by Jay Allisan
Catalina shoots me. I slam against the wall.
“Where is my son?”
I clutch at my shoulder, blood burbling between my fingers. There’s no feeling in my right hand. I push a whisper through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know your son.”
She shoots again. I fall to my knees.
“Get up.”
I double over, pressing my hand to my side. I don’t think I can get up.
She shoots again. Drywall explodes above my head.
“Get up.”
I stand, tears streaming down my cheeks. Catalina points the gun at Presley. “Where is my son?”
I say nothing. Catalina buries her boot in Presley’s stomach. “WHERE IS MY SON?!”
“Don’t,” Presley rasps, “don’t tell her—”
She puts her foot across his neck. I stumble forward and Catalina levels the gun at me. Presley thrashes weakly against the carpet, his face turning purple, and I can’t do this anymore.
“Stop. Stop. I know where your son is. Let Presley go.”
“Bring him to me. And you had better be fast.”
Catalina digs her boot into the hollow of Presley’s throat, and he spasms. I pull my arm away from my ribs and raise my hand. “You know I won’t make it anywhere like this. But I’ll call him. You can talk to him right now.”
I move my hand behind my back, holding Catalina’s dark gaze. “My phone is in my pocket. I’m reaching for it now.”
My fingers curl around the Glock and disengage the safety. Catalina’s gun is still on me. I’m glad. Just as long as it’s not on Presley.
I manage a smile. “Your son’s name is Robin. He’ll be so happy to see you.”
Catalina’s face flickers with emotion, with grief and love and hope, and in that moment of softness I put a bullet in her chest.
45
I FIRE again. Catalina recoils. I fire again. She’s falling, falling hard, but her eyes find Presley and her gun swings down. My heart stops. My mind fails. But my legs carry me forward and I get there first. I get between him and the bullet.
Heat tears through me, a hot, bright flash right through my center. A scream rips from my throat, but I cover Presley with my body and don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t let her shoot him. Don’t let him die.
I lift my head. Catalina lies on her side, her eyes open but unseeing. I shoot her again, just to be sure. She doesn’t move. She’s dead.
I killed her.
I try to push myself up on shaky arms but collapse. I roll to the side instead.
“Presley,” I whisper. “Presley.”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed.
“Presley.” I struggle up onto my elbows. “Presley!”
He’s soaked with blood. I feel for bullet holes, finding none. It’s my blood, not his. He’s fine.
He’s not breathing.
“Presley!”
I get one knee underneath me, then the other. My fingers press against his neck but can’t find a pulse. My palm covers his heart but can’t feel it beat. He’s not… he’s not…
He’s dead.
I can’t breathe.
Max is exploding. Max’s arm is on the ground and he’s in pieces up ahead and I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t save him. He’s dead and I can’t save him.
I have to save him.
I push my hands against Presley’s chest, into the curve of his sternum again and again. I can’t breathe. I have to breathe. I have to breathe for him. I tilt his head back and force air into his lungs. Compressions. Thirty times. Breathe twice. Thirty times. Stop crying. Don’t cry.
Just breathe.
I hear people at the door but I don’t move from Presley’s side. I don’t hurt anymore. I don’t feel anything. I don’t stop.
I have to save him.
I pinch his nose and seal our mouths, breathing life. I do it again, and this time he draws it in. His chest rises on its own, and I watch it move like it’s the whole Earth turning. Presley’s breathing. He’s breathing.
I slump to the floor and laugh.
There are people at the door. Heavy banging.
“Come in,” I say.
I don’t think they hear me.
I cough. I spit out blood.
Behind me a crash, then the pounding of footsteps. “Police! Nobody move!”
“Mordecai!”
Hands on my shoulder, my side, my back. Paddy’s face is white. “Paramedics are right behind me, Shirley. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”
My lungs feel viscous. I can’t fit in any air.
“Look at me, Shirley. Stay awake.”
Presley’s breathing. That’s good enough.
“Dammit, where the fuck are the paramedics?!”
I cough. It’s getting dark.
“Don’t you do this, don’t you fucking do this to me…”
I think of Max, and the thought makes me smile.
“Look at me, dammit, don’t close—”
46
I’M NOT dead.
Dead wouldn’t hurt. Dead wouldn’t be cold.
Dead would be with Max.
So I’m not dead.
I feel thick. Heavy. Someone’s talking to me.
“Dad?”
Pressure on my hand. “You in there, kid? You feel like waking up?”
“Trying,” I whisper.
“Nice and easy now. You had a good long nap.”
I lick my lips. “How long?”
“Three days.” He squeezes my hand. “And I don’t think you’re done yet.”
“Tired,” I mumble. Sleep’s dragging at me like a current.
“That’s okay. Go back to sleep now. You’re safe.”
“Love you,” I whisper, and then I’m gone.
NEXT TIME I wake up I open my eyes. It’s dark. My dad’s reading out loud, the book spotlit by a table lamp. He looks up at me and grins.
“Peter Pan,” he says. “You never did sleep through this one.”
He sets the book on his lap and wheels closer. His gray hair’s still military short, and the shadows from the lamp make him look gaunt. He rests his arms on the bed frame and leans forward.
“So,” he says. “You crashed my car.”
I smile. It hurts too much to laugh. “Sorry, Dad.”
He puts his hand on my forehead, brushing my hair back. His eyes are wet.
“You scared me, kid,” he whispers.
“I had to get him,” I whisper back. “I had to.”
“I know. You want some morphine?”
I nod. He hits a plunger next to the bed. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yeah. I got shot.”
“You’re in bad shape,” he says. “The shoulder wound is only soft tissue, but the other two aren’t so nice. You’ve got a rib snapped from the entry and another one fractured where it got stuck on the exit. That bullet went through your lung.”
“And the other one?”
My dad lowers his gaze. He takes a slow breath before looking up.
“It went in through your back and banged around for a while. Really tore you up. They had to take some stuff out.”
“Not anything important, though, right?” I joke. I look around for the first time, at all the machines I’m hooked up to. My voice goes quiet. “What kind of stuff?”
“Your appendix,” he says. “Some of your intestines. And they had to…” He swallows.
“Just tell me.”
He covers my hand. “You’re not going to be able to have kids.”
I stare. I close my eyes. I breathe.
He squeezes my hand. “Talk to me.”
“We wanted kids,” I whisper. “Me and Max. And when he—when I lost him, I didn’t think about kids anymore, but the possibility was still there that maybe someday…” I bite my lip as my eyes well. “I just thought I’d have a choice.”
My dad holds my hand, long after the last silent tear spills down my cheek. I stare up at th
e ceiling in the darkness.
“I killed her,” I say at last. “Layla.”
“It was self-defense,” my dad says. “She shot you.”
“She shot to wound. I shot to kill.”
“She had your friend.”
“I had her son.”
I jerk upright, falling back against the pillows when fire carves through my ribs. “Robin! I forgot Robin!”
“Easy,” my dad says. “He’s all right. Once Presley woke up he called Robin, and your partner went and picked him up. He’s safe.”
“And Presley?”
“He’s safe too. They’re both here in the building.”
“Thank God.”
I breathe deeply until my heart calms down and the pain drops to a simmer.
“I was trying to protect him,” I say quietly.
“Presley?”
“Robin. She was his mother. She was begging me for him and I wouldn’t give her her son.”
“You did the best you could.”
“She killed a lot of people, but she did it for him. Everything she did, she did for him. And I killed her.”
“What would you have done differently?”
“I don’t know. She had Presley. Maybe if I told her where Robin was she would have let Presley go. Or maybe she would have killed us both anyway. But Robin was her son.” I close my eyes. “I don’t know who was doing the right thing.”
“You were doing the same thing,” my dad says. “You saved someone you love. That’s all you can ask for.”
My eyes fly open. “You said Presley and Robin are here. Are they hurt?”
“No, they’re fine.”
“Then why are they in the hospital?”
My dad smiles wryly. “You’re not in the hospital. We’re at Old Town, in a storage room in the basement.”
I stare at him in disbelief. He shines the table lamp around the room as proof.
“As soon as you were stable enough to move we had to get you out of the hospital. You’re dead, Mordecai. You and Presley both.”
My heart thrums and I try to sit up. “Presley? You just said—”
My dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m talking about public perception. Your old unit though this was the best way to keep you safe and to get the guy who set you up. You were sent to that hotel to die, kid. Nobody was supposed to walk out of there.”
“So James thinks I’m dead?”
“Yep. Lieutenant Dixon did a press release, your reporter friend ran a front-page article, and your funeral was today.” He winks. “Rest in peace.”
I laugh.
My dad sobers. “You’re in big trouble, Mordecai. Your friends are assuming you’ll cooperate and I know you want to help them, but you need to make a deal. You’re looking at jail time.”
“Dad, there’s no deal I can make that’ll get me out of jail time.”
“I hope you’ve got something up your sleeve. They like that strip club bastard for this mess but can’t tie anything to him. If you can help piece this together it’ll do you a world of good.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Good girl.” He starts to wheel backward, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Listen, there’s one more thing I want to ask you about. You might not remember, but I have to ask.”
I frown. “What is it?”
“You hear stories sometimes, about people who get close to death and come back. Bright light at the end of the tunnel, seeing God, that sort of thing. Sometimes seeing a loved one who’s passed on.”
My dad looks at the ceiling, a tremor rippling through his narrow frame.
“You did die that night,” he whispers. “Your heart stopped twice. They got you back, but the second time, during surgery, you woke up. Out from under the anesthesia, you woke up. And when they were putting you back under, you said something. The surgeon, the nurses, they all heard it. Do you remember?”
I shake my head.
“You said, ‘Bye, Max.’”
I close my eyes. My dad’s voice softens.
“We weren’t much for religion when you were growing up, and I can’t say I’ve put a lot of thought into it since. But I believe in this, kid. Love isn’t science. I think love exists outside of things like time and space, or life and death, and I’m not going to tell you Max is waiting on the other side because I don’t know, but if there’s any way for him to be waiting, or looking out for you, he’s doing it. That I do know.”
His wheelchair creaks against the floor. “There’s a nurse here looking after you. I’m going to let her know you’re awake. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
“Dad.”
I open my eyes, and I’m not crying. I smile. “Thank you.”
He smiles back. I think that maybe somewhere Max is smiling, too.
MY DAD stays for another day. We take turns reading out loud to each other since there’s no TV down here. No windows, either. Just a dank brick room. I think about how old this building is, what’s all been stored down here over the years. Then I try not to think about it.
The nurse stops by once an hour, checking dressings, taking readings off the machines, asking how I feel. I feel like shit. I’m in a lot of pain and lumpy with bandages, but lying in a bed is making me stir crazy. I ask her when I can get up, and she just laughs.
When my dad leaves I make an effort to sit up. He hugs me carefully. “Do you want me to call your lawyer?”
I laugh, because I fired my lawyer when she tried to talk me out of attending Carl’s trial. That feels like a lifetime ago. All the obsession, the anger, the pain. That girl feels like a whole different person.
And it feels good.
“I’ll look after it,” I say. “I want to talk to Dixon first.”
“Make a deal, kid. Don’t give them anything without a return.”
“I think we can work something out.”
“Call me if you need anything, even if it’s just company.”
“I’ve got a feeling I’ll have plenty of that soon.” I grin. “Plus it probably wasn’t easy for you to get down here.”
“Don’t give me any grief,” he says, swatting my leg. “They had to carry you too.”
“Thanks for coming, Dad.”
He winks at me and wheels out the door.
I rest back against the pillows and close my eyes. It’s only a moment, but when I open my eyes again Dixon’s standing in the doorway.
I tug uncomfortably on the sheets. He pulls a folding chair beside my bed and sits. I don’t look at him. If there’s any way I could have disappointed him more, I don’t know it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my face burning hot. “I’ll confess, and I’ll cooperate—”
“Mordecai.”
I glance up. His eyes are soft. “I’m very glad you’re all right. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I mumble, shrugging my good shoulder.
“You look well,” he says. “For a dead woman.”
A smile teases at the corners of his lips. I crack a smile too. “You gave a statement to the media?”
“Very moving,” he says, “Very heartfelt. Your friend Benny wrote a lovely obituary.”
“You think James bought it?”
“I’m certain he did. He hasn’t left the city, which I expect was his fallback in the event you lived. That, or a second attempt.” Dixon knits his fingers together and leans forward. “Mordecai, we’ve put a lot of eggs in this basket. I hope you have information we don’t.”
“Do you know about Layla?”
A slow shake of his head.
“Then I can help you. But I want to make a deal.”
“Depending on your information, we’re willing to—”
“Not for me,” I interrupt. “For Presley. He’s going to be implicated, and he doesn’t belong in jail. What’s he charged with?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” says Dixon. “Accessory after the fact. Blackmail.”
“What’s he said so far?�
��
“Nothing. He refuses to talk.”
“Even to Paddy?”
“Especially to Paddy. They had an altercation while you were in surgery. Paddy blames him for what happened.”
“He’ll talk to me.”
“No.”
“Dixon—”
“Mordecai, he’s charged with conspiracy to murder you. I can’t let you speak with him.”
“Do you want to get James?”
Dixon’s eyes narrow.
“Presley’s struggling with addiction,” I say. “He was coerced, and he needs help. Put a wire in here, or leave a babysitter, but let me talk to him. Please.”
“He doesn’t know you’re alive,” says Dixon quietly.
My heart stumbles. “What?”
“We told him you didn’t survive the surgery. He isn’t talking, and we’re trying to break him.”
“So you told him I’m dead? Jesus, Dixon. What about Robin?”
“We’ve given him no information on Robin.”
“So basically he thinks everyone who cares about him is gone. Jesus Christ. He must be a mess.”
“He’s on suicide watch.”
I brace myself against the mattress and sit up. “Let me see him. Let me see him or I won’t tell you anything.”
Dixon leans in close, his voice lowering. “That would be unwise.”
“I don’t care. Here’s my deal: you let me see Presley and I get you statements from both of us. Presley doesn’t go to jail. He goes to a rehab clinic instead. And Robin gets looked after, too. No one threatens him with deportation.”
“Anything else?” Dixon asks dryly.
“I’m asking you blame the person responsible and protect the people he manipulated, Dixon. That’s it.”
Dixon looks at me over the top of his glasses. “You really think you’ve got enough to get James.”
“Between me and Presley, yes.”
“And you don’t want anything for yourself.”
“One thing. I want to be there when you arrest James.” I smile wryly. “Make it easy on me and bring him to the precinct.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. The man’s got a story and he loves to hear himself talk.”
Dixon gets up and starts toward the door. He pauses at the foot of my bed and looks back.
