Dying for Her: A Companion Novel (Dying for a Living Book 3)

by Kory M. Shrum

  “Jackson got shot,” I said. Before he could overwhelm me with questions I told him the story, most of it anyway. Jackson had a lead in that way of hers, we checked it out, saw the girl alive, but lost them. As we were leaving, some asshole shot at us and Jackson took a bullet. He listened to all of this without objection and when I finished, I was greeted with only silence on the other end of the phone.

  “The girl is alive? You saw her?”

  “Either Maisie Michaelson has a twin, or it was her. Also, the guy had sandy blond hair, like the blond from the picture she drew. You know, the one I got from the fridge.”

  “Why the fuck do I care about that?”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Sandy blond hair? Do you know how many bleached assholes prance around St. Louis?” he quipped. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Jackson is going to be OK,” I said, trying to cool my own temper. “When she wakes up, maybe she’ll even have a picture of Maisie’s kidnapper.”

  “As if we could get that lucky,” he said.

  I considered my next words. “So you believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you. Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

  “You were quick to pull us from the Michaelson case and accept the girl was dead.”

  “Oh so this is a big conspiracy now?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. I considered my friend’s tone. Considered our history. “You wouldn’t cover something like this up, would you Charlie?” It was half-question, half-statement. “If you were involved in a cover up, I’d be willing to believe it was for a good reason. Just tell me this is important and I’ll believe you.”

  His voice softened.

  “Jesus, Jim, you think I lied about the girl?” he asked. “I was told she was dead, that there was evidence she was dead. If I went around questioning everyone, I’d never get anything done.”

  It was true, I was a dissenter when compared to Charlie. It was why I’d always worked better alone. Scout and snipe missions were perfect for a guy like me. I didn’t have to believe anyone but myself.

  “If you say you don’t know what’s going on, I believe you. But do you think this is ‘big’?” I asked.

  “Quit going all Beautiful Mind on me and get your ass back to work. I want a formal report, in writing and on my desk, before someone crawls up my ass looking for it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and tried not to sound like a disgruntled bastard when I said it.

  “And the bullet. Get it to ballistics.”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day,” I said and hung up. The nurse was walking toward me again and I took a few steps forward to meet her.

  “She’s awake,” she said. “If you’d like to check on her.”

  “Thank you.” I made the formal request for the bullet.

  “I’ll notify the doctor,” she said. Then she was silent as she led me up the elevator to the patient rooms on the fourth floor. When the door opened, she held it but didn’t get off with me. “Room 413.”

  I thanked her and stepped off the elevator. It was easy enough to find Jackson’s room, after looking through a few dark doorways. I was reminded that I never liked hospitals. I thought it was the smell that made me uncomfortable. Or the solemn way in which everyone walked around. I didn’t like all that doom and gloom. But mostly, it’s the smell.

  Jackson’s bed was folded up, holding her in the sitting position. Her left shoulder was bandaged tightly with fresh gauze and the color had returned to her cheeks.

  “You could’ve died,” I said. “We got lucky.”

  “April Fool’s,” she said.

  “Do not tell me you hired someone to shoot you as an April fool’s joke.”

  “No,” she said. “I was trying to be funny.”

  “Ah.” I spared her a smile. “We will have to work on that.”

  “Yes.” Her dark eyes were so serious that I couldn’t help but laugh. She was growing on me.

  “I’ll try to top your joke next year,” I said. “I’ll need that long to prepare. A gunshot wound is a hell of an act to follow, you know.”

  “Did you call Lieutenant Swanson?” she asked.

  “Yes. I don’t think he knows what is going on.”

  “Think?”

  “I hope,” I said.

  She nodded as if she understood. “I need my pictures and things from my place. They aren’t going to let me out of here any time soon, and I need them now.”

  “I’ll pick them up for you,” I said.

  She hesitated.

  “Do you have another errand boy on call?” I quipped.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll give you my keys. Just go pick them up and bring them back, please.”

  “Sure,” I said and fished the keys out of her jacket pocket per her instructions. I made a mental note to bring her some other things as well, whatever I thought she might like to have at a time like this.

  I was almost out the door when she called me back.

  “Brinkley,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep both eyes open.”

  Chapter 37

  Tuesday, April 1, 2003

  I stood in the dank hallway of the apartment complex where Jackson lived. I double-checked the address, and sure enough, this was it. I didn’t know what I was expecting as I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the front door.

  Flowery shit, maybe. All the women I’d spent time with had that way about them. Their homes were clean and bright and smelled the way the women themselves did. Sometimes like fruity shampoos, or cookies and shit. Other times they smelled like the department store perfumes they wore. Their couches had throw pillows and the rooms had rugs. Scented candles, potpourri, art on the wall, or even curtains to “tie the room together” as my mother would say. But those women had been civilians and Jackson was a soldier. Everything about her apartment said so.

  The living room was white and stark. The walls had nothing on them but scuff marks. No curtains, rugs, or even a couch, and this absence gave the impression that Jackson didn’t intend to stay here long. Books and research materials lined the walls in piles. If each heap was part of an elaborate organizational system, I couldn’t tell.

  The apartment was one bedroom, but the bedroom had only an army cot with a sleeping bag rolled over it. No pillow. Beside the bed was a glass of water and a row of pill bottles. I opened a duffle bag that I’d found beneath the bed with clothes, a gun and ammo inside. I threw the pills in too. I also grabbed the paperback off the sleeping bag, stealing a brief glance at the cover. The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.

  It went in the bag too.

  When I turned around I found the pictures. All over the wall were drawings. Some of them were very detailed, while others were hurried sketches. I tried to take them down gently, careful not to rip the corners pinned with tape. I rolled them up and taped them closed, but the thick pencil etchings were already beginning to smudge.

  I expected to find all the lady cosmetics in the bathroom, but again, I was wrong. A bar of soap was in the shower, no shampoo, but I guess with her short hair she didn’t need it. On the sink was just a toothbrush, toothpaste and some hand soap. I took the toothbrush and toothpaste. Then I zipped up the duffle and threw it over one shoulder. The kitchen had only the standard appliances: a range and fridge. The counters were bare. The sink had a few dishes but no evidence that she’d actually ever cooked here. A knife and fork, a water glass. The fridge had some fruit and bread in it. Half a gallon of milk and four 2-liters of Coke. The cabinets held only peanut butter and coffee.

  “What the hell do you eat, Jackson?” I asked and hefted the duffle up higher on my shoulder.

  “We have to be careful about what we eat or it interferes with our medication,” a voice said. A slow, melodic voice. I turned and found a man, shades darker than Jackson, standing in her doorway. One hand was empty but the other was suspiciously edging its way behind his
back.

  I drew my gun first. “Stop.”

  When he brought his hand around his back slowly, he wasn’t holding a gun. He was holding a bouquet of daisies.

  I didn’t lower my gun. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Is she here?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be carrying her stuff in a bag if she were here. Is she OK?”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “What’s yours?” he countered. “You see, I come to see my girlfriend and you’re holding a gun and carrying off her possessions. I’m just holding some flowers. Who is more suspicious here?”

  “Good point,” I said and lowered the gun. “I’m her partner. I’m just picking up a few things for her.”

  He nodded as if he knew this. “Brinkley.”

  It sounded like a question. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Well take these too,” he said and extended the daisies toward me. “I brought them for her.” I had to lower the gun or drop the bag. I dropped the bag and came toward him, gun up but not a kill shot. Here I thought I was slick shit but dropping the bag was what he wanted all along, I just didn’t know it.

  A clump of daisies smacked my face at the same moment pain shot up my elbow. Before I could react, someone was throwing me. I managed to tuck into a sloppy roll but I still came down too hard on my busted shoulder. When I popped back up, the guy—Jackson’s so-called boyfriend—was yanking at the duffle zipper.

  As soon as I realized the gun was in the kitchen floor, I dove for him. We hit hard and because I was the bigger guy, not necessarily the more fit, mind you, he rocked back on his heels and hit the wall. He rolled me again and I realized immediately he was trained. Good training. He knew how to move his body and mine, and when it came to hand-to-hand combat, time was of the essence. I knew better than to swap blows with a trained, fit guy at least ten years younger. I didn’t make it this far by being stupid. Most of the time. I’d get tired before he did. So I brought my knee up hard and connected with his groin. Nothing fancy, but it did the trick.

  I dove for my gun, and this time when I rolled back the safety with a flick of my thumb, I didn’t hesitate. I put two bullets in the wall behind him before he darted out the front door and was gone. The duffel bag was busted open on the floor, shit everywhere. He’d even stepped on the toothpaste on his way out, and a thick creamy line of blue gunk was smeared all over the side of the bag.

  I checked the hallway and the apartment to make sure I was actually alone again. Then I cleaned up the mess and repacked the bag. It wasn’t until I had everything reorganized that I realized what he had taken. The pills were missing. Fucking junkie, I thought.

  Shoulder throbbing, gun still at the ready, I lifted the bag and got the hell out of there.

  Chapter 38

  Tuesday, April 1, 2003

  “You never told me you had a boyfriend,” I said. I tossed the duffle at her feet and watched it bounce once on the hard hospital mattress.

  The color drained from her cheeks. “What did he want?”

  “Your pills apparently,” I said and unzipped the bag. I held it open so she could see inside. “Anything else missing?”

  She sifted through the bag with her right hand, the other being wrapped close to her chest. When she mumbled off the name of some narcotic I didn’t know, I asked, “Is that bad?”

  She ran a hand over her head. “No.”

  “Were those pills important?” I asked.

  “I can refill them. He must be out.”

  I cradled my throbbing shoulder. “Hasn’t he ever heard of a fucking pharmacy?”

  “We have to get ours from the VA,” she said. “They are very specific drugs.”

  “So your boyfriend’s like you?” I asked.

  “He is not my boyfriend,” she snapped. “And he isn’t like me.”

  “Right, sorry. He just stole your pills.” I wasn’t so clueless that I’d push a woman who was clearly telling me something was none of my business. So I sat down in the little seat beside the bed instead.

  “Why did he give you those?” I asked. I pointed at the daisies beside the duffle bag. She blushed when she saw them.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I thought—never mind.”

  “I’m not the flowers type,” I said, trying to be gentle about it. I wasn’t trying to humiliate her. I thought he was bad news. “Just for the record, I’d give you a gun. And you’d probably be the first woman to appreciate it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re favoring your shoulder.”

  “Yeah, your friend twisted it a bit.”

  “He’s not—”

  “Yeah yeah.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Well that explains his moves. Did you beat him up as a kid?”

  “He’s a year younger than I am. Ever since we were little he’s had to follow me around, do everything that I do. When I joined the Air Force, he did too. He’s one of the few things I remember—from before.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “When they put the magnetite in my brain, it wiped everything clean. I survived, but I don’t remember who I was before. I’ve only a handful of memories. Micah—my brother—is one of them.”

  “Why would you let your brother do that to himself?” I hadn’t meant to be such a bastard about it, but the words left my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “They recruited him. They thought something about my genetic makeup is what helped me survive the procedure, so they called Micah in. I told him if he did it I’d never speak to him again. He accused me of trying to keep the glory for myself. ” She snorted. “Because this life is so goddamn glorious.”

  “Was he trained to be an AMP like you?”

  “Yes, but he was discharged from the program. He got into a fight with his commanding officer,” she said. She licked her dry lips. “Micah’s got a temper. He doesn’t know when to shut his mouth or take a swing. He blames me.”

  I snorted. “For his temper?”

  “No, for his discharge. When he was court martialed, I was supposed to testify in his defense. I refused. I knew if I did, they’d let him stay and it would only be a matter of time before something worse happened to him. I wanted him out of the service.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few years ago. He’s been working odd jobs since. He quit speaking to me of course. But then our aunt died of colon cancer four months ago and he turned up at the funeral. He apologized. Said he wanted to make up. He hoped I would help him get a job as an AMP through the agency. I tried but because of his past they won’t take him. I guess they are picky right now, what with trying to produce reliable statistics and all that. When I told him they said no, he tried to steal a bunch of my things and took off. That’s pretty much how it’s been. He gets angry, takes off, but comes back asking for pills. He needs them like I do, but he’s too embarrassed to go to the VA hospital. He’s got limited benefits because of his discharge.”

  “Does he always bring flowers?”

  “No,” she said. “That was a first.”

  Something about all of this didn’t sit right with me. Then again, I’d never been one to trust junkies. They could be unpredictable and self-serving and generally just made me uneasy. I never denied that I was a paranoid old bastard.

  “Do I need to stay here with you?” I asked. “Is he going to try and show up and punch air bubbles in your IVs or something? Suffocate you when the nurses aren’t looking?”

  “I should be OK.” She didn’t convince me of shit.

  I leaned forward and grabbed the paperback off the pile of crap she’d pulled from her bag. Then I kicked off my boots and put my socked feet up on the edge of her bed. The page fell open to a spot marked with a Chinese food business card, but I flipped back to the beginning.

  “Ah,” I said and put the card on the table by the bed. “We might need that later.”

  She smiled, finally relaxing into her pillows.r />
  I began reading The Things They Carried, starting with the passage marked. “First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack. In the late afternoon, after a day’s march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of light pretending.”

  I looked up at Jackson.

  “Jesus,” I said. “This is going to be sad, isn’t it?”

  She smiled and that was enough for me to go on.

  Chapter 39

  6 Weeks

  I watch over Jesse through the night. It’s become a habit. I am worried he will just appear in her bedroom and carry her away like he does in that god awful picture I’ve got in my pocket.

  But I don’t see Caldwell or anyone else, and I wonder again why? Why? If he wants her, he can just take her. He did it to Maisie, so why not take what he wants now?

  Because it isn’t what he wants. This realization only brings another round of why?

  Conflict avoidance? I doubt it. Is he afraid of her? Maybe. It is one of the few things that makes sense. Or it could be that he wants something more.

  If I kill you now, it will change the future—and I like the future just fine.

  When another sun rises and Jesse is deemed safe, I get into the car and drive.

  I make my way to Atlanta, taking I-24 southeast past the shopping malls of Murfreesboro and then up through the mountains by Sewanee. The Impala slides along the river past that familiar Georgia peach sign. When the skyline erupts into view and the interstate morphs into a six-lane beast, I merge onto 285, heading for Grant Park.

  I am looking for a particular 1920s bungalow on Kendrick Ave. When I spot the gray-blue house, elevated from the street by a steep incline, I park. Then I climb the steps toward the white door.

  I glance at the porch swing to the left before lifting my fist to knock on the peeling white paint. That is when I notice the door is open a crack.