Hope Never Dies

by Andrew Shaffer

  “It’s a Marauder.”

  “A—” His mouth dropped open. “You’ve got one of their hogs in there?”

  “I’ve got one of them in there.”

  “Jesus, Joe. You have some sort of death wish?”

  “We’re all dead men walking. The road to the Reaper’s just longer for some of us.”

  “You’re not just acting like a cop anymore. Now you sound like one too.”

  I snorted. “Any updates on Alvin?”

  “He overdosed. Not sure what you mean.”

  “Nothing suspicious?”

  “They were his pills, legally prescribed. He was trying to end his life.” Dan paused. “He was successful. Men usually are, you know. Once they make up their minds, there’s no stopping them. He made it easy on us, though—he left a note.”

  “Notes can be faked.”

  “They can. An expert will need to review it, but it appears to be in his handwriting. I’m sure you have some sort of wild conspiracy theory, right?”

  Alvin was in bad shape at Finn’s funeral. In a sense he’d killed his coworker, or at least believed he had. But could he have killed himself? It was possible. Amtrak would have offered him grief counseling, but there is no way to predict how fast and how hard grief can hit you. He could have had the pills on hand. There are more than enough prescription drugs in the average American household’s medicine cabinet to do the job.

  Dan shoved his hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth, Alvin wrote that he was sorry for what happened. Said there was blood on his hands.” He shook his head. “Senseless. All over an accident.”

  “You’re still convinced Finn’s death was an accident.”

  “The transportation board measured the stopping speed, the distances, all that. There was no way to avoid hitting Finn. Alvin blew the whistle. Whether Finn walked onto the tracks on purpose or stumbled because he was high on something…It wasn’t Alvin’s fault.”

  “How long before we know if there were drugs in Alvin’s system when he hit Finn?”

  “We have the results. He was clean.”

  “I thought it took weeks to get the results back. You said that even with an expedited time frame, we wouldn’t know—”

  “And we still don’t know for sure about Finn. The transportation board has their own labs they go through. None of this explains what Finn Donnelly was doing out there on the tracks, but it does put a bow around one mystery. We can close the case on Alvin Harrison.”

  I steadied myself with a hand on the door. “I don’t know what to believe. Just twenty-four hours ago, if you’d told me that Finn had been involved in drugs—that he’d been smuggling them—I’d have said you were crazy.” I paused. “I think I pretty much did say that.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Smuggling?”

  “According to the DEA.”

  “You’ve spoken to them?”

  “Not personally, no,” I said. “A couple of drug enforcement agents stopped by to speak with Grace Donnelly this afternoon. Maybe ‘speak’ isn’t the right word. They tossed the place like a tornado in a trailer park.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “If I knew for sure, I’d tell you. There was a search warrant and everything. I didn’t want to believe it, but the more I put together, the more I realize how wrong I might have been about Finn. It’s looking like he wasn’t just using—he was smuggling.”

  “For the Marauders? Is that where this is leading?”

  I shrugged. “Talk to the DEA.”

  “They don’t always keep us in the loop. Worried about leaks. Damn feds got to stick their snouts in everything, don’t they? No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “This thing is turning into a real mess, isn’t it? If the DEA tries raiding the Marauders’ clubhouse…well, I already told you. Biker gangs aren’t known for going out quietly. Have you shared what you know about the DEA investigation with the lieutenant?”

  “We’re not on the best of terms right now.”

  Dan ran a hand through his thick hair. “Joe, Joe, Joe…I don’t even know where to begin. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, you really don’t. I’ve been sticking my neck out to help you, but I feel like you just keep getting deeper. I don’t want to see you get hurt. So I say this as a friend: stick to the suburbs—it’s safer out there.”

  “Wilmington is my city, too. I know she has her problems—”

  “Problems? Delaware is the corporate capital of the world. Over half of all Fortune 500 companies are chartered here. You think a single one of those companies cares about what’s really going on in this city? For a place whose motto is ‘A Place to Be Somebody,’ a whole lot of people in Wilmington sure are treated like nobodies.”

  I didn’t say anything. A light rain started to fall again.

  “We have one of the highest rates of homicide per capita in the United States for a city of this size,” he continued. “Gang violence and drug trafficking are out of control. The opioid crisis might be new to your neck of the woods, but we’ve been fighting the drug war inside the city limits for so long that we’ve forgotten why we even started.”

  “If the department needs money, I can get you money,” I said. “There are federal funds available. I still have friends in Congress. Barack was a community organizer—”

  “You’re not listening to me,” he said. “I’m telling you that it’s a lost cause.”

  “The city?”

  “The city. This damn case you keep picking at. Everything. More money would mean more officers on patrol. But it’s a superficial fix. There are people who get shot in broad daylight in the middle of a crowded street, and nobody talks to us. Two dozen witnesses. Not one will come forward. The problems run deep in this city.”

  The problems ran deep in the entire country. I might have been Irish, but I wasn’t stupid. I told him I was done playing amateur sleuth. I’d leave the detective work up to the real detectives from now on.

  I tossed him the pocket watch.

  “What’s this?”

  “It was Finn’s. I found it in the biker’s pocket.”

  “He’s a Marauder, you said?”

  I nodded. “Goes by T-Swizzle. Real name Taylor Brownsford. You know him?”

  “The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  I dangled the key for Dan. “He’s handcuffed inside.”

  “Will you testify in court that you found this on him?” he asked, taking the key.

  “If it comes down to it.”

  Dan opened the watch. “This doesn’t prove anything because the chain of custody is broken, but it might be enough to break him down during an interrogation. I take it you’ve already tried.”

  “Didn’t get anywhere.”

  “We’ll take over now. Maybe we’ll get somewhere, maybe not. Bottom line is this is what detectives do every day.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate what you’ve done, Joe. Really, truly appreciate it. So don’t take this the wrong way…but why don’t you make like a tree and get the hell out of here.”

  He laughed.

  I didn’t.

  I returned to my car in the lot out front. The rain had stopped again. I sat in my car with the windows down, smelling that after-rain smell. Even though I’d pointed Dan in the right direction, I’d abused his trust. Another relationship was on the rocks. I was having some kind of night.

  43

  I hit the sack without flossing or brushing my teeth. Jill didn’t wake when I kissed her goodnight, and that was probably for the best. As I was drifting off to sleep, I remembered I’d forgotten my prescription pills for the second night in a row. If skipping a few days’ worth of statins and alpha-blockers was what finally killed me, then I deserved to be weeded out of the gene pool.

  When I wo
ke up, I found myself in the middle of the cemetery. I was lying on my back, with the sun beating down on my face. A gentle breeze was rustling the unmowed grass.

  Far away, I heard a thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Like a racing heartbeat. The louder it grew, the more distinct it became. It wasn’t a heartbeat at all. It was the trotting of hooves. Big, heavy horse hooves.

  I sat up just as a white horse emerged from over a hill. A faceless rider snapped the reins and flew down the slope of the hill, dodging broken tombstones and barren trees. The hooves pounded louder and louder, as if the sound was coming from inside my own head. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump…

  The closer the horse came, the more indistinct its shape. It was so white that it was glowing. Looking at it was like staring into the sun during an eclipse; I was forced to look away.

  Just when it sounded like the horse was about to run me down, the animal came to an abrupt stop. It was so close now, I could feel its warm breath on me. I was vaguely aware that I was dreaming, but every sensation was so vibrant. I desperately wanted it all to be real.

  “Need a hand?”

  I peeked at the figure on the horse’s back through cracks in my fingers. My eyes slowly adjusted to the light emanating from the horse, and the figure came into focus. It was Barack Obama, clad in a white toga.

  He pulled me to my feet.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe the dream I’ve had.”

  “Try me.”

  “You came to see me one night, and said my friend had been hit by a train…and…is that a unicorn?” I asked, squinting at the curled horn sprouting up between the horse’s ears.

  “I call her Little Beast.”

  I ran my fingers through the unicorn’s silken hair, which left rainbow glitter on my hand. The headache that had plagued me off and on all weekend was gone. There was no pain in my knee, or anywhere else in my body. “Is this heaven?”

  “No,” Barack said. “It’s Iowa.”

  And then suddenly we weren’t in the cemetery anymore. We were on a baseball diamond at the edge of a cornfield. The stalks towered over my head, whispering in the wind.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I stammered.

  “Hop on,” Barack said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To set up your campaign headquarters, of course.”

  “I haven’t even decided if I’m running,” I said.

  What I truly wanted—honest-to-God—was for somebody new to step up in the Democratic Party. Somebody younger. Somebody with fresh ideas. Somebody who had two knees that worked. This was all happening too fast.

  “It’s now or never, Joe. What’s it going to be?”

  Before I could give him an answer, my alarm went off.

  44

  I woke up facedown on top of the bedspread, still dressed in my clothes from the night before. Daylight filtered into the room through the blinds. I didn’t have to look at my clock to know that I’d hit the snooze button more than once. Thankfully, Jill was used to that by now.

  I rolled onto my back. Jill’s side of the bed was made. She was probably downstairs reading. I could only imagine what she’d thought when she awakened to find some old guy in a hoodie and sagging jean shorts next to her. I prayed she’d forgive me for scaring the bejesus out of her, but I knew it was going to take a lot more than prayer. A trip to the florist might be in order. This time, I’d open my wallet for the roses.

  There was a yellow sticky note in the middle of the bathroom mirror:

  THERE’S A BAG OF FROZEN PEAS IN THE FREEZER FOR YOUR FACE. — LOVE, JILL

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face bulged in odd places, places I wasn’t even aware I’d been hit. The bruising underneath my eye had ripened into a good ol’ fashioned shiner, the kind you get from taking a fastball to the face. The only good news was that it looked worse than it felt.

  My left knee, on the other hand, was a different story. It looked like an overripe peach. As I changed into my khakis, sharp pains shot up my thigh like lightning bolts. There was no telling when it would give out next.

  I took one look at the stairs and decided to hold the railing with both hands. I couldn’t smell any coffee. “Jill?” I called out on my way down.

  No answer.

  There was a stack of mail waiting for me on the kitchen table, but no Jill. I shuffled through it disinterestedly. A couple of magazines I’d subscribed to because of a fundraiser my grandkids were mixed up in. A utility bill, which was always paid automatically online. A letter addressed to me, with no return address—either fan mail or hate mail, neither of which I was in a hurry to read.

  Jill had left another note for me on the cereal box above the fridge.

  AT BRUNCH WITH ALICE. TOOK CHAMP. BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS, SO BACK BY ??? — LOVE, JILL

  That explained that. While eating breakfast, I looked around for something to read, but the newspaper was in the living room. It seemed so far away, now that I’d sat down. It was going to be impossible to hide my injured knee from Jill. Not that I’d even contemplated it.

  Okay, maybe I’d thought about it. I wouldn’t say I “contemplated” it, though.

  I picked up the New Yorker. The cartoons always made me guffaw, but the writing wasn’t my speed. We had six months’ worth of back issues stacked on the back of our toilet. One day the tower was going to tip and break someone’s neck while they were doing their business on the john. The subscription was in Jill’s name, so she’d be the one getting sued, not me.

  The cartoons didn’t grab me this time. Not after the weekend I’d had.

  I decided to open the fan letter. Jill liked to tease me about them, until we got a couple of threatening ones. The Secret Service always dealt with those. Since then, I’d just been stacking the letters in my office. I sometimes thought about hiring an assistant to handle the paperwork, but didn’t have the income to support the idea just yet. Maybe I needed to do some of those Wall Street speaking gigs that Barack had been making bank on. Trouble was, as soon as you went down that route, you were just spoon-feeding ammunition to your political opponents. It was only trouble if I ran for office again, though…

  I peeked into the envelope to make sure there wasn’t any white powder before removing the letter. You can’t be too careful these days. As if you ever could. It looked reasonably anthrax-free, though. I unfolded the letter. It was a regular-sized sheet of typing paper, folded into thirds.

  The letter was addressed to me. Both front and back were covered in cursive handwriting. The penmanship was legible, but looked like it had been scrawled out on an uneven surface—in several spots, the pen had poked through the paper. At the bottom of the second page, the letter was signed, Yours, Finn Donnelly.

  I dropped my spoon onto the table. Of course. This was why Finn had printed off my address. He didn’t have a cell phone. He just searched online and printed the first page he’d found: a map.

  I read the letter through once, and then a second time just to be sure I hadn’t imagined any of it.

  I hadn’t.

  Breakfast time was over.

  Upstairs, I dug out my brown leather bomber jacket from the back of our walk-in closet. I’d already replaced my T-shirt with a navy-blue polo shirt; now I undid the top button. I picked up my Ray-Bans from the nightstand. Slipped them on.

  I couldn’t have looked more like Joe Biden than if I’d been playing myself in a Joe Biden biopic. Finn Donnelly didn’t need Joe Tingler right now; Finn Donnelly needed Joe Biden.

  I stopped in my office. The Medal of Freedom was sitting on my desk, where I’d left it Friday night. When Barack had bestowed it upon me, he’d said I was “as good a man as God ever created.” Even if the president and I were no longer speaking—even if we never spoke again—just looking at this medal w
as enough to remind me of all that I’d once been. Of all that I could be again. Of all that I could be right now, today, for Finn. I slipped the medal inside my jacket pocket and headed out.

  As the garage door lifted, I started the Challenger. It rumbled to life. Every muscle in my body was vibrating, as if I was in an electric massage chair. A good massage was what I would need after this was all said and done. But first, Wilmington Station. And then Baltimore…where Finn’s duffel bag was waiting for me.

  45

  I was waiting like a cat on hot bricks at the counter of the Baltimore Penn Station lost and found. The employee had disappeared into the back room to search for the duffel bag. He was young, portly, and had a bad haircut. Most kids had bad haircuts these days. Too many of them looked like Hitler youth. Heck, too many of them were Hitler youth.

  The kid seemed decent enough, but he was taking a lot longer in back than I’d expected. Was he on the phone with security? I worried I was being watched, but I didn’t dare look around. No reason to act overly suspicious. I was just a guy picking up a duffel bag full of heroin.

  I’d taken the first train out of Wilmington, a Northeast Regional. It was the slower cousin of the high-speed Acela, but much faster than driving bumper-to-bumper on I-95. I’d already spent too much time behind the wheel over the weekend.

  The regional train was cheaper, though, and that meant more riffraff. Since business class had been full, too, it turned out to be the first time in decades that Amtrak’s most famous passenger sat amongst the working stiffs. Instead of feeling out of place, however, I discovered that I felt right at home. I struck up a conversation with the lovely woman seated next to me, and we chatted about our grandkids all the way to Baltimore. It was a welcome distraction from the chaos of the previous week.

  But it wasn’t enough to distract me from the letter.

  Dear Joe,