by Anna Elias
Flash. A strobe went off.
Tal blinked against the harsh light as a young female officer photographed Jake’s form on the floor. Tal hadn’t seen her arrive, either.
“Sorry, Detective,” said the young woman, lowering her camera. “Protocol.”
She counted the bullet holes and outlined Jake’s frame in chalk. She marked his death here the way Las Vegas police had when the firemen had pulled Owen and Darden from the charred heap.
Authorities came and went around Tal like vapor trails. She answered their questions by rote, staring at Jake’s blood on her hands.
The paramedics wheeled their equipment away to make room for two officials from the Medical Examiner’s Office. Tal barely breathed as the men loaded Jake’s body into a black bag on the floor. They covered his long legs and powerful chest; they zipped the bag closed over his once kind eyes and contagious smile.
“It’s her fault.”
Tal jolted as Tucker stormed over with Chief Demmings.
“Jake told you to stay put and wait for his signal,” he snarled. “But you moved in anyway and blew this whole thing. Thanks to you, a good man is dead, two more are injured, and one drug dealer got away. We were this close.”
Tal shivered. Her skin grew clammy. “But the gunmen,” she stammered. “No one knew ... we didn’t ... They weren’t supposed to be here.”
Tucker leaned in. “He may have been your partner, Tal, but Jake was my best friend since the Academy. You will pay for this.”
He stormed off. Dave turned away. A few other officers cut Tal angry looks. The bad feeling from earlier now gnawed her in half. Her father had always said she was bullheaded.
“Sorry, Tal,” Chief Demmings said, his words firm but not unkind.
“But—”
He held out his hand. “Disciplinary leave. Until we sort things out.”
She sighed and handed him her gun and badge. He patted her arm and left.
The men loaded Jake’s body on their gurney. Tal stopped them, leaning over to hug him one last time. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
Her salty tears ran across the plastic bag and fell onto the stained cement floor.
CHAPTER TWO
SAM
Sam Fullerton winced as he and best friend, Diego Ruiz, stepped into the dilapidated hotel room. The wooden floor creaked under their feet and drywall sagged around black water stains in the ceiling. Sam coughed. “Tell me again why I left Chicago for this?”
A devilish smile cut Diego’s lips. “Because we have trout as big as bald eagles.”
Sam had known that grin for fifty years, when Diego had set trip wires for their platoon in Vietnam. The wires never failed.
“Great. Use my love of fishing as a lure,” Sam retorted.
The men moved a heavy dresser to check the floor underneath. Even during the day, the neon lights of downtown Reno flashed beyond the warped window frames.
“Another successful trap and I blundered right in.”
Diego laughed. Sam lifted a corner of the thin, dingy carpet and jumped as a dozen roaches ran out.
“When you and I are through here, downtown Reno will be home to the nation’s only full-service homeless shelter.” Diego kicked two of the fleeing bugs off his boot. “Four hundred beds, cafeteria, addiction and mental health programs, and SSI and Veterans’ benefits. Not to mention a staffed clinic, computer labs, job training, showers, laundry, and a clothing store. Now that’s a legacy. You’ll earn your retirement.”
“Again.” Sam poked his fingers at the creaking floorboards.
“Third time’s a charm. Besides, you’re too young to hit the rocking chair and too wise not to share all those years as Chicago’s most awarded hospital administrator.”
“Building this shelter is your idea, buddy.” Sam smirked. “And it’s a great note for me to end on. But let’s be clear—you and fishing are the two reasons I’m here. That and I won’t survive another Chicago winter.” He replaced the carpet and rubbed the textile fiber residue from his hands. “The wood looks good. We’ll need to replace several boards, but at least there’s no mold. That’ll save money. And prevent another inspection.”
“At least we knew about that inspection yesterday.” Diego pulled on the closet door. “Thanks to Stephanie over in permits.” The door fell off the track in his hands. Sam hurried over to help wrestle it back into place. “Surprise inspections have been happening more and more with this new governor. I swear he’d close a shelter his own mother was in.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. He disappeared into the bathroom.
“Oh, Sam. I’m sorry. It’s been so long and—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Sam’s voice echoed off the tile. Even after twenty-six years, thoughts of his estranged son still tore at Sam’s heart. “Politics aren’t genetic. Obviously.”
“What about Gale?”
Sam popped a wall tile loose and studied the plaster underneath. “She’s more like her mother, thank goodness. I got a few letters from her after Fergie died. I think she might even work up the courage to come visit. Someday.” He wiped his hands and stepped back into the room.
Diego led them out to the musty third-floor hall. “I hope so. It’s time to wash the salt from that wound and start fresh.”
They closed the warped door and turned for the exit stairwell. A flash of afternoon sun blinded Sam as it spilled through the hallway window. He shielded his eyes and followed Diego down the steps. His friend was right—forgiveness was key. But forgiving a child was much easier than forgiving a parent. Sam would have to wait until Ron and Gale were ready to move on. Especially Ron. Something deep had cracked in him, and Sam wasn’t sure his son would ever be the same.
“We’ll have to rely mostly on private donors.” Diego’s voice echoed off the concrete as they descended. “Do here what you did for Fergie’s charity in Chicago and we’ll be off state funding entirely.”
“People bleed their wallets for children, Diego. Not so much for the homeless.”
They emerged onto the clean and restored first-floor hallway. It smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. “I was going to show you this later, but ...” Diego pulled a folded envelope from his pocket, opened it, and handed Sam a check. “Got this today.”
“One hundred thousand dollars?” Sam choked. “From the Chicago Myers?”
“And almost a million more from the Chicago Cartwrights, Newmans, and Parkers. Among others.”
Sam had raised funds many times in the past, but never for something this far away or far removed from his hospital norm. He returned the check with a trembling hand.
“I told you.” Diego stored the envelope in his pocket. “People bleed for you, Sam.”
The shelter suddenly felt like a barge on choppy seas. This amount of money would go a long way, but how would he ever raise enough to keep them afloat? Sam took a breath and followed Diego to the lobby.
The walls were painted a warm shade of blue, and curtains framed a pair of windows on either side of the front door. Diego walked to the lobby desk, the one hotel holdover that had survived the renovation. The stained cherrywood had been restored to its lighter, natural color, and matching cabinets and shelves had been added to hold files, office supplies, and cases of bottled water.
A young Asian-American woman looked up from her paperwork. Her fine black hair was pulled up and secured with a pencil.
“Three hundred and sixty-two for lunch. Dinner starts soon. And the finished rooms are already full.”
“Thanks, Victoria. It’s supposed to be in the thirties again tonight, so double up where you can. And open those rooms on two. They’re finished enough.”
“Don’t let permits know,” Sam said. “We don’t need more unwanted attention.”
“Stephanie’s my girl over there. She never tells.”
A shadow cut the sunlight from one of the two windows, and Sam turned to see a handyman taking measurements on a wall. He was tall and lean with a broad chest an
d straight brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His clothing looked used, and a few scars marred his hands and arms, but he was clean, and his beard was neatly trimmed.
He hammered a nail into place and hung a large photograph of a mountain waterfall. The black framing matched that of three other poster-sized photos on the floor of flowers, birds, and a mountain lake at sunset.
The clean scent of fresh water and fish tickled Sam’s nose. He shook it off.
“The tables were dropped off, too,” Victoria added. “I put them in the cafeteria.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-one. And two hundred folding chairs.” She handed him the delivery form.
Diego scribbled his signature and handed back the paper. “Thanks.”
“What tables?” Sam asked.
“Governor closed another shelter last week—this one for battered women and children. A friend of mine ran it for eighteen years. She gave us the tables and chairs.” He forced a smile. “At least we didn’t have to buy them, right?”
Sam flushed with guilt. Another shadow cut the light and he glanced again at the handyman. Their eyes met. Sunlight ignited the man’s golden brown irises and his thin, dark green limbal rings glowed like haloes. The hair on Sam’s arms shot up.
“Nice work, Liam. The pictures look great,” Diego said. “Sam, meet our newest hire, Liam. He can do and fix most anything.”
The handyman nodded and resumed his work.
“Come on, Sammy boy.” Diego patted his shoulder. “Fish won’t swim to us.”
CHAPTER THREE
TAL
One day melded into the next after Jake’s funeral, and Tal roamed, listless, around her house. She watched mind-numbing reality shows, but nothing entertained. She baked her favorite chicken picatta but couldn’t taste it. She took a stab at gardening, too, but the rose thorns sliced her fingers. Being a cop was all she knew. She was empty and void without her badge, her job, and, most of all, Jake.
She checked her sallow face in the bathroom mirror and popped open the antidepressants. Even if Demmings took her back, it wouldn’t be the same. Not anymore. There were too many ghosts. She swallowed a couple of pills, hoping to stifle Darden’s screams as they had begun to echo again.
She walked to the backyard and cut three perfect roses from the bush her mother had given her. She grabbed her wallet and car keys, and took one last look around before closing the door on yet another dead chapter of life.
Misting rain beaded on Tal’s fleece jacket as she cut across the cemetery to Jake’s grave. Piled dirt and flowers soaked her canvas shoes, the mixture of wet earth and floral rot turning her stomach.
Tal’s ears rang again with the twenty-one gun salute fired at Jake’s funeral. The officers had shot from ten yards away, near a cluster of blooming dogwoods. A thousand police radios had blared the dispatcher’s somber voice:
“Detective Jake Britton has reached his end of duty. Badge 544 is officially retired. You are gone, sir, but never forgotten.”
Dignitaries, including the governor, had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with officers, family, and friends. Some had wept openly while others bowed their heads. Bagpipes had bled in the distance.
Jake would have hated it. He’d wanted to be cremated, with his ashes sprinkled over Heinz Field after a Steelers’ game. But protocol determined procedure and Jake’s funeral had become the biggest in Pittsburgh’s police history.
Distant thunder rumbled. Tal had stood in this very spot after Jake’s service, shaking hands and hugging officers who shared their condolences, while noting the large number of others who kept a distance. Tucker Manning had kept his promise, making her pay by telling anyone and everyone how her selfish, impulsive behavior had caused Jake’s death. She’d seen it in the scowl of every officer, detective, and police chief who had snubbed her.
Tal kissed the velvety petals of one perfect red rose and left it on Jake’s grave. She wiped back tears and walked deeper into the cemetery.
Drops of rain stuck like blood-colored pearls to the two remaining roses in her hand. She touched one clear droplet and it rolled off to splatter on the ground. Crushed as easily as people, she thought. Her mind whirled around the millions of cells inside human bodies that were designed to work together in harmony, but those harmonies were far too often cut short. Thanks to disasters, accidents, diseases and, most of all, other stupid, selfish people.
She passed a garden of gravestones and markers then walked toward a magnificent sprawling oak tree in one back corner. Manmade vehicles had killed her husband and son, and manmade bullets had torn Jake down in a manmade war over manmade drugs that man had made illegal. Jake had met his end at age thirty-two before he and Tal had a shot at marriage, life, and family. He would never wake up with her, clean house with her, or share a romantic breakfast in bed. He would never know the joy of having their children pile under the covers between them on a lazy Saturday morning.
The April breeze cooled the hot tears spilling down Tal’s cheeks. She hugged her arms to her chest. What hurt most was that Jake would never know how she felt. By the time she worked up the nerve to confess her love, he was dead.
She walked past a fixed concrete bench to two graves lying side by side under the ancient oak. She had been lucky to get these plots. They had been less desirable at the time because of their remote location in the cemetery, down a sloping hill from the main road. To Tal, however, they were perfect because of the tree. Its thick, overhanging branches sheltered and embraced both graves like loving arms. Tal sank to her knees in the wet grass.
~Owen Davis, Loving Husband & Father
March 1, 1982 - Feb. 13, 2011~
Tal kissed her second rose and placed it at Owen’s marker. She closed her eyes, inhaled sharply and turned to the smaller stone a few feet away. Sorrow filled her body like a million tiny weights.
~Our Angel, Darden Davis
Oct. 24, 2006 - Feb. 13, 2011~
Tal kissed her last, best rose and placed it on the grass by Darden’s name. Her hands shook as she pulled a few weeds, wiped bits of dirt from his stone, and braced for the memories. Darden’s sweet milky breath on her cheek; his infant warmth cuddled next to her while he slept; his infectious giggles when they tickled; his timid entry into preschool, and his screams in the fiery crash seven years, one month, three weeks, and five days ago.
Tal’s shoulders shook. A sob erupted, and she curled into a tortured, weeping ball. She had hardened into something inhuman after they’d died, a shell void of emotions, feelings, or self-preservation. And she’d thrown herself into work, hoping her life would end, too. She’d run the quickest into shootouts, sped the fastest into car chases, and arrived the soonest to any violent situation. She’d wanted to die, but in a way that seemed justified, acceptable, honorable, even. But nothing had worked. Five years and three therapists later, Darden’s screams and the fiery crash had continued to haunt.
Until Jake.
His kindness and crazy sense of humor had broken through her guilt and grief and made her laugh again. After almost two years as his partner, Darden’s screams had fallen silent and she’d rediscovered her ability to care for a man again.
Her sobbing ebbed and Tal rose to her knees. She dried her tears, stunned to find that the sun had set, the rain had cleared, and the lights of Pittsburgh now spread like stars around her. The skyline glowed with its signature US Steel Tower, Mellon Center, and glass castle spires of One PPG Place. Rush-hour traffic lined the countless bridges that spanned the city’s three rivers, moving ribbons of light that connected this Steel City to itself and to all points beyond.
Like life, she thought. It leads everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.
Tal sighed and dug out her cell phone. Her fingers numbly pressed a ready number.
A cheery voice answered. “Three Rivers Travel, may I help you?”
Tears welled. Tal plucked at a thread.
“Hello?”
“I need a plane ticket. To Ren
o.”
“One-way or round trip?” The girl’s happy, carefree voice cut like glass.
“One-way.”
“All right then. Will you need a rental car or—”
“Not this time.”
“And when would you like to leave?”
Tal traced Darden’s name on the wet granite. Her chin quivered.
“As soon as possible.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SAM
Wading hip-deep in the cold waters of Prism Lake, Sam soon relaxed and forgot about the handyman, the governor, and the shelter with its desperate need for private money. Nestled in a remote region fifty miles north of Reno, this endless expanse of lake anchored a 500,000-acre Native American reservation owned and run by the Anaho Tribe. Activities included hiking, camping, fishing, kayaking, paddle boarding, mountain biking, and seasonal hunting. But the twenty-seven-mile-long lake, with its ancient origins and endless cache of sizable and unusual fish, attracted Sam most.
Sam cast his line again into the clean fresh water, careful to avoid Diego doing the same about ten yards away. A breeze tousled his hair and the evening sun cast long, beautiful rays across the lake’s surface. It was similar to the picture Liam hung in the lobby, except for the rocks. The array of unusual tufa rocks lining this shore reminded Sam of oddly stacked broccoli, or large dribbled mud piles crafted by a giant child. Pinched rows of mountains encircled the lake and dense woods blanketed the rocky terrain. The whole place looked like a land that time forgot.
The Anaho kept this part of the reservation and lake private with canine patrols and tree-mounted cameras to watch for unwanted guests. Thanks to Diego, Sam’s name remained on the welcome list.
“Fergie would be proud.” Diego cast toward a nearby cove. “Holding yet another fishing line in yet another lake so even more slimy creatures can bite.”
Sam chuckled. “Especially when that time could be so much better spent shopping, listening to the Philharmonic, or attending a ballet or opera.” He laughed to hide a pang of sadness. Fergie had been gone four years already, but he missed her as if she’d died yesterday. He would toss aside this rod and reel in a blink if it meant he could spend time with her again, even at those places he didn’t like.
