by Lee Goldberg
He grasped the collar of his trench coat tight around his neck and looked out over the water into the hazy distance. An immense flock of squawking seagulls swirled over the frothy swells. He shivered in his jacket and scolded himself for not wearing heavier clothing.
The surf rode high on the beach, arms of water reaching out for the three or four joggers he saw traversing the shore. Life goes on. There were so many other people, so many who were living lives no different now from those they'd led six months ago. It was hard for him to believe.
God, how he wished he was one of them.
Shaw turned and strode down the pier, careful not to stray far from the security of the handrail. He wasn't used to walking yet, and lugging the heavy briefcase in his left hand was taking a lot out of him. Six months of confinement, hospital food, blank walls, and an endless stream of game shows were hard to shake off. So were the nightmares, the horrific, recurring images of Sunshine staring down at him with large, dead eyes.
But at least he had survived.
Shaw breathed deeply, relishing the cool bite in the air. The scent of rubbing alcohol was gloriously absent from the ocean mist. A lone merchant lifted the storm boards from the windows of his fish market and paid no attention to Shaw as he hobbled past. At the end of the pier, the single fisherman was just a misty, solitary shape.
"Hey, got a light?"
The voice startled Shaw. He turned, his heart thumping nervously. A stubble-faced wino grinned toothlessly at him, a cigarette stub hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"Don't smoke," Shaw mumbled, vaguely disappointed and, in an odd way, relieved.
The wino shrugged and shuffled off to bum a light off the fish merchant. Shaw sighed and walked on. His chest ached and his arms felt leaden.
The doctors said he'd be as good as new in a year. Good as new.
Shaw fell into a bench at the end of the pier. The fisherman hunched on the rail beside him and cast his line out to the warning buoys several yards out to sea. Waves whipped the pier's aging pilings. The heavy stench of fish hung in the air around the fisherman. Shaw glanced into the man's plastic bucket and saw two scrawny salmon flopping in a few cups of filthy seawater.
Shaw looked up into the fisherman's pale, scarred face and dark, brooding eyes and motioned to the bucket. "Is this good or bad luck?"
The fisherman glanced down at him and then his catch.
"Bad."
Shaw nodded. "Well, it's a nice morning, anyway."
The fisherman shrugged and gently reeled in his line. Shaw glanced over his shoulder and looked down the length of the pier. The wino urinated against the abandoned Sinbad dance hall. A woman in a dirty tank top and faded jeans roller-skated towards them, rolls of fat jiggling on her body as her wheels thudded between the planks.
Shaw faced the sea again. A trawler, anchored offshore, bounced on the water. He stared at it, strangely fascinated. Maybe he'd just do the same thing. Shaw shivered and buried his hands deep in his warm pockets.
The fisherman set down his pole and unscrewed the cap on a metal Thermos. Shaw smelled the tantalizing aroma of fresh, ground coffee, steaming hot. The fisherman seemed to sense this. His lips twisted into a thin smile.
He offered Shaw the plastic cup.
Shaw waved it away. "No, thanks, I—"
The fisherman ignored Shaw's protests and set it on the bench. "I'll drink from the Thermos." As if to prove his point, he took a sip. Shaw smiled and took the cup.
"Thanks."
The fisherman leaned against the wood railing and looked down at Shaw. "You feeling okay?"
Shaw nodded, savoring his sip of coffee. It was a far cry from the sewage the hospital served.
The fisherman nodded and took another sip. "I've been worried about you."
Shaw felt another shiver course through his body. But it wasn't the cold. He met the fisherman's hard gaze. The fisherman gave him a grim smile.
"Mack," Shaw said.
Brett Macklin nodded.
"My God, your face. It's completely different."
Macklin took a seat beside his old friend. "Most of it is steel, plastic, and superglue." He took a drink from his Thermos. The hot steam felt nice on his face. "I looked in the mirror and I saw a stranger. It's the way it should be."
Shaw used his foot to slide the briefcase over to Macklin. "This is from Mayor Stocker."
Macklin didn't look at it. "How much?"
"It's a hundred thousand dollars of the taxpayers' money," Shaw said. "He's buying your silence and the end of your vigilance in this city."
"Okay by me." He tipped the Thermos and swallowed the remainder of his coffee.
Shaw studied his old friend, looking for some sign of familiarity in the strange face. "Where will you go?"
Macklin stood and zipped up his Windbreaker. "Don't know. Wander, I guess." He squinted at the horizon. The rising sun was bleeding slowly into the clouds. "I've got a job to do."
Shaw sighed. "What do you want me to tell Cory when she gets out of the mental hospital?"
"Tell her the truth," Macklin said. "Tell her I'm dead."
He offered his hand to Shaw, who grasped it tightly for a long moment before shaking it. "Good-bye, Mack."
"Take care of yourself, Ronny." Macklin picked up the briefcase, smiled at his friend, and walked away.
Shaw listened to the waves break against the rocky breakwater and watched a lone seagull float gently on the crosswinds. Behind him, he could feel Brett Macklin quietly fading into the fog.
THE END
Table of Contents
GUILTY
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
