Man Down: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by BJ Bentley

  “Thanks, Cap.” I copied the captain’s posture, stretching out my legs and crossing them at the ankles, but I didn’t get a chance to get too comfortable because the doors to the OR opened, and a scrub-clad nurse walked through them.

  “Forrest family?”

  “How is he?” I demanded in response. Micah didn’t have family in Aspen Falls from what I’d heard. His parents had retired to San Diego two years ago. They’d been notified, but they hadn’t arrived yet. And I knew he had a sister in Boulder, but I wasn’t sure if she was coming or if she even knew what happened.

  In the meantime, the department was all Micah had.

  “You’re with Mr. Forrest?” the nurse asked, her tone curt.

  “We are,” Griffin interjected before I could respond, standing from his chair and stretching to his full height. “Now, what can you tell me about my officer?”

  The nurse, whose name tag read Beth, narrowed her eyes at Griffin, seemingly scrutinizing his authority and eventually finding him worthy. “Follow me, please.”

  She led us to another waiting room, this one smaller and stocked with refreshments and other amenities, before turning around in the doorway. “You can wait here, and Dr. McCahill will be right in to give you an update.”

  I watched her walk away, less than impressed with her attitude. “I’m tired of waiting,” I grumbled.

  “There’s nothing for it, Leighton. Might as well get comfortable. Doc will be here when he gets here.”

  Minutes ticked by and Dr. McCahill finally appeared.

  “Hi, thanks for waiting.” The young man, who looked like he was fresh out of med school shook my hand first and then Captain Griffin’s. “I’m Dr. McCahill. I’m the trauma surgeon on call today. First of all, let me put your minds at ease. Officer Forrest is very lucky. He’s got a lot of bruising to his torso where a couple of bullets hit his Kevlar, and one bullet managed to pierce his vest, lodging itself in his shoulder. Unfortunately, he also had a bullet enter the side of his neck, which nicked his carotid artery. He lost a lot of blood before he got here. He’s very lucky the bullet wasn’t another quarter inch to the left, or we might not have been able to repair the damage in time. The good news is that our vascular surgeon, Dr. Simms, is one of the best in the state. She was able to repair the damage. He’s stable, but he’s recovering from the anesthesia, so you can’t see him just yet.”

  The entire time Dr. McCahill was speaking, the room spun. My mind was doing somersaults with the information it was getting.

  …very lucky…

  …lost a lot of blood…

  …he’s stable…

  “Officer Leighton? Are you okay?”

  Dr. McCahill’s concern was warranted. I probably looked like I was going to either pass out or scream. My uniform, which I had yet to change out of because I had refused to leave Micah’s side on the ride over and wanted to be near while he was in surgery, was stiff in several spots where his blood had dried.

  I suddenly couldn’t wait to get it off. All of it. The uniform, the blood, my gun. I didn’t want any part of it touching me. “I gotta go,” I blurted before bolting for the door, leaving a stunned doctor and confused captain behind.

  19

  Poppy

  Micah was going to be okay.

  Jab.

  He was going to make it.

  Jab.

  Nobody else was hurt.

  Jab. Jab.

  “This is the second time in the past two weeks I’ve seen you wailing on that bag with anger instead of focus.”

  I dropped my hands and shuffled my feet to face Linc. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

  “You get sloppy when you’re mad. You’ve got more power, but it’s unfocused, and unfocused power is dangerous.”

  “Really don’t need you to go all Mr. Miyagi on me right now, Linc.”

  “On the contrary, little miss, I think a little guidance is exactly what you need. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He pulled up a wooden stool and sat, his way of telling me his request was more of an expectation. “C’mon, girl, lay it on me,” he said, gentling his voice when I hesitated.

  I blew out a breath, using the crook of my elbow to shove the loose tendrils of hair from my sweat-slicked face. “Got shot at today,” I mumbled, looking at the floor.

  “What?” Linc’s bowed body, addled with arthritis, shot straight. “You hurt?”

  “No. Would I be here wailing on this bag if I was?”

  “You? Yes.”

  His quick rejoinder made me snort. He probably wasn’t wrong.

  “Was anybody else hurt?”

  “Darn it,” I hissed at my feet, trying to hide the tears that welled up. “Micah,” I whispered.

  “Micah?” Linc’s tone was questioning, but his expression was blank.

  I picked at the tape that bound my hands, peeling it little by little then re-adhering it and peeling it again. “Micah Forrest. Teddy Forrest’s brother.”

  “Shit,” Linc sighed, closing his eyes at a memory I knew was painful for him.

  Teddy Forrest had been Linc’s protege once upon a time. His dream of becoming a UFC champion was derailed, permanently, when he suffered a fatal head injury. All the training he did, all the fights he entered, and he was done in by a drunk driver on New Year's Eve five years ago. Micah adored his big brother, one of Aspen Falls’s brightest futures, and was devastated when he died. Even more so when the drunk driver got off with community service because her family had money. Micah’s parents won a civil suit against the driver, but no amount of money would bring their beloved son back. Teddy’s death and the ensuing legal battle led to Micah’s decision to become a cop.

  “Kid gonna be okay?”

  “He’ll live, yeah.”

  Linc let out a ragged breath. “And that’s what’s got you so torn up.”

  I shrugged because he was right, yet he wasn’t. Micah’s injury certainly left its mark on my psyche, both as a fellow officer and as a friend, and I was worried about him. What kind of damage did the bullet really do? What kind of recovery process did he have to look forward to? Would he be able, or even willing, to return to work at the end of all of it?

  Even with all these thoughts swirling, it wasn’t really what was at the center of what I was feeling. Still, I said, “Yeah.”

  Linc nodded in understanding. “You gonna skip class tonight?”

  I gave him a look.

  “Right.” He slapped his hands to his thighs. “Well, I’ll let you get back to taking your issues out on the bag,” he said, standing. “I got somewhere else I gotta be.”

  Alone in the gym and no longer in the mood to hurt something, I hit the showers and dressed in the extra set of workout clothes I kept in my locker before pilfering a garbage bag from the supply closet to stuff my bloodied uniform into. The dry cleaner the police department contracted with wasn’t far from here. I’d swing by and drop it off on my way home.

  Laundry chore completed, I turned the radio up, letting the opening guitar riffs of Pearl Jam’s “Alive” fill the car, Eddie Vedder’s guttural storytelling opening something up inside me.

  Instead of heading home, I found myself in front of The Beat. I parked at the curb and killed the engine. The blue and white hand-painted sign over the door was chipped at the bottom of the ‘b.’ The windows were decorated for the upcoming holiday. Red, white, and blue ribbons, garland, and pinwheels decorated the glass and window boxes out front. It looked like Uncle Sam threw up.

  It was difficult to see past all the patriotic paraphernalia, but I could make out the figures of Sean and a woman I didn’t recognize. If Sean spotted me sitting out here, it was only a matter of time before he’d come out and drag me inside, so I either needed to get out of my car and go in of my own volition, or I needed to turn over the engine and go home.

  The decision was made for me when Sean spied me through the glass of the coffeeshop and tapped a finger on the window. I grinned, shaking my head
, and got out of the car.

  “Hey, Uncle Sean.” I returned the bear hug he gave me.

  Sean McCarthy wasn’t my uncle by blood, but he’d been my dad’s partner on the force and his best friend. I’d known Sean since I was in training wheels. He was around for every Christmas and birthday. He never missed Super Bowl Sunday or the World Series at the Leighton house when I was growing up. Even after dad died, Sean was still around. Maybe not as much, but he stepped up when we needed him.

  “It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten a hug from you, Pop-Pop.”

  I smiled at his long-time nickname for me. “That goes both ways, you know.”

  “Your brother, I see his mug nearly every day. You, you’re like a ghost. How come?”

  “Man, you didn’t even warm up to that, did you?”

  “I’m an old man, Pop-Pop. Ain’t got time to waste.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sean might have been retired, but he was still fit as a fiddle with, God willing, many more years ahead of him.

  “Hey, Poppy girl!”

  “Hey, Murph!” I called to the man behind the counter.

  “What’s this I hear about you being involved in a shootout?”

  The air went electric.

  “What’s this, now?” Sean’s voice was scary.

  Uh-oh. “I’m perfectly fine, Uncle Sean. Not a single scratch.” Not counting the bruised ribs I got when Vance threw me to the ground or the scrapes on my palms from breaking my fall.

  “Heath know about this?”

  Aw, hell. Word traveled fast in first responder circles, bunch of gossips they were. In fact, I was surprised that Sean hadn’t heard about it the second it happened. “I imagine he probably does by now,” I muttered, thinking I hadn’t checked my phone since before lunch, and with the way the day had gone after that, I hadn’t given it a second thought. Heath was probably having an aneurysm.

  “Murph! There a reason you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

  Murph, not fazed by Sean’s growling, shrugged. “You always got your ear to the ground. Figured you already knew.”

  “Swear to Christ,” Sean said to the ceiling. “Some days it’s obvious why he never graduated from highway patrol.”

  “Uncle Sean, be nice.” I swatted his chest and caught his eyes when he brought them back to me. “I’m okay. I promise.”

  He peered at me, determining for himself if I spoke the truth. I tried my best to look confident, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off.

  “Sit,” he said, directing me to a table. “Murph! Get Pop a coffee, will ya?”

  “Comin’ right up!”

  Sean reserved whatever it was he was going to say until I had a steaming cup of bitter brew in front of me. Then he let me know my attempt at seeming confident was an epic fail.

  “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever’s put that look in your eye.”

  When I didn’t answer he went on.

  “Pop-Pop, you know you can talk to me,” he said, cajoling me with that fatherly voice that was equal parts soothing and heart-piercing.

  “I do know that.”

  “You said you weren’t hurt today. That’s good, kid. But somebody was.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah. Micah Forrest.”

  “Forrest. I know him. He’s a good cop. Good man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I also heard he’s gonna be okay.”

  “That’s what the doctor said.”

  “So?”

  I frowned. “So?”

  “You processing? ‘Cause if not, there’s no shame in seeing the department shrink.”

  My laugh was hollow. “Don’t need a shrink, Sean. Got the gym for that.”

  “Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Just sayin’. There’s no shame in getting help wherever you can.”

  I ignored that and took another sip of the worst coffee I’d ever tasted.

  “Do you remember when your mom got sick?” he abruptly asked.

  If I hadn’t already swallowed, I would have choked. “What kind of question is that?” Not long after my dad was killed, my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The prognosis wasn’t good, and it didn’t take long for her health to decline. She refused to stay in the hospital, and once the chemo stopped working, she opted to live out her final days at home.

  With my dad gone and Heath working all the time, it was up to me to take care of her. Bed baths, prescription regimens, and lost sleep became my life. And through all of it, a pervading sense of helplessness.

  So, yeah, to answer Sean’s question, I remembered when my mom got sick.

  “You put your life on hold for her.”

  “Of course, I did,” I said, offended anyone would ever think otherwise. “She was my mom. She needed me.”

  “That’s true. But we’d just lost Fred. I think the idea of losing your mom, too…It was more of a burden than any one person should carry.”

  “It’s not like I was the only one. Heath lost our parents too. So did you.”

  “That’s also true, we did. But none of us took that hit like you did. Your whole world gone, no one would blame you if you closed yourself off.”

  “I’m not closed off,” I denied. I had Heath and Sean. And my friends. I didn’t think Ashley, Maya, or Maxie would consider me closed off, would they? Ashley had told me once that I was so busy taking care of everybody else, I never gave anyone the chance to take care of me. I couldn’t help it, that’s who I was. Maybe I didn’t let myself be as vulnerable as I could be with the people I loved, but I didn’t think that made me closed off.

  Sean switched gears on me again, proving that he may be retired, but he still knew how to interrogate a witness. “Who else was at the shooting today?”

  “Besides me and Micah, a couple of officers, Rogers and Mulcahy.”

  “And who else?”

  I recognized the stealth attack for what it was, but I was unable to stop it. “Vance.”

  “Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You may be worried for your friend Micah and concerned for your fellow officers’ welfare, but your eye twitched when you mentioned Vance.”

  “I hate your interrogation skills,” I mumbled.

  He ignored that like the lie it was, since he taught me everything he knows. “Vance Brody could have been shot today, and that’s what’s got you so tweaked.”

  “He’s my partner. My mentor. I look up to him.”

  Sean hooted. “Pop-Pop, I was not born yesterday. You’ve got feelings for Brody, and you could have lost him too.”

  “I do not! And keep your voice down!” I hissed. “Our relationship is purely professional.”

  “Well, now you’re just insulting me, lying to my face like that.” He had the gall to smile while he chastised me.

  The truth was, Sean had gotten to the heart of the matter in almost no time. It really was impressive. Still, it wasn’t something I was ready to admit, and I certainly wasn’t going to dwell on my feelings of helplessness when shots were fired, and the only thing between Vance and a bullet was the department issued tin can they called a car.

  What I was experiencing was eerily similar to how I’d felt after I’d lost my parents. Linc’s and the academy were the only things that got me through back then. I needed the structure. The discipline. The rules. It was likely the reason I’d run to Linc’s today after abandoning Captain Griffin at the hospital.

  “Like I said, I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Didn’t say you needed one.”

  I glared at him. “Then get out of my head.”

  Sean smiled. “Good to know I still got the knack for it.”

  I couldn’t help but mirror his expression. “Yeah, old man, you still got it.”

  “Ha! ‘Old man!’ That’s a good one!”

  “Shut up, Murph!” Sean and I yelled in unison through a chorus of cackles.
>
  20

  Vance

  Exhaustion prompted a yawn that rattled my bones.

  The adrenaline rush from the shooting had long since worn off, and when I crashed, I crashed hard. Add to that the constant dead ends we’d run into trying to figure out what the fuck had happened to Mark Santulli leading up to his death.

  With Colin in Sunnyville and Poppy at the hospital, I’d roped Mulcahy and Rogers into my quest for answers. Unfortunately, with every apparent clue we’d uncovered, another piece of evidence cropped up to contradict our working theory.

  The only thing we knew for sure was that Mark Santulli had been beaten senseless before taking a knife to the gut, which is ultimately what killed him. The medical examiner estimated it took him between thirty and sixty minutes to bleed out. A slow and painful way to go, but based on the beating he took beforehand, chances were he’d lost consciousness long before his last breath.

  The death of Mark Santulli was no great loss, wife beater —and probably murderer— that he was, but I hated not having answers. If he killed Kayla, why? And who killed him? Whoever had done it had to have been seriously pissed off to deliver a beating like the one that rendered him helpless on the cold concrete.

  My head was in my hands, the meats of my palms rubbing circles at my temples, when Captain Griffin walked in.

  “What do we have?” he asked, grabbing the chair from Colin’s desk and making himself comfortable.

  “Not a whole hell of a lot. Body in the warehouse is that of Mark Santulli.”

  “Santulli? That domestic assault you’ve been working?”