by Sharon Sala
When Muncy began looking around for a trash bag, Paul stopped him. “I’ll clean all that up,” he said.
“Then I’ll see myself out. Take good care of the dude and don’t hesitate to call if this doesn’t work.”
Paul gave him a thumbs-up.
* * *
For the next twelve hours, Jack was awake only long enough to take medicine or go to the bathroom before he’d fall back into bed, either shaking from a chill or burning up from another fever. Part of the time he didn’t know where he was, and when he was out, he was talking in his sleep.
Paul sat in a chair pulled up beside the bed. He knew now that Dude loved a girl named Shelly, and he had pretty much figured out that Dude was a Fed. It was the last part that worried him most. If Dude was a Fed, then there was only one reason why he didn’t want anyone to know he was alive. Someone had ratted him out while he was undercover, and he didn’t know who he could trust.
Seven
Shelly got a text on Thursday to come to work the next day. It was a relief. She’d spent most of the week so depressed that it had been all she could do to get out of bed to bathe and eat.
Now she was being forced back into the land of the living. She made herself stay up all day so that she’d sleep that night, and when the alarm went off Friday morning at the usual time, she didn’t mind.
She had decided as she was driving into work that keeping Jack’s death a secret was going to be too difficult for her to pull off. She needed to be able to concentrate to do her job, and that would be nearly impossible if she started out trying to live a lie. So as soon as she got to work, she went to Mitzi’s cubicle.
Mitzi looked up and smiled.
“Hi! This was a bad way to have a few days off, right?”
Shelly leaned over the short wall and whispered, “I need you to come with me to Willard’s office.”
Mitzi was startled and it showed. “What’s wrong?”
Shelly just shook her head and kept walking to their boss’s office and knocked, with Mitzi right beside her.
“Come in,” he said.
Shelly started talking as she was walking inside. “Sorry for barging in like this, but I need to talk to you and Mitzi privately, and I don’t want to have to say this but once.”
“Of course. Please both of you have a seat. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
Shelly shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“I’m good,” Mitzi said, and sat down in a chair beside Shelly.
Willard put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward.
“So, what’s going on?”
Shelly’s hands were curled into fists, and it was going to take everything she had to get this said.
“Something happened last weekend and I need for the both of you to know.”
Mitzi started to worry, and Willard was no longer smiling.
Shelly’s voice shook with every word. “My husband is dead. He was shot in the line of duty, and that’s all I can really say about it.”
The pain of saying that aloud was worse than she’d imagined, and there was no way for her to stop the tears that began rolling down her face.
“Oh my God, Shelly! I’m so sorry,” Mitzi said.
Willard gasped. “I can’t believe it. You never mention him, so...I didn’t even know he was a cop.”
“He was an FBI agent,” Shelly whispered.
Willard’s eyes widened. “FBI... Oh, wait! Oh my God, was he part of that bust they made on the stolen arms shipment?”
Shelly pulled a tissue from her purse.
“I really can’t talk about any of that. I want to reassure you that coming to work is good for me. It helps me refocus on something besides losing him. I would so appreciate it if you did not spread this around. Being the wife of a federal agent has always been tricky. The fewer people who know the details of my life, the better off I’ll be.”
“Then this stays in here with us,” Mitzi said. “If you choose to tell anyone else, that will be your call. Can I do anything for you? Take up some of your accounts until—”
Shelly stopped her. “No, and please ignore me if you happen to see tears. They come and go without reason.”
Willard’s voice was shaking. “I disagree. You have all the reason in the world to weep. Have you already had his service?”
“Not having one,” Shelly said, wiping her eyes.
“Really?” Mitzi said.
Shelly sighed. “It’s not what you think. They just never found his body.”
Willard stood abruptly. “That big search the FBI had going on in Galveston Bay over the weekend...they were searching for him, weren’t they?”
Shelly’s stomach rolled. She couldn’t think about that. “I’d like to get back to work now. Is there anything we need to know about water damage?”
Willard sensed her need to focus on work, and so he began to explain what had happened and what they’d need to do to catch up.
“Yes, sir,” Shelly said when he’d finished. She was trying to be all business, but her hands were shaking.
Willard felt so sorry for her that he could hardly think.
“My deepest sympathies,” he said softly.
“Thank you,” Shelly said. “I’d better get to work.”
“I’m right behind you,” Mitzi said.
They stopped at Shelly’s cubicle. Mitzi turned around and hugged her.
“I just can’t believe this has happened,” she whispered.
“Neither can I,” Shelly said, “but I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Mitzi said.
“Don’t talk about this. Not to anyone. His work was dangerous, and I don’t know how it might affect me if everyone knows my business, understand?”
Mitzi nodded. “Completely. I won’t even talk about it with my husband. But know if you need to talk, I’m here.”
“I appreciate that. I think we need to get busy. We have quite a backlog to get through.”
“Yell if you need anything,” Mitzi said, and walked back to her cubicle. But just thinking about losing her husband and not being able to ever find his body was like something out of a horror movie. She sat down and went back to work before she burst into tears.
Shelly turned on her computer and began setting her workstation back up—getting everything she normally used out of the drawers and back up on her desk. Her heart ached and she was blinking away tears when she pulled up her first account. It was a struggle to focus, but after a while, routine kicked in and she lost herself in the job and the numbers.
* * *
Adam and his brother landed in Guadalajara, Mexico, without incident. He registered at one of the smaller hotels, under his own name, but that wouldn’t be for long. Adam was still growing the mustache he had begun when he was in Mexico the first time, and he went from combing his hair straight back to parting it on one side. He was wearing glasses he didn’t need, and he had also started smoking, two things Adam Ito would have not done.
Yuki was beginning to realize the life they would be living and was regaining some of his attitude. Even though he hadn’t been the fireball Adam had always been, he’d had his own brand of power.
Money went a long way in Mexico, and anything could be had here for the proper price. Even new identities, which came with a stolen car from across the border. After a new paint job and a switched license plate, the gray Jeep Cherokee now belonged to Adam, aka Lee Tanaka, who would be traveling with his friend Soshi Yamada. In two days, Adam would be in Texas again with his brother at his side.
* * *
Charlie Morris went in to work on Friday with a box of cigars and a picture of his son taped to the lid. He passed them out to everyone in the office, gathering congratulations like he used to get merit badges in Boy Scouts. He was proud of their new family
and bragging about Alicia’s ten-hour delivery to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen. But when the clamor died down, he was all too aware that his best friend wasn’t here to share his joy.
He took a cigar and headed outside, his steps much slower than when he came in. As soon as he reached one of their break areas, he headed for a bench in the shade. His intent was obvious as he methodically unwrapped the cigar, but then his cell phone rang. He glanced at caller ID, frowned and then let it go to voice mail. He dealt with personal business at home, and the business of being a federal agent when he was on the job. He snipped off the tips of the cigar before reaching for his lighter. As he leaned back, he glanced up through the limbs and leaves to the bits and pieces of blue sky.
“For you, buddy. This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said softly, then put the cigar in his mouth and lit up.
It took a couple of draws before the hand-rolled cigar caught fire, and then, in memory of Jack McCann, he blew a smoke ring.
“It’s not exactly a halo, but it’s the best I can do,” Charlie said, and then sat back with tears in his eyes, thinking of all the shit that had gone wrong, and smoked the cigar down to a stub.
* * *
The weekend was rough, but by the following Tuesday, Jack’s infection was gone and his strength was better than it had been since he’d been shot. He still had some antibiotics to finish off, and after that, there was nothing more these men could do for him. He was itching to get back on the streets and find out what he could about Ito, and to check on Shelly without her knowing it.
The car he’d been driving either was still on the dock or had been towed off by the FBI, so he had to adjust his plans for transportation. The first thing to do was get to his apartment, get his motorcycle and gear out of the storage unit that came with it, and pack up the clothes he had there. No one on Ito’s crew or the Bureau had known where he lived, not even Charlie. His rent was still paid up to the end of the month, so his things should still be there. He also needed to get into his home when Shelly was at work.
Whether he was a hundred percent or not, it was time to get down to business.
* * *
Paul was taking burgers off the grill for their supper, but he’d had an eye on Dude all afternoon. Something was changing. He was feeling better, which probably meant he was getting antsy.
“Okay, they’re done. Let’s get back inside before these dang flies carry us off,” Paul said.
Jack opened the door for his host and followed him in.
“Why don’t you get whatever you want to drink,” Paul suggested. “I’m still working on my Coors.”
“Since I’m still taking meds, I’ll settle for sweet tea,” Jack said, and poured some in a glass of ice and carried it to the table.
They put their own burgers together, adding condiments and extras to suit themselves. Paul dropped a handful of potato chips onto his plate and then shoved the bag in Jack’s direction and took a big bite.
“Damn, this is good, if I do say so myself,” he said.
Jack grinned.
Paul chewed and swallowed, and was still eyeing Dude as he reached for his beer.
“You’re itching to leave, aren’t you?” Paul asked.
Jack looked up, a little surprised he’d been that obvious.
“I have a big mess to clean up, and it’s not going to happen until I can get back on the streets.”
Paul took another bite, nodding as he chewed. “I get that. All you gotta do is tell me when you’re ready to go. I’ll take you wherever you want and drop you off, and we’ll forget we ever met.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, amazed by Paul’s understanding of his situation.
“How do you feel about tonight?” Jack asked, and then took a big bite of his burger.
Paul was shocked.
“In the dark?”
Jack nodded. “In this life, I live in shadows. I can get around easier in the dark without being noticed.”
“Then eat up, Dude,” Paul said. “Looks like you’ve got a big night ahead of you.”
“Listen, you guys saved my life. I don’t forget things like that. When this is all over, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Paul grinned. “That’s a meeting I don’t want to miss,” he said.
The meal was over, the kitchen cleaned up, and except for Muncy’s Kick Some Ass shirt, Jack was wearing his own clothes again.
He felt for his keys and wallet. The keys had been clipped to a belt loop on his jeans, which was why he didn’t lose them in the bay, and the money he’d had in his wallet had dried without too much damage. His phone was somewhere at the bottom of Galveston Bay. But he had close to three hundred dollars on him. Enough to gas up his motorcycle and get around the city, and the rest of what he needed was in the safe at home.
“Are you ready?” Paul asked.
Jack looked up, eyeing the slight paunch and the gray in Paul’s receding hairline, but saw only the hero who’d had his back.
“I’m ready,” Jack said. “We need to chart a course toward Pasadena. I’ll direct you from there.”
Paul nodded. “Then let’s get on the road.”
“At least this will be the last trip you have to make for me, and you’ll have your life and your house back,” Jack said.
Paul didn’t comment as he turned on the porch light before they walked out into the night.
Streetlights lit up the neighborhood. Even as they were walking to the car, they could hear people outside up and down the block. Some were grilling, because they could smell the smoke, and from the reverberating sound of the diving board and the shrieks of laughter at the splashes, it was apparent Paul’s next-door neighbors were outside in their pool. Such wonderfully ordinary lives. Jack wanted that back.
They were mostly silent all the way across Houston, and when Paul finally took the exit off the 610 Loop that would take them into Pasadena, Jack was sitting on the edge of his seat, watchful for the old neighborhood.
Less than two blocks from Jack’s final destination, he told Paul to pull over at the service station on the next corner.
Paul pulled up at the pumps and killed the engine.
“I might as well fill up while I’m here,” he said, and was reaching for the door handle when Jack stopped him and then held out his hand.
Paul grasped it, feeling the strength in Dude’s grip.
“Thank you,” Jack said. “You are a righteous man, and we will see each other again.”
They shared one quick handshake. Jack got out of one door and Paul got out of the other. Paul stood beneath the fluorescent lights watching Dude slip into the shadows of the alley between two buildings and then he was gone.
Paul turned back to the pumps, scanned his credit card and filled the tank. By the time he was back on the freeway and heading home, Jack was already at the apartment complex, climbing the three flights of stairs.
It felt weird, but at the same time normal, to be walking back into this apartment. It had been a little haven of sanity from the double life he’d been living. Now he wasn’t so sure it was safe anymore.
Before, it was where he could call Shelly and talk without fear of being overheard—where it felt safe enough to close his eyes. But he’d been here over four months and had no way of knowing if anyone he knew had accidentally seen him going in or out, or if the Bureau had ever tailed him here. Since his body had not been recovered, he had no way of knowing if the place was staked out with people waiting to see if he came back, and he wasn’t going to be here long enough to find out.
He hurried into the bedroom and began packing his clothing into a duffel bag, then his toiletries. He was moving around from room to room when he heard a fight break out in the apartment next door. At least one thing hadn’t changed. That couple needed to part ways before one of them killed the other.
After a final check of all the rooms to make sure he had everything, he slipped out of the apartment. He paused in the breezeway to make sure there was no one around, then hurried downstairs, crossed the parking area to the storage sheds that came with each apartment and opened shed 355. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d been on his motorcycle, but he kept it fueled and ready to ride, and now he was glad he had it.
He retrieved the key from where he’d hidden it, fastened the duffel bag behind the seat and rolled it out. The security lights reflected against the black metal on the Indian Springfield. He’d had this one a little over two years now and was glad he’d had the foresight to incorporate this into Judd Wayne’s world.
He rolled his shoulder, testing the mobility. It was sore, but it wouldn’t kill him. He went back to get his helmet, relocked the storage shed and climbed on. The bike fired upon demand. The deep rumble only hinted at the engine’s power, but it was music to Jack’s ears. He accelerated, wasting no time getting out of the complex. All he needed now was a motel for the night and time to figure out what his next move would be.
* * *
Shelly hadn’t been at work more than an hour when Willard stopped by her cubicle to deliver a message.
“Excuse me, Shelly. Hate to interrupt such intent labor.”
She paused, then swiveled her chair to face him.
“No problem. What’s up?”
“We just got a call from the manager at Graze. That’s your account, right?”
“Yes, sir. The newest one. We’ve had it about six months. Is anything wrong?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. The owner, Colin Wright, was found dead in the office of Graze this morning. It’s assumed he never went home, because he’d been dead at least eight hours.”
Shelly was in shock. “Oh my God... He was so excited to finally own his own restaurant. What happened? Do they know?”
“They didn’t say, but we’ve been ordered to give them a final accounting. His wife is moving home to Michigan.”
