A Few Good Fish

by Amy Lane

  “I trust one person on this planet,” Jackson told him, eyes still closed. “You’re not him.”

  “God, he’s stubborn,” Ernie muttered under his breath. “You’ve got to let us help you!”

  Jackson took a breath, mindful that the first surgery lasted two hours, maybe, and he had to be in the waiting room in what? Half an hour? To get news. He got his feet under him and shoved up, keeping his face turned from the broken mirror.

  “I’m going to the waiting room,” he said, running water over his knuckles. He grabbed the last piece of glass with his thumb and forefinger and ripped it out, not even flinching as a new gush of blood spilled. “I’ll… I’ll check in there. You guys can come. You can eat there.” He wrapped paper towels around his hand like a bandage and wondered if he asked nicely, if he could just get a regular towel from the nurse without any hassle about the mirror or the blood or the cuts on his hands.

  He couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t look at them, couldn’t look at himself. He walked like an automaton into the surgery waiting room, knowing Ace and Ernie were hot on his heels.

  Sonny was in the waiting room, sitting next to bags of takeout and looking restlessly at his phone. He glanced up and smiled at Ace tiredly, but still, something about his joy and relief at seeing Ace, especially after what they’d just done together, hit Jackson in the stomach.

  Sonny probably thanked God every day for Ace. Ace—who’d just admitted to murdering a guy who’d hurt his man—probably did the same thing for Sonny.

  Who was Jackson fucking Rivers that he couldn’t get on his knees and beg a little in the hopes that God might, just this once, not fuck him over?

  He walked up to the nurse, who scowled at the paper towel around his knuckles. “Stay right there,” she muttered, coming out around the partition and gesturing imperiously for his hand. “What happened?”

  “I slipped,” he said, voice wooden.

  “Yeah, I can see that. Let me call a nurse to take you down to get that—”

  “Not going anywhere,” Jackson said.

  “Son, this is going to heal badly and then it’ll be infected and—”

  He had trouble focusing on her face. He had the impression of wide cheekbones, comfortable and soft. “Do you think I haven’t been in a hospital before?”

  “I think I’d like to take you to the psych ward now,” she snapped. “Don’t lose hope for your friend—not at this stage in the game. Your faith means everything—don’t you know that?”

  Jackson swallowed, and something he’d managed to keep firm and strong in his chest broke. Tears spilled, one and then the other.

  “How long do they have?” he asked, his sense of time stretched and skewed.

  “They just sent for more blood—I’m guessing another hour,” she said gently.

  He swallowed, his chin wobbling, his throat too tight to talk. “I… I’ll be around the corner,” he said.

  “The bathroom? Because that worked out so well for you last time!”

  “Not the bathroom,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll… I’ll be back before then.”

  He turned around and fled.

  THE CHAPEL had paneling—not too dark—with a window that opened up to a scenic night view of… well, Barstow. But beyond the town he could see the desert, and from three floors up in the dark, the green didn’t look like mange, it looked… green. Hopeful. Like water and life. There was farmland out there—he knew that. Sure, it was in drought, but look! Rain! Rain was hope too!

  Hope, right?

  “I don’t know how to hope,” he said out loud. “If you’d wanted somebody who could hope, you maybe shouldn’t have burned it out of him, you know? I was a baby the last time I hoped. I hoped my mom would pay attention to me, and she snorted lines instead. So now we’re in this fucking place again, this fucking death machine, where live people come in and dead people come out.”

  There was a small line of pews on either side of the room, a walkway between them, and an altar up front. Different symbols—a Star of David, a cross, a star and crescent, even a triskele—had been embroidered into the altar cloth.

  He stared at it and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, lips twisting. “But do you have a three-legged cat? Because seriously, that’s, like, the only thing I have faith in. I have faith in Ellery, and I’ve got faith in my cat. And you fucking shot Ellery.”

  That’s not fair. Lacey shot Ellery.

  “I don’t give a shit if it’s fair!” he shouted. “Everybody fucking telling me I should talk to God, give thanks to God—as far as I know, you’ve done shit for me! But Ellery? He’s fucking been there. Were you in the goddamned room when I was throwing up with a goddamned concussion? Were you by that fucking pool when he called me back from the dead? What about this summer? I didn’t see a whole lotta God then, but I sure did see Ellery! What about eight years ago? What about then? I died on the table, remember? And sure. I saw the fucking light. I’ve seen it twice now. I know there’s something on the other side. Who gives a fuck? It’s not that I don’t believe in you, asshole. I’m pissed off at you!”

  He shoved at the pew in front of him, and it toppled. “Yeah! How’s that feel! I’m fucking pissed! Where the fuck you been, God? Toni Cameron died—did you even fucking notice? Ten years ago she fucking died. Nicest woman on the planet, right? Closest thing to a mother I’m ever gonna fucking get—and you kill her off? I’m supposed to think that’s okay? I don’t remember an entire year of my life, God—you just took that, ’cause, you know, twenty-one, twenty-two—that’s no big deal, right? Wearing a wire, getting ripped from the inside out in the name of… fucking law and fucking order—that was just my fucking dues? So I’m pissed. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m pissed!”

  He kicked at the pew brutally, vaguely surprised when it held firm and didn’t crunch under his tennis shoe. He turned his body and kicked harder.

  “You’re a fucker, God! All this pretty shit! The fucking pews and the walls and the stained glass—yeah, I seen it. You think I’m gonna just… what? Throw myself on the fucking ground for you?”

  He fell to his knees in the empty room and held his hands out in supplication. “Yeah, here I am, oh mighty ass-reaming sky-daddy! Here I am! Fucking offering my goddamned penance! Prostrating myself before you, and you know the fun thing? The laugh-riot thing? The goddammit all, God’s gonna laugh until he pisses on us thing?”

  His voice broke, his hands fell limply into his lap, and he dropped his head, humble before God as he’d never been humble before anything in his life.

  “I’m here,” he whispered, shoulders shaking. “I’m begging. I know you don’t care. I know you don’t listen. I know you just gaze down from the sky and watch us walk into the hospital young men and come out fucking corpses. But I’m still begging. I’m still bargaining. I’ll give you my life—I swear I will. Not worth much—I mean, you’ve gone out of your way to show me that, God. But you can have it. Just….”

  He jerked in a breath, trying to keep his dignity, his personhood, here in the face of the ultimate humility, but he couldn’t.

  “Just let him live. Please. Just… just let him live. Please.” Another deep breath, but it didn’t work. Not all the deep breaths in the world could hold back the flood when the dam had broken.

  “Please, God. Let him live.”

  He slumped to the ground then, elbows holding his weight as he buried his face in his arms and cried.

  HE WASN’T sure when he became aware of the hand in his hair. He turned his head, too tired to even wonder who would have found him here.

  And then he saw the legs, sensibly attired in support hose, crossed daintily at the ankles. He didn’t even raise his gaze up—his entire body stiffened, and he buried his face in his hands again.

  “Taylor?”

  “He’s not out of surgery yet, but you may still call me Lucy Satan,” she said, her voice weary. Her hand in his hair moved to his elbow, and oh hell, he was still bleeding.

  He
rocked back onto his heels and tried to yank his arm away.

  And was stunned when she grabbed his elbow and reached for his hand, making a startled exclamation when she saw the damage. “Oh. Jackson. Son….”

  Jackson scowled, compelled to look her in the eyes, and something in his chest twisted at her appearance. He’d seen Ellery’s mother out of uniform during Thanksgiving vacation—she’d worn comfortable leggings, soft house shoes, and drapey sweaters, all in neutral colors—but her hair and her makeup had been perfect.

  She was wearing a business suit, support hose, and pumps, but her hair had been hauled back into a no-bullshit ponytail, so severe he could see the gray roots at the base of the dyed rich chestnut, the same color as Ellery’s. Her eyes, usually impeccably circled by kohl, were smudged, and her mouth was bare and naked of lipstick.

  For the first time ever, she looked like somebody’s mother, tired and worried and sad.

  “I’m sorry.” Dumbest, most inadequate thing he’d ever said.

  “Did you kill the man who shot him?” she asked, her voice measured and dispassionate.

  For a moment Lacey’s corpse flashed—white hair over a blood-spattered face, eyes wide and surprised. “Many times over,” he said, shuddering.

  “Good,” she said softly, rubbing her thumb gently over the back of his wrist. “But not, I think, easy on your soul.”

  “First guy I actually killed,” he told her truthfully. “Wasn’t as fashionable ten years ago as it seems to be now.”

  “Maybe we just need more men like you on the force.” Her lips quirked up, although her eyes were still fixated on his damaged hand. “How’d this happen?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He used his free hand to drag through his hair as he surveyed the damage in the chapel. Mostly it came down to the one upended pew.

  “Oh, it does,” she said softly. “Ellery will be most displeased. I’m sure he’ll think you were trying to steal his thunder.”

  Jackson let out a choked laugh. “He’s going to start to hate hospitals as much as I do.”

  “I have no doubts. Tell me, am I going to have to hire lawyers to buy you another car?”

  Another half laugh. “Possibly. Maybe we can give Sonny a commission and see what he and Ace can do.”

  She cocked her head. “Were those the two men who greeted me when I went into the surgery waiting room? The poor blond one was terrified—hid behind the bigger one with the amazing chest. Does he do that often?”

  Jackson couldn’t help it. This laugh was all one piece, if not hearty. “I think you might scare him a little. He… he doesn’t have much experience with mothers.”

  Taylor Cramer’s mouth threatened to wobble for a moment. “And you don’t have much experience with prayers,” she said, eyes taking in the pew. She moved her legs under her, and Jackson made to stand up.

  “No, son. I’m going to show you how. Knees underneath you, eyes cast down in humility before God.”

  Jackson followed her example and went to put his hands together, but she clasped his fingers lightly, unmindful of the blood.

  “Don’t you have to speak Hebrew or Latin or something?” he asked. He’d been hauled into a few Catholic missions in his time as well.

  “If you know the words, but it’s not necessary. Now hold my hand and listen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “God, my son was wounded as he fought forces beyond his control. He’s a good boy, and he works hard to do what’s right, and we love him very much. We ask that you care for him, and heal his wounds if it is your will, and care for his soul if it is not. May the one who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, bless and heal Ellery Joseph Cramer. May the Blessed Holy One be filled with compassion for his health to be restored and his strength to be revived. May God swiftly send him a complete renewal of body and spirit, and let us say, Amen.”

  “Amen,” Jackson repeated. Some of those words sounded old—the ones with all the biblical names. But some of those words were pure Taylor Cramer, and he felt some relief at that. He just trusted Ellery’s mother more than he trusted a holy book or God.

  She let go of his hand then, and he stood up and offered her his undamaged hand to assist.

  “Now let’s right the pew,” she said, stretching a bit. His own legs were cramping from his time on the floor—he imagined hers were too. “You set it straight and I’ll get the books in the back.”

  He did so, testing the wood at the end and grimacing when it wobbled.

  “Well, I’ll have them send me a bill,” she said mildly, hand going automatically to check her hair after she picked her handbag off the ground. “I understand we owe them for a mirror in the bathroom as well.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at his hand. “It was… uhm….”

  “A reaction to stress,” she said simply. “When I went to find you, the nurse in the waiting room told me she’d had a portable stitching station brought up. I think now would be a good time to put that to use, before those cuts heal open.”

  Jackson nodded meekly and followed her out of the chapel. He paused and looked behind him as they left and realized the serenity had been restored. The storm of Jackson Rivers was hardly a drop on the face of a lake, compared to the turmoil such a place had seen.

  “How did you know where I was?” he asked, holding his arm out to her as they walked. She took it without question—people observed the niceties with Ellery’s mother, under all circumstances.

  “The young man with the curly hair—”

  “Ernie.”

  “Is that his name? How appropriate. I walked in, and the blond young man hid behind his friend, and Ernie stepped forward and told me you’d gone to the chapel. The small one peered out from behind his friend and said, ‘How do you know that?’ and Ernie said, and I quote, ‘My damned ears popped. All that pressure he was under finally gave.’” Mrs. Cramer hmmed in her throat. “I didn’t really know what he meant until I saw you on the floor, Jackson. Did you and God come to an agreement?”

  Jackson grunted. “Yes. We both agreed he needs to put three-legged tomcats on the altar cloth, because I’m not talking to anybody who doesn’t worship cats.”

  This time she was the one who let out a strained laugh.

  “I’m sure the Almighty is reconsidering his choice of symbols as we speak.” They came to the waiting room, and Jackson had to take a deep breath against the weight that fell back on his chest. “Courage. Both of us must have it. Now come, let’s get your hand stitched.”

  Jackson escorted her in, and they surprised the guys—Burton included—as they were digging into the bag of takeout Sonny had brought.

  “Guys?” Jackson said, getting their attention, “This is Ellery’s mother, Mrs. Taylor Cramer. Is there any news?”

  Ace set his hamburger down on the bag on the waiting room table, wiped his hand on his jeans, and turned around to shake Taylor’s hand. “Mrs. Cramer? Your son thinks you’re God. You need to know that, like, right here and now. I mean, I got a mom and everything, but the most I ever expected from her was that she’d know how to cook. I damned near expected you to shoot fire out your eyes when you walked in.”

  “Well, there is a reason Jackson calls me Lucy Satan,” she said regally. “And you are….”

  “Jasper Atchison, ma’am. People call me Ace. This here’s my partner, Sonny. We own a garage in Victoriana. Your son and Rivers there, they done us some solids. We’re grateful.”

  “We got you kidnapped,” Jackson said sourly.

  Ace rolled his eyes. “That was totally an accident. The solid favors, though, those were on purpose. We’ll count those.”

  Jackson nodded, humbled. “Well, I’m obliged.”

  “Ace,” Sonny mumbled, literally from behind Ace’s body. “Ask ’em if they want a hamburger. It ain’t nice to eat without them.”

  The thought of food made Jackson’s stomach churn, so he was truly grateful when Taylor said, “Fo
od—how thoughtful! I’ll probably eat in a moment, if you don’t mind. Jackson, go see the nurse about getting your hand stitched. I’ll see to your friends.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The nurse had already pushed the stainless steel cart prepped with sterilized needles and silk, as well as an irrigation bowl and several tubes of saline and some prefilled syringes with lidocaine, around the back partition. “Come back here,” she commanded. “We have a chair and an armrest for you.”

  Jackson moved behind the partition, and she reset the station.

  “You look like one more word is going to make your head explode,” the nurse said quietly. “But since you got civilized for her, I figured I’d save you the small talk.”

  “Thank you,” he said, feeling cosseted. “I take it there’s—”

  “No news. Did you think we’d hide it from you?”

  “No,” he said, scanning the waiting room, where Ellery’s mother ruled like the monarch she was. As he watched, Burton broke away and came around the partition, looking directly at the nurse, who shrugged and let him.

  “How you doing, Rivers?”

  “Peachy.”

  Burton inclined his head, rubbing a hand over the back, probably just to feel the rasp of his super-short-cut hair. “I can tell. I get that there’s no news yet, but I need to tell you something important.”

  Jackson grimaced as the nurse stuck a syringe into the widest cut across his knuckles. “This might take a bit,” he said.

  Burton nodded and sank down into the patient chair next to Jackson’s.

  “So, you were losing your shit, but I counted the guys who got into the Cessna and the guys left on the base—and there’s a lot of guys left on the base, you feel me?”

  Jackson grunted. “So there’s the seven to twelve out on assignment—”

  “And doing extra credit, if you know what that means—”

  “Horribly enough, I do.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have to lay that out. But here’s the thing—I was assigned to listen to you guys—and I fucked up as much intel as I could to keep them off your tail or this bullshit would have gone down a lot closer to Christmas, you understand?”