Expectations were low, given the breadth of the search area, water flow, the temperature, enormous depths of some of the water’s pools, our lack of personnel and equipment. We needed divers, deepwater cameras, dragging equipment, sonar, a submersible robot. We had none of it. Just us and the dog. This was simply the initial pass. What I hoped for today was an alert. If Wilco alerted, we’d mark the area with buoys and bring in divers and equipment.
My stomach rolled and lurched with the raft. Twenty minutes in, and Wilco was already showing signs of impatience. That’s the problem with water searches. My dog, despite his handicap—his missing leg had never slowed him down much—was an active searcher. He loved to romp through the woods, run and bounce over land obstacles, and push his snout along tree roots and rock outcrops, crevices, piles of debris, and anywhere else that held an enticing smell. Being trapped in a raft was pure torture. For my dog and my restless body. Not to mention that it was at least ten degrees colder on the water. At least my shakes might appear to be from the chilled air. Or so I hoped. I swallowed hard.
Whiskey. The thought of it popped into my mind and dwelled there for the next twenty minutes as we navigated the water in a grid, zigzagging back and forth in calculated distances upstream from the spot on the bank where the purse was found. We worked this way for over an hour, quietly and methodically, each of us immersed in our own thoughts. A drink. A drink would warm me nicely about now. Still plenty of time to get it out of my system by Tuesday. No harm done, right? Wishful thinking! I blinked, focused on my dog, watching his reactions closely. On land, I could easily tell when he was on scent; out here, the signs might be much subtler.
The first signal came about thirty minutes later. We’d rounded a bend in the river when Wilco dipped his head, whined, and clamored over us to the rear of the boat. He leaned over the edge, sniffed, and scurried back to the bow. He did this several times. Bow to stern, stern to bow.
“He’s on scent.” I looked at the officer manning the oar. “Narrow our zone.” And to the others, “Slow and easy with the paddles.”
Wilco stopped midway and frantically pawed at the bottom of the raft, as if he could dig straight through to the scent below. Thankfully the raft was hard-bottomed, with exposed rubber flotation only on the sides. He licked his lips, threw his head, whined, and clawed. I readied a buoy, planning to mark the spot, when Wilco lunged to the other side of the raft. The sudden movement spooked one of the officers; he cringed and covered himself, dropped his paddle. Wilco, hyperfocused, didn’t flinch. Instead, he wedged himself between the officer and the edge of the raft, leaned over and snapped at the surface of the water, his jaws opening and clamping shut with a loud click. I instantly plunged to the other side, snatched his collar to keep him from jumping or falling. The noise and ferocity of his action was intimidating, even to me as I held him in place.
“I think this may be it.”
“You think?” The officers chuckled.
I motioned to the officer, who set the marker, then said, “Let’s pull away.” I didn’t want to risk Wilco going overboard. Frigid water and unpredictable currents could overwhelm even the strongest K9 swimmer.
A little ways downstream, after his praise reward, Wilco settled down with me at the bow of the boat. My emotions were a mixed bag of jubilant satisfaction over our success at a task well done and grief for the victim whose watery grave we’d just marked. It was always this way after a discovery. Conflict was a part of the job. Only today, it hit hard, the loss and misery, and I felt weak and cold and anxious. I wanted a drink, a pill, anything to quell my jittering nerves. Instead, I reached for my dog, wrapped my arms over his back, and caressed the soft underfur of his belly. Even through the heavy material of my immersion suit, I felt the strength of his muscles and the warm heat that radiated from his pelt. I placed my face on the back of his head and stayed that way, spooned behind him with my arms wrapped possessively around his body as our boat silently cut through the icy water.
CHAPTER 25
As soon as I hit the shore with Wilco, I gave him another pat and ruffled his fur. Withdrawals had curbed my usual energy, but I looked him in the face and his eyes lit up at my pleased expression. Enough. We were done. I was nearing two days without my meds. The shakes and cold sweats were bad, but now the stomach cramps were starting. I wanted to get home, go to bed. Isolate myself.
Grabowski and Pusser stood nearby, watching. I glanced up at the men. “Wilco did good, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d—” I stopped midsentence. Pusser looked concerned. “What’s going on, boss?”
“A call came into the main dispatch from your cousin. She’s trying to get ahold of you, wouldn’t say what it was about. You’re supposed to call home right away.”
I tore at my suit. It wouldn’t come off fast enough. “Do the cells—”
“No service here, just back at the main road. We can patch a call through the radio.”
Pusser held my sleeve while I squirmed my arm free. “Don’t panic, Callahan. It could be anything.”
Meg called the office, meaning the police, people she mistrusts. She would never do that unless . . . “It could be my grandmother. She’s not well. I should be home with her.” The suit was off. I left it in a crumpled heap on the ground and headed straight for the Crown Vic. Grabowski followed, keys dangling in his hand. He helped get Wilco into the car and we hit the road.
As soon as we were in cell range, I saw there were several missed calls from Meg. I checked for messages, but my in-box was full. Damn it. No wonder she had to call into the department. I punched her number again and left a frantic message. “Meg, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’ve got my phone now. Call me as soon as you get this.”
I imagined Gran on her deathbed, Meg beside her, holding her hand, crying....
“Can’t reach her?”
I looked at Grabowski. “No. Go faster, will you?”
Grabowski sped up.
I punched Meg’s number again. Come on, Meg. Answer. Answer . . . damn it! I disconnected and called the hospital, identifying myself and giving them Gran’s name. The woman on the other end put me on hold. It took forever for her to come back and tell me that they had no record of Gran’s admittance. No record of her admittance . . . that was a good sign, right? My heart sank. Or the worst sign. I tried Meg again. No answer. I gave up, clenching my phone on my lap; my hand was shaking, as well as my legs.
Outside, trees blurred past my window, a dark streak against a gray sky. My brain felt like it was knocking up against my eyeballs. Every bump, every sharp turn, rattled it more. Flashes of our olive-drab Humvee bouncing over rock-strewn Iraqi backroads on the way to retrieve . . . The last couple days came crashing in on me: the case, Gran, everything. My muscles ached, my mouth watered; I pressed my right palm against my pants pocket, craving my pills. Hopelessness washed over me. There was nothing to stop the tortured thoughts, the wracking guilt. “I didn’t even call to check in today.”
“Cut yourself some slack, Callahan. You’ve been a little busy.”
“That’s the thing. I’m always busy.”
“You’re in the middle of a homicide investigation.”
“We’re looking into one of the clan.”
“It’s your job. I’m sure your family understands.”
“I’m betraying my own. That’s all they understand.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Forget it, okay?” Nobody understands, Grabowski. Nobody understands anything about me.
I ran my fingers through my hair. My scalp throbbed. “Just hurry.”
* * *
Meg’s right hand was wrapped in blood-soaked gauze. She used her other hand to pick at glass shards protruding like spikes from the shag pile of our front-room carpeting. The front window of our trailer was shattered. As soon as we walked in, she shot a dark look Grabowski’s way. “I don’t want him here.”
I ignored her and grabbed Wilco’s collar, pulling him aside before he sliced open one of his paws
. “Where’s Gran? Has she been hurt?”
“She’s in bed. She’s fine. Shook up, but okay.” Meg pointed to a large brick on the floor. “Someone threw this through the window. She was in her chair when it happened.” Gran’s old blue recliner was just feet from the front window. It was covered in broken glass. I attached Wilco’s lead and looped the other end to the knob on the front door.
“You can go now,” Meg told Grabowski.
I scowled. “Could you possibly be any ruder?”
“There’s no need for him to be here. We don’t need him.”
“Oh yeah! I can see that we’ve got it all under control here,” I bit back at her, sweeping my hand toward the broken window.
Grabowski shuffled his feet. “Does anyone want to report this?”
Meg lifted her chin. “No. No reports. We’ll take care of it ourselves.”
He snapped on a pair of gloves. “Did you touch the brick, miss?”
“I moved it out of the way. Why?”
“I’d like to take it in to be processed for prints.”
Meg’s eyes flattened. “Not necessary, Officer. Like I said, we have our own ways of handling these things.”
“This may be connected to our current case.” He looked my way for validation and I saw a shift in his attitude, a sudden understanding of what I’d said in the car. I’m a Pavee investigating another of my clan in a murder. Many here resented me. That made me, and my family, connected to the case.
I took a hard stance. “Don’t be stupid, Meg. You know people are angry that I’m investigating Nevan. This could be retaliation for his arrest. Someone’s way of warning me to back off.”
“No one here would do this to Gran.” Her sharp glare silently finished the statement: Not to Gran, but maybe to you.
“Are you sure about that? Officer Grabowski is right, and if we connect this brick to someone, it might help find Maura’s killer. You want that, right?”
She continued to glare at Grabowski.
“Grabowski has my permission to look around and take the brick.” I hated the hurt look on Meg’s face, but this was Gran’s house. Which made it my house. Not Meg’s.
Grabowski continued forward with gloved hands and retrieved the brick. I headed for the back of the trailer. “I’m going to check on Gran. Be right back.”
The last slivers of daylight pierced the window and sliced across Gran’s pale face. I went to her and adjusted the pillow behind her back, where she sat propped up. A smile lit up her face, but quickly faded. Her skin was sallow and drawn, blanched, her shoulders rounded and slumped forward. She swayed. My hand shot to her shoulder, adjusting her back in place. Anger welled in me. She’d been doing better. This had set her back. “Gran, are you okay?”
“Who would have done this? Who would have thrown a brick through our window?”
“I don’t know.” I took a handful of tissues from a box on her nightstand and lowered myself into bed with her, wiping at the sweat on my face. My ears rang, thin and high-pitched. I couldn’t stop my legs from moving, as if someone had drained my blood and filled my veins with cherry soda, bubbly and red.
“You okay, child?”
I turned to my side, pushed a wiry hair from her cheek, her breath hot and sweet on my face. I slid my hand down her arm, scooped her hand into mine, and rubbed my thumb over her thin, freckled skin. My body went still. Physical peace washed over me. I snuggled in closer, spoke in her ear. “Please don’t worry, Gran. I’ll find out who did this and they’ll regret it, believe me.”
Her eyes widened. “No. No. Just let it go, child.”
“Someone threw a brick through our window. I can’t let that go. No one has the right to destroy our property. You could have been hurt.”
Her body stiffened, her lip trembled. What am I doing? Trying to bring on another stroke? “Just let it go.” She meant she couldn’t face this right now. She isn’t strong enough. I took a deep breath and patted her hand. “I’m sorry, Gran. Please don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”
Her eyes softened and moved over my shoulder. I turned to see Meg in the doorway. I raised up and sat on the edge of the bed. Meg came over and fussed with the blankets, adjusting them over Gran’s legs. “Everything okay in here?” There was a false cheerfulness in her tone.
I frowned. “We’re fine, Meg.”
“Good. Your friend just left. He said he’d be in contact soon.” She walked to the closet and removed a handful of blouses on hangers, placed them across the foot of the bed and started sorting them. A slow task with one hand bandaged.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting Gran packed. We’re leaving in a couple days. Maybe tomorrow, if I can get someone to cover my shift at the diner.”
“Leaving? Where are you going?”
Gran pulled her hand away and traced the delicate stitching of the detailed Celtic double-knot design atop her quilt. A wedding gift from her sister, its symbols meant to tie the lives of the married couple for eternity. It’d been on her bed as long as I could remember.
I ducked my head and caught her gaze. “Gran? Talk to me. Where are you going?”
“To your aunt Tinnie’s place. She’s got an extra room.”
“But you have doctor appointments, and—”
“Tinnie’s already been in contact with a doctor down there. She’ll take good care of me.”
“Okay.” I put on my achingly polite voice. “Good.” Yes, it was a good idea to get her away for a while, away from the stress—and from whoever just did this crime. “You could use a couple days away.”
A thick silence settled over the room. I looked from Gran to Meg and then back to Gran. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Gran’s watery blue eyes grew more intense. “Child, this is no visit. I’m going to stay with Tinnie permanently.”
* * *
“Did you put this idea into her head?” I leaned against the wall in the hallway, clutching my midsection. I was trembling again, from the withdrawals or anger, or both. “What the hell were you thinking, Meg?”
“I was thinking about Gran and what’s best for her. One of us needs to think about her. I can’t believe you. Would you really want her staying here now, with bricks flying at her?”
“Of course not. But once—”
“Once what, Brynn? This brick thing was just the last straw. She’s been putting up with jeering and rude comments ever since you became a cop. None of her friends will talk to her. And now you’re trying to pin Maura’s murder on Nevan. How do you think that’s going over?”
“It’s my job.” How many times had I said that this week? “And I’ll fix it. Find out who killed Maura, and—”
“And nothing. She’s already become an outcast in the clan. You know what that means. She can’t return.”
The words “can’t return” tightened the scars in my neck into a crackle of ache as every fiber in me cringed. Darkness enveloped me, a thick black hole swallowing my soul as I knew Gran wouldn’t be here for me in the searing burn of my nightmares of melting skin and shivering cold daylight of severed body parts and swollen maggot-covered carcasses. I wavered, legs unwilling to stand against one more abandonment in my life.
Meg’s eyes widened with concern. She reached out, then dropped her arm. “You can go visit every weekend. Tinnie’s only a couple hours from here.”
“But I don’t want her to go.” The words came out tiny and weak even as they screamed through my brain. I needed Gran, now more than ever. How could she leave me?
CHAPTER 26
I woke with a jolt, my heart racing, fuzzy remnants of my dream dissipating with every blink of my eye. My T-shirt clung in patches to my skin, wet and heavy. The flulike aches were back. They wracked my muscles. Snot dripped from my nose. I shook all over, uncontrollable shakes. My teeth chattered. I was freezing, but sweating.
Wilco whimpered and licked at my snot-stained cheeks. I lay back. More rest. That’s what I needed, but a sudden pain shot
through my abdomen. I shoved my dog aside and ran for the toilet. Shit and snot and sweat oozed and spurted from every orifice of my body until I was emptied.
I was nearing day three of no pills, no booze. Day one irritated me like a hundred mosquitos needling the brain and nerves, but clenched jaws quelled the jitters. Day two, the mosquitos morphed into a thousand razor-backed maggots crawling under my skin, and my jaw hurt from refusing to give in. But day three? A living hell as the vermin invaded every organ.
I called Pusser from the bathroom. I told him I was too sick to come into work. “Tuna sandwich from the gas station outside Augusta,” I said.
“Damn gas-station food can kill you,” he commiserated. As if the hell I was in had anything to do with salmonella or listeria. He knew better. We were both liars.
Exhausted and spent, I stood under a hot stream of water until the shakes stopped. I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this.
I wrapped myself in a towel and shuffled to the kitchen. Coffee would help. And something small to eat to ease the roiling in my stomach. I fumbled with the coffee filter, managed to fill the pot, turned it on. I shoved a handful of dry cereal into my mouth. Some missed and fell to the floor. It hurt to bend down. I left it there. It crunched under my bare feet. Wilco whined. “Shut up, you stupid dog!” I didn’t mean that. “I’m so sorry, boy.” I scratched his ears and begged forgiveness, as if he heard me, and waited for the coffee to be done. Why does it take so long to brew? I waited some more. The clock on the microwave said it was 8:06 A.M.
No job was worth this. Why couldn’t Pusser just let it go? So I needed a little something to get me through every day. What I’ve seen, what I’ve done, what I’ve felt . . . I’m a damn war vet. I’ve earned it.
Coffee spurted into the pot like a liquid balm. A mug. I needed a mug, but opened the wrong cupboard door and my savior stared at me on the shelf. My gaze fixated on the square-sided, black-labeled shield that protected my sanity. I caressed the bottle, my fingers touching it like a lover’s face. A lover that begged for my lips, always faithful, and always willing to fill my basest desires. I thought of Doogan, the lover I didn’t have, the lover I’d never have. I wrapped my fingers around the liquor bottle’s hard neck, perfectly molded with little indents to fit fingers, my fingers. My lips twinged. Saliva formed on the edges of my tongue. I swallowed. Anticipation zinged through every nerve in my body.
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