by S. W. Lauden
Marco snatched the bottle, pouring himself another. He added so little orange juice that his cocktail was the color of piss.
“Been thinking about your brother a lot lately.”
“Kind of hard not to with everything that happened.”
“You ever miss him?”
It was a good question. Greg had been angry with Tim for years, but it usually sprang up when he least expected it. These days, between Tommy’s book and the murders, Tim was on his mind all the time. It felt like he’d been resurrected in the worst possible way—twenty years too late and without any new information about the night he died.
Greg felt his blood beginning to boil. His beverage put out the fire.
“What do you think happened that night at the record store?”
Marco shuddered, a pained expression hijacking his face. He tried to speak several times, but the words wouldn’t form.
“Jesus, Marco. If you’ve got one of your crazy theories cooking, spit it out.”
“I was there.”
Greg sat up, scooting to the edge of his chair. It felt like the glass might shatter in his tightening grip.
“You were there?”
“I needed a place to shoot up. Tim let me use his office sometimes when the record store was open. And…”
“What?!”
“And I broke in sometimes at night to steal CDs. My dealer used to take them in trade.”
“Stealing from your friends. Typical junkie crap. What happened with Tim?”
“I don’t know. He was alive when I left the first time.”
Greg stood, his heart was pounding. He tried to control his voice, to keep Marco talking, but it got harder with each new piece of information. It took everything in him not to leap across the table and throttle his partner.
“The first time? What the hell did you two talk about?”
“The band, mostly. He said something about Mikey making him sign over the name to you. Then he gave me twenty bucks and I split. That’s all I remember, bro.”
“What about when you came back?”
Marco gripped the arms of his chair. His face was pale and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Greg thought he might be on the verge of a heart attack.
“It was the middle of the night. I tried to get him down, but he’d already checked out. I took a few CDs and the money from the cash box, and bailed.”
The missing money was something Greg always held onto. Proof that his brother was killed during a robbery. And now he knew the truth. It was like an old splinter was removed after years of discomfort, replaced by a knife in his back.
“So, you robbed your dead friend? Did you even bother to call the police?”
“Yes…but not until later.”
“After you scored.”
“It’s not a big secret I was an addict. That’s why I called in an anonymous tip.”
Greg turned this new information over in his head, inspecting it for flaws. He’d wanted answers for years, but not like this. Not when the new facts proved Officer Bob was right all along. He jumped up, grabbing Marco by the shirt.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think it mattered. He was already…gone.”
Greg shoved Marco backward into the chair, digging knuckles into his chest.
“What else do you know?”
“Nothing, bro. It was a long time ago.”
Greg saw genuine fear in his friend’s eyes. He released him, backing away. It was either that or snap his neck.
“You need to leave. Right now.”
Greg grabbed the bottle, heading for the garage. He was half way across the yard when a car pulled up behind the back fence. The lights mounted on the roof were a bad sign; things were about to get worse. Greg looked over his shoulder to make sure Marco had seen it too.
They were both standing when Detective Bowers came through the gate. He was alone, but moved like he was raiding the place. The only thing missing was a drawn gun.
He sneered at the bottle in Greg’s hand.
“You two having a little celebration?”
“More like a wake. What the fuck do you want?”
Detective Bowers kept walking until they were face-to-face.
“Who are you mourning, exactly? The kid you shot or all the kids that died because of you?”
“We went over this at the station the other night. He pointed his gun at me. JJ backed me up on that, and Gabriella copped to the murders. Case closed.”
Bowers brought a hand up, poking a finger into Greg’s chest.
“I’m still not convinced.”
Greg took a step back, brushing his hand away. He saw a fire ignite inside of Detective Bowers when their skin made contact. Marco came up behind Greg, forcing himself between them.
“Step away, bro. He’s trying to wind you up.”
Detective Bowers took one look at Marco and laughed.
“I’m glad you’re here too. I had an interesting chat with Gabriella today. She said she stayed with you during the tour. That true?”
Marco gave Greg a sideways glance. His jaw was tight and his brow was furrowed. It wasn’t easy to tell if this new information was sinking in. Marco guessed he had about thirty seconds before everything went sideways.
“Maybe we should do this down at the station. You know, like, when we’re sober.”
Detective Bowers brushed Marco off.
“Answer the question. Does your partner here know you were sneaking a murderer into your hotel rooms at night?”
Marco spun to leave.
“Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
Detective Bowers’ hand shot out, yanking him to the ground by his collar. Marco threw elbows, trying to fight back. That only made Detective Bowers angrier. He slid his forearm around Marco’s neck, pulling it tight.
Greg didn’t blink, bringing the bottle across the officer’s head. It made a hollow sound when it connected with his skull. The glass didn’t shatter, but Detective Bowers crumpled.
Greg was on him before he hit the ground. He followed up with a kick to the gut before delivering a barrage of punches to the face. Detective Bowers curled up into a fetal position, trying in vain to cover his head with both arms. Greg unloaded blow after blow, spitting and grunting as he unleashed every ounce of energy in his body. He saw the nose snap first, felt a sense of satisfaction at the blood bursting up into the air. Next came the jaw, twisting to the left from the force of Greg’s fist.
Detective Bowers lie motionless beneath him, but Greg didn’t relent. He yanked his limp body up by the shirt, slamming him down to the ground again and again. Greg watched the vacant eyes roll back in his head, blood smeared across his destroyed face. Something in the back of Greg’s head told him to stop—that the fight was over—but he didn’t know how. He might have killed him if it weren’t for his partner.
Marco dove at Greg, knocking him to the ground beside Detective Bowers. Greg’s first instinct was to keep fighting, but his muscles wouldn’t comply. His chest heaved and his head throbbed as utter exhaustion settled in. He lay there motionless listening to Detective Bowers gurgling and wheezing, fighting for every gasp of air. Marco muttered ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ under his breath, pulling out his phone to dial 911.
Greg was spent. He closed his eyes, waiting for whatever was going to come next.
Chapter 23
Greg didn’t dream that night because he never really slept. His nightmares found him with his eyes wide open. There was nobody else in the holding cell to disturb him, but the voices in his head were screaming. He looked down at the battered knuckles on his right fist, swallowed up by swollen, puffy skin. That hand had done more damage over the years than any gun he ever held. And now it might be a murder weapon, too.
He carefully stretch
ed his fingers out, feeling the tiny broken bones inside as they scraped against each other. There was something soothing about the pain pulsing through his wrist and arm. A persistent reminder of the pain he’d inflicted, as if he could ever forget.
He stood up again, walking a familiar circle around the cold concrete floor. The bars, benches, and toilet passed by in a blur, like they had in the countless laps he’d already made. Unwanted images of Detective Bowers’ bludgeoned face cycled through his head with every step he took. He studied each one, burning them into the backs of his eyelids. This wasn’t some lingering nightmare he could escape from, but the inevitable future he’d always managed to kick down the road.
The only thing he had to look forward to now was sentencing, followed by a violent death at the hands of a fellow inmate. He’d seen first-hand what could happen to ex-cops in prison and it wasn’t pretty. Unless a few of Detective Bowers’ squad got to him first. Greg knew some of them thirsted for revenge, if they only got the chance. Either way, it was looking like his last hour on earth would be brutal.
Greg stopped to look up. There was nothing in the ceiling that could hold his weight, but the crossbars over the door might do the trick. He wondered how many desperate people had taken their lives there, or at least had the same idea. His hand wandered down to the empty belt loops on his jeans. The arresting officer had taken his shoelaces too. Everything else in the cell was furniture, and all of it was bolted down. The BCPD had covered all their bases. Looks like I’m not getting out of this that easy.
He laid down on the narrow aluminum bench, willing himself to sleep. This was always the final action in the sequence he’d been repeating for the last six hours—stare at his hands, think about what he’d done, pace the cell, and try to fall asleep. The crook of his elbow was over his eyes when he heard a door creaking open. He sat up to see if he was getting a cellmate, or if it was time for his beat down.
He was surprised when Officer Bob came through the door instead. It looked like he’d aged ten years since Greg last saw him. His head was shaved clean, shoulders sagging. It took him a while to make his way down the hall. Greg was ready for him when he arrived.
“Visiting hours?”
Officer Bob pulled a folding chair over, sitting a few feet outside of Greg’s reach. The bars between them became more solid for Greg now, a reminder of how different the two of them had always been.
“They treating you all right?”
“The arresting officer got a little rough putting me in the cruiser, but who could blame him? The interrogation was by the book.”
Officer Bob nodded, folding his legs. His voice was hoarse.
“I might have forced a fight and shot you, if it was me.”
“You had plenty of opportunities to do that over the years. Don’t try to act tough now.”
“Maybe you’re right. You have a lawyer?”
“Public defender. Lucky me.”
Greg wondered if the smile on his face looked as fake as it felt. Officer Bob had bigger questions on his mind.
“Why’d you do it, Greg? Why’d you finally snap?”
Greg stood up to pace again, a few minutes ahead of schedule. It never occurred to him to consider the reasons for what he’d done. As far as he was concerned, Detective Bowers pushed the wrong guy too far. Looking back, it seemed like one of them was destined to end up in the hospital since the moment they met.
Officer Bob demanded an answer.
“He has a family, you know? A wife and two little girls.”
The meaningless words reflected off the cinderblock walls. Greg didn’t have the headspace to worry about anybody else’s family at the moment.
“Maybe he should have been at home with them instead of at my place, harassing me and trying to choke Marco out.”
“He was doing his job. If anybody can understand that, it should be you.”
“He was an aggressive asshole with a chip on his shoulder.”
“Does that justify what you did to him? He’s in a coma, for Christ’s sake. Fighting for his life.”
That almost knocked the wind out of Greg. Nobody had given him an update on Detective Bowers since the ambulance pulled away the previous night. He took a seat, trying to process this new information. His face was still in his hands when Officer Bob went on.
“I spent my whole career trying to avoid this moment. Ever since you were a little kid, I felt this need to protect you from yourself.” He folded his arms, gaze dropping to his shoes. “I guess I let us both down.”
“This has nothing to do with you. You weren’t even there.”
“It’s not about what happened last night, but all the years leading up to it. There were a thousand times I could have thrown you in jail, but I always found a way to let it slide. Any one of those opportunities might have changed this outcome.”
Greg exhaled loudly, fighting back tears.
“I don’t think so, Bob. It might not have been Detective Bowers, but I’m starting to think it was always going to end this way.”
Officer Bob stood up, angling for the exit.
“Maybe you’re right, Greg. I still wish we could have stopped it.”
Greg clutched the bars, pressing his head against them to watch him leave.
“What’s going to happen now?”
Officer Bob stopped at the end of the hall, the door already open. He stared at Greg, a look of pained concentration on his face.
“Did you ever figure out who you should forgive for your brother’s death?”
Greg made a show of considering the question, but he already knew the answer. It had been there all along, right in front of his face. Tim really did kill himself. He was a desperate junkie who came to the conclusion life was no longer worth living. But he only got there—took his final step into nothingness—because Greg turned his back on him. It’s no wonder I was so willing to let my family go. I’ve been doing it my whole life.
“Sorry, Officer Bob. Forgiveness has to be earned.”
“In that case, Mr. Salem, I hope you earn some soon. You’re really going to need it where you’re going.”
Officer Bob stepped out of view, the door closing behind him. Greg lingered for a moment, hoping somebody else would come to see him. He sat on the bench eventually, leaning back to lay down. New thoughts swirled around his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Greg wondered if he ever truly would forgive himself, or if he’d spend the rest of his life picking fights and playing the hero. There was no time for reprieve, remorse, or reflection as long as he kept moving.
Greg got up, started pacing again. Life was too short to sit still.
—THE END—
The three books in this series are works of fiction dealing in part with themes of suicide. If you or somebody you know is having suicidal thoughts, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides free and confidential support for people in distress twenty-four seven.
Call 1-800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
A portion of the profits from this book will be donated to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
Acknowledgments
Greg Salem was conjured on a midnight drive through the heart of California. I molded my punk-rock PI and his colorful crew over the next couple of years, using them to populate a fictional universe set against the backdrop of SoCal’s legendary hardcore scene. While shaping the original story about a disgraced cop in the midst of a midlife crisis, I discovered I had three books in mind. You’re holding the third one now, and that still blows my mind. Whether this is your introduction to the series, or you’ve read the trilogy, thank you for exploring the dark corners of the sunny beach towns where I grew up.
So many friends, fellow authors, and musical idols have indirectly supported, influenced, or inspired my writing that it would be impossible to acknowledge all of them. For
now I’ll stick to the smaller circle that helped bring Hang Time into the world. First and foremost, thanks to my wife, Heather, and our kids for giving me the room to write. To my beta readers, Paul Covington and Scott Ross, for their brutal honesty and often hilarious insights. A shout out to my editor, Elaine Ash, for sticking with this series since the beginning. Thanks to David Ivester at Author Guide for getting the word out about Greg Salem. And to my lawyer, Kim Thigpen, and my agent, Amy Moore-Benson, for their steady guidance and advice.
Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank Tyson Cornell, Alice Elmer, Hailie Johnson, Julia Callahan, and the team at Rare Bird Books for publishing Bad Citizen Corporation, Grizzly Season and Hang Time.
For more information about S. W. Lauden or the Greg Salem trilogy, visit www.swlauden.com.
