’d be home at five every night. You wouldn’t be out at all hours dealing with criminals and whatnot.”

  “It’s still working for a security company. I’d be catching criminals in the act.”

  “You wouldn’t be like a security guard or anything. You’d be in the office. You could wear a tie every day.”

  “You are not doing a grandiose job of selling me on this.”

  “I don’t suppose I am.”

  There was a pause.

  Matt said, “Once the surgery’s over and we figure out whether I’m going to live or not, let’s talk to him. See what the doctors say, and then we can see about heading down that way.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Another squeeze. “Anytime, honey.”

  Another pause. Rachel said, “Matt?”

  “Yes, honey?” His voice sounded thick and sleepy. His head had drifted back, his eyes closed, facing toward the purpling nighttime sky.

  R
achel squeezed his hand. “I’m pregnant.”

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  JAMES D.F. HANNAH is the Shamus Award-winning author of the Henry Malone novels, as well as the novel The Righteous Path. A native of eastern Kentucky and southern West Virginia, Hannah was an award-winning former journalist and columnist before moving into governmental public relations. He lives with entirely too many cats in Louisville, Kentucky.

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  BOOKS BY JAMES D.F. HANNAH

  The Henry Malone novels

  Midnight Lullaby

  Complicated Shadows

  She Talks To Angels

  Friend of the Devil

  Behind the Wall of Sleep

  The Parker County novels

  The Righteous Path

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  Here is a preview from Murder by Moonlight, the fourth Dick Moonlight PI thriller by Vincent Zandri.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  Chapter 1

  The footsteps sound laden and painful and remind me of the walking dead. It’s just like I expected them to sound. Dead, but somehow still alive. I stand at the big window looking out onto the Hudson River and listen to the victim of an attempted murder slowly climb the stairs to my second-floor office.

  Gripped in my right hand, an early afternoon Jack.

  I sip the whiskey slowly, stare through the glass, beyond the transparent reflection of my scruffy face, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the surgically shaved scar over my right earlobe, where a piece of .22-caliber hollow-point bullet penetrated.

  I can’t avoid them: the footsteps, heavy and labored like a beating heart. I do my best to sight in on a flock of seagulls swooping down at the river in random arcs before pulling out of their dives barely an inch ahead of crashing into the water. Its nature’s grace incarnate. But beauty is the last thing on my mind.

  The day is cold and concrete gray. The usual meteorological song and dance for Albany. A lost-in-time city gripped by cold from November all the way through May. The time my mortician dad did the majority of his business. Tax season, he used to call it.