by V. K. Powell
“But is easy enough, my girl?” Warmth spread through Dylan and tears spilled down her cheeks. Papa was still with her. He’d always called her my girl, though he’d had three.
“It has to be enough.” Dylan heard the crunch of dead leaves and looked up as Bennett sauntered toward her. “Should’ve known they’d send you.”
Bennett casually stretched her long jeans-clad legs out on the raised platform beside Dylan and leaned back against the headstone. “Nobody sent me. I knew you’d be here and wanted to check on you. Papa not giving you the answers you want?”
“God, you’re so much like him—”
“And you.” Bennett grinned and gave her a wink.
“It’s totally annoying because I get away with nothing, not even my own thoughts.” Dylan blew out a long breath.
Bennett’s grin vanished and hurt clouded her brown eyes. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
She started to get up, but Dylan grabbed the tail of her flannel shirt and pulled her back down. “I’m sorry, Ben. I don’t mean to take my frustrations out on you.” They were quiet for a few minutes, Dylan staring at Papa’s headstone, and Bennett retying her hiking boot laces with mock concentration.
“So, what’s really going on? You’ve patched up injured cops before. Watching it happen in real time?” Bennett clasped one of Dylan’s hands and made her look at her.
She nodded. “Seeing my family in the line of fire sucked, big time. And you, Jazz, and…Finley acting bulletproof didn’t help.” Her gut twisted with the memory. “Two children’s lives changed forever because of what happened. Papa’s death resurrected. If you need more reasons why I’m upset, I can go on.”
“Would you bite my head off if I offered an additional possibility?” Bennett asked.
“Can I stop you?”
“Probably not. Somebody needs to say it aloud, and since Papa can’t and you won’t…” Dylan looked away, but Bennett waited until she made eye contact again before continuing. “Maybe something, or someone, is waking you up inside—”
“Stop.” Dylan buried her face in her hands again. “I can’t.”
“Finley Masters is a cop’s cop who works and plays hard. She has a reputation with women, and from what I’ve heard, had a difficult family life. She is not the kind of woman I’d choose for my baby sister, but you two sparred and pranced around each other like cats in heat at the fair. And when you weren’t together, you were tracking each other.” Dylan cocked her head and started to speak, but Bennett continued, “I’m a trained observer.”
“I don’t pran—”
“I’m not saying you should marry or even seriously date her, but if you’re interested, maybe you should check it out. And if you’re not, find someone else. Anyone else who appeals.”
“I won’t mention to G-ma or Mama that you advised me to have a fling with a notorious womanizer. That is what you’re suggesting, right?”
“You haven’t been attracted to anyone in a long time, Dylan. It’s not healthy for someone as young and vibrant as you to be alone. I want you to be happy.”
“Dating Finley Masters won’t make me happy. Total nightmare. Maybe I should start seriously looking for someone to date who isn’t a cop or in any way related to my job.” Dylan shook her head so hard she felt dizzy like she’d done as a kid when she didn’t want to hear or accept the truth. “The only thing worse than worrying about my family every day they go to work is having my lover climb out of bed and strap on a gun. I can’t and I won’t. End of subject.”
Chapter Eight
Finley woke the next day in the pink bedroom again with Anita sleeping beside her. The details of why she’d come here again were fuzzy. She searched her memory and replayed the previous afternoon and evening. Becky Hinson and her mother arrived from California and went directly to the hospital to check on Hank. Afterward, they picked up Robin and left Finley at home alone with her memories. She grabbed the vodka bottle—her father’s crutch of choice—and downed part of it before running to Anita for hers. But she’d choked, halfheartedly having sex with Anita while remembering how much she’d enjoyed holding Dylan’s hand yesterday before brunch.
She glanced at the bedside clock. “Shit, I’m going to be late my first day back.” Anita didn’t budge, for which Finley was grateful. She grabbed her clothes, deciding to shower and change at the station. On the way in, she called the hospital to check on Hank, and thirty minutes later, slid into a chair in the lineup room.
“Welcome back, Fin,” the sergeant said. “What’s the latest on Hank?”
“The nurse said he slept well last night and ate some solid food this morning. He might be going home soon. Becky and her mother finally got here after the wildfire delays in Cali, so Robin is back with her.”
“Excellent. Let us know if we can help at all.” The rest of the guys offered their support before the sergeant gave out assignments. “Evening shift is busy, as you know, but stay sharp. The second shooter is still at large. He came to our house and hit one of our guys. Let’s find him. Dismissed.”
Finley strapped her leather carry bag that held personal equipment across her body, picked up the department-issued gear bag containing her gas mask, helmet, citation book, and other forms, and followed her squad out the back door of the station to the police parking lot. She popped the trunk of her squad car and inventoried the equipment—spare tire, fire extinguisher, yellow crime scene tape, flares, and orange safety cones. She flipped open the tachograph mounted in the trunk to record speed and times the vehicle was in motion and stationary and slid the round record disk into place. Next, she opened the back door of the squad car and tipped the seat up, checking underneath for evidence, weapons, or other contraband left by prisoners and not removed by the previous shift officer. All clear and good to go.
Finley checked on duty with her call sign and badge number before heading for the Daytime Resource Center on East Washington Street. Her number one informant, Badger, a former soldier now homeless, usually hung out there until closing time every day. She teased him that he had a serious crush on the director, Adena Weber, which he never denied.
Adena, tall with auburn hair and a gorgeous body, was walking toward her car with Badger tagging behind and his arms full of papers when Finley pulled into the lot. He glanced around furtively as if looking for something or someone. Badger didn’t appear dangerous, but Finley knew his wiry frame was all muscle because he prided himself on staying in shape.
Finley watched from her car while Adena took the papers from Badger, climbed in her car, and waved as she pulled out of the lot.
“You know she’s gay, right?” Finley said to Badger watching him stare after Adena.
He kicked the tires of Finley’s car and shrugged. “Does that mean I can’t like a person?” He wiped a hand over his tanned face as if the gesture would erase some of the heavy wrinkles from sun and exposure. He kept scanning the area around the DRC, and Finley suddenly got it.
“You’re looking out for her.”
Badger tipped his head slightly. “That drug ring operating out of the DRC freaked Miss Adena out. She asked if I’d stick around during the day until they closed. And if I get myself straight, she might make it a permanent paying gig. Bouncer lite.”
“That would be great, Badger. You’re a good man.”
“Once a soldier…or a cop…never changes, right? We know which rocks to look under for the vermin.” He tugged a toboggan from his back pocket and pulled it down over his ears. “What’s up with you?”
“Same ole, same ole. Get in. We’ll do a drive-thru somewhere. What’re you in the mood for?” Finley shifted her briefcase into the trunk while Badger settled in the passenger seat beside her. Being caged in the back didn’t agree with his PTSD.
“Taco Bell?”
“Works for me.” She checked out on the radio so she wouldn’t get a call while they talked and then drove toward Summit Avenue. “So, how you been doing?”
“Not bad. Miss Ad
ena found these jeans for me.” He rolled up one leg and pointed. “Flannel lined. They’ll come in good this winter if I’m still on the street.”
“Nice. Have you seen that therapist anymore?”
He nodded.
“Taking your meds?” She didn’t probe too deeply because Badger didn’t like to talk about Afghanistan. He was too young to be so messed up, but with Adena’s help, maybe he’d get back on his feet.
“The DRC staff gets my med refills.” Finley pulled up to the order window, glanced his way, and he said, “I’ll have two Burrito Supremes and a large Pepsi.”
She doubled the drinks, paid and collected their order, and then drove to Third Street behind Fairview Station and parked. Badger didn’t really like being seen as an informant under his current circumstances, so she kept it simple for him.
He took a big bite of the burrito, chewed a bit, and said, “Sorry about the guy who got shot. Friend of yours?”
The familiar ache tightened Finley’s chest, and she took a moment to recover. “My best friend. That’s why I need your help, Badger. He has a wife and kid, and he almost died. The second shooter is from Atlanta and ditched his SUV at Four Seasons Mall.” She pulled up the BOLO on the computer mounted in the floor between them and swiveled it so he could get a look. Can you ask around?”
Badger studied the photo and stroked the stubble on his chin. “I’ve seen him.”
Finley felt a prickle of anticipation. “When? Where?”
“I left the DRC walking toward the depot late yesterday. I check on the place after they close on the weekends, you know, for something to do. This guy was standing near the train overpass looking toward the center chomping on his cigarette butt like he was pissed.”
“Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
Badger nodded several times. “We made eye contact. I might be fucked up from the war, but I’m still good with faces. It’s him.” He took another bite of his burrito and washed it down with Pepsi.
“Did you see him today?”
“No, but I wasn’t outside much because of the rain. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“You still got your cell phone and my number?”
Badger nodded again, finished his food, grabbed his drink, and reached for the door handle. “Thanks for this. I’ll walk back.”
Before he left, Finley pulled a twenty from her wallet and offered it to him.
“I’m good. You’ve done enough.”
She tucked the bill in his shirt pocket. “Just in case.” Too many good people like Badger ended up homeless because of bad circumstances, bad choices, or bad luck. Her father could’ve been one of them if their house hadn’t been paid for when her mother left.
She shook off the thought and drove toward the DRC to check it out before dark. If Jeremy Spencer had been there before, he might go back, but why? Jeremy and Josh had a couple of family members in town, along with Josh’s ex-girlfriend, but officers had them staked out. Jeremy wouldn’t go there for help. And he’d abandoned his vehicle, so he was either walking or using cabs, buses, rentals, or Uber, all risky since the police were monitoring those as well. He hadn’t bought a bus, train, or plane ticket, at least not under his own name. Maybe he was looking for clothes to alter his appearance or some assistance from the DRC to get back to Atlanta.
Finley parked in the DRC lot, tucked her Maglite under her arm, and walked to the overpass. Near the edge of the sidewalk, she spotted several cigarette butts and a crushed patch of vegetation as if someone had stood there for a while. She squatted for a closer look. Newport menthols. The cigarette butts had been chewed until the white filter frayed and stuck out of the brown tipping paper like bushy hair from a toboggan.
She flipped on her Maglite as the sky grew darker and followed a trail of butts and trampled grass up the side of the embankment to an abandoned building with a shipping container in front. She tried the front door. Locked. Metal grating covered the windows, and the garage doors along the front hadn’t been raised recently as evidenced by families of spiders occupying the corners. Next, she inspected the padlocks on the container and saw no signs of tampering.
Finley made her way around the building, flashed her light along the side, and jumped back. “Shit.” A huge white face with a black mask and green lips glared at her. “Dumb ass,” she mumbled to herself. The garage door and entire side of the building had been tagged with colorful graffiti. She grinned at the flowers, strangely shaped creatures, and symbols but had no idea what they meant. Shining her flashlight on the ground again, she followed the now sparse trail of cigarette butts toward a stack of railroad ties beside the railroad tracks.
She stopped near the corner of the building and listened. Voices from restaurants and bars across the tracks on Elm Street, cars traveling along Washington Street below, and the distant horn of an approaching train echoed on the cool night air. Then to her right, she heard rustling, a furtive movement, and strained to pinpoint the exact location, but the train’s horn grew louder and masked the sound. She crouched and edged closer to the stack of railroad ties, the only place for someone to hide.
She was about to turn her Maglite on when the train rounded the corner and its headlight blinded her. She blinked several times. A flash of something to her left. A creature, the shadow of a tree limb, or a person? She spun and ran toward the movement and felt a sharp pain in her shins. Was she hit? She lost her grip on her flashlight and grabbed for it as she fell. Her head struck the ground and then nothing.
Chapter Nine
“The overdose in treatment four is puking her guts up and wishing she’d never seen a bottle of Tylenol. She’ll be pooping tiny charcoal pellets later. What’s next?” Dylan rested her elbows on the nurses’ station and gave Holly a wink. “Send me in, Coach.”
Holly pulled at a short strand of red hair that refused to lay flat beside her ear and checked her tablet. “I’ve got a Braxton Hicks in two who insists she’s going to drop that baby any minute. Irregular contractions that don’t get any closer, stop when she walks, and only in the abdominal area. Want to try convincing her she’s not really in labor?”
Dylan shook her head. “Hard pass. I’ll grab a coffee. Want one?” Holly nodded, and Dylan started toward the elevator until a commotion from the front of the ER drew her attention. Finley Masters stood at the check-in desk in uniform with her bare feet bloody, boots in her hand, and a goose egg sized knot on her forehead. Dylan’s heartbeat throbbed in her throat and her mouth dried.
“Want me to have one of the residents take it?” Holly asked, giving her a strange look.
The fact that she hesitated before answering annoyed Dylan. “Please.” She wasn’t over how Finley had kindly taken up for her and sympathized with her at brunch yesterday, or Bennett’s suggestion that maybe she should do—what with Finley—or someone. She pushed the elevator button twice and prayed the car would hurry.
“Dylan.” Finley hobbled toward her. “Will you tell the sergeant I don’t need to see a doctor?” She gestured at one of the men beside her.
The hematoma over Finley’s left eye was dark purple, and Dylan couldn’t help shifting into doctor mode. She checked Finley’s pupils and glanced at her carotid pulse. “Let one of the residents check you out just to be sure, since you’re here.” Finley’s face paled and she swallowed hard, glancing at the men beside her. She was afraid and afraid for them to see.
“Could you do it? I mean, I only skinned my shins on a couple of railroad spikes and bumped my head when I fell. No big deal.” Finley’s blue eyes drilled into hers, pleading.
She should say no and walk away, but the last two times Finley had asked for help, Dylan had refused and Finley shut down. For some reason, she didn’t want that to happen again. “Okay.” She guided Finley toward an open treatment area and nodded for Holly to send the other officers back to the waiting area. “Have a seat on the gurney and look at me.” She pulled on gloves and flashed the penlight from her pocket in Finley’s eyes, satisfie
d with their response to stimulus. “Does your head hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“Yeah. When I woke up, the sergeant and a couple of the other guys were standing over me. But I feel fine in the head.” She lifted her feet and raised her uniform pants legs. Blood-soaked bandages barely clung to both shins.
“What the hell is that?” Dylan asked.
“QuikClot. I tried to convince the sarge I could stop the bleeding and keep going, but it didn’t work.”
“You carry QuikClot in your equipment bag?” She shivered at the thought of Finley or one of her sisters trying to stop themselves from bleeding out on the street.
“On my utility belt. And Narcan. You never know when a victim might need help before EMS arrives. Besides, when you’ve been in as many scrapes as I have, you learn to take care of yourself. And it won’t do any good if it’s in my bag in the car.” She nodded toward the boots she’d brought in with her. “I took those off so the blood wouldn’t ruin them. You couldn’t tell it by looking, but those steel-toed puppies are expensive, probably as much as a pair of your girly heels. You do wear heels, right? If I’m—”
“Finley, stop the nervous chatter.”
“I’m not nervous.” Her eyes widened, and she looked everywhere else in the room except at Dylan or her injuries. “I just don’t like hospitals much or feeling…”
Dylan rolled Finley’s pants legs higher, picked an edge of the dressing between her thumb and forefinger, and slowly peeled it away from the cut. “Don’t like feeling what? Helpless, needy?” Every cop she treated believed he should be invincible, immune to injury and pain. But Finley seemed scared or at the least tormented. Did something else contribute to her dislike of hospitals and feeling powerless?
