Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  I would give anything right now to climb onto that giant old lounge chair in the woods and lay my head on his shoulder—the only place in Vermont where I’d ever felt safe.

  Fourteen

  Benito

  I’m sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck, surrounded by roofing equipment. The truck is parked in an empty parking lot beside a now defunct big-box store in a Vermont town that’s seen better days. I’m drinking coffee and waiting for the dealer to show up.

  He’s five minutes late, maybe because he had to pull over and shoot up to keep himself on the level.

  I can wait. I’m patient like that.

  After another ten minutes, a junker of a car winds its way toward me. My pulse kicks up a notch, but I won’t let it show. I’ve done this dozens of times before, and I’m trained for any contingency.

  There are two men in the car, which is one more than I’d hoped to see. The passenger gets out, and he’s the guy I was expecting. So that’s not so weird. I glance at the other guy without staring.

  White. Thirties. Scruffy beard. Patriots cap.

  I drain my coffee as the dealer approaches. Like I don’t have a care in the world. “Thought you were gonna stand me up,” I say calmly. “Coffee’s gone and I need something with more of a kick.”

  The skinny dude gives me a weak smile. “Show me some skin.”

  I slip a twenty out of the pocket of my flannel shirt. “Here.”

  He takes it from my fingers. Then he gives me a weird little smile. That’s the first indication that something is wrong.

  My senses dial up immediately. I’m aware of everything around me. The other man in the car never shut off the motor. But now I hear the engine change its tune. Like he put it back in gear.

  “You gonna give me the stuff or what?” I ask.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” the dealer says. “Slowly reach for your wallet. Hand it over.”

  “Oh man,” I sigh. This tool just bought himself a longer stay in prison. “And what if I don’t?”

  “You will.” He shifts his jacket a little to show me a pistol that’s pointed at me.

  “Jesus.” The weapon adds more years to his sentence. “Maybe don’t point that thing at me while I get my wallet?”

  “Just do it now. With one hand,” he adds.

  “Fine. Just take my whole wallet, okay? I don’t need to spend all day with your gun pointed at—”

  “FREEZE. VERMONT STATE POLICE!” my team shouts as they pop out of the shuttered storefront. “ON THE GROUND! HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD.”

  The second he whirls in the direction of the bullhorn, I kick my would-be attacker in the nuts. He goes down like a tree in a windstorm.

  That’s when his friend guns it, trying to drive away.

  My guys let the accelerating car get well clear of me before they shoot out a tire. Meanwhile, I’ve got cuffs around the perp, who’s moaning about his balls on the cold asphalt.

  He has a reason to moan. Instead of merely selling drugs to an officer of the law, he’s amped that shit up to armed robbery.

  “You good?” a deputy asks me.

  “Yup. Search ’im.”

  So I’ve had worse mornings. As a member of Vermont’s drug task force, I frequently drive to towns around the state to buy drugs from small-time scumbags. These two will be arrested. At which time they’ll be interviewed extensively to see if they can provide information about bigger, scummier scumbags.

  When we drag this much manpower out for a bust, we’re hoping to move things up the chain. We want this guy’s supplier more than we want this guy.

  That’s the game. Little busts, followed by lots of questions, followed by more little busts. We inch our way up the chain until we can get to the guy who’s bringing all the drugs into Vermont.

  That guy is Jimmy Gage. I’m close to getting direct evidence against him. So close.

  Meanwhile, these two perps are shoved into the backs of two different police vehicles for their rides to the station, so I’m done for now. I hand off my wire and the video device concealed on the pickup truck. Then I shake a few hands and get gone.

  There will be paperwork.

  But first, it’s time to check in on another project.

  That goes less well.

  “Bring me evidence,” Colebury’s police chief barks from beneath his unruly mustache. “If you don’t have video, the D.A. can’t build a case. And if you can’t build a case, you’re just wasting my officer’s time.”

  I know this. And he knows I know this. But the stubborn old fool won’t give me any more manpower. I don’t work for the town, I work for the state. My job is to help guys like Lewis stem the flow of drugs into their counties. But cooperation takes two.

  Some guys are more cooperative than others.

  “I’ll get that video,” I say carefully. “But I’ll get it faster if you give me Nelligan full time.”

  “No can do,” he says immediately. “You can’t steal my officer to work a case in another county.”

  I feel a splash of anger hit me. Careful, I warn myself. My temper was a problem when I was younger. But now I’m better at not losing my shit when guys like Lewis won’t do the right thing. The man is so short-sighted.

  We both know that Gage is breaking the law right here in Colebury. Just because he’s picking up his drugs from fifty miles north of here doesn’t mean I’m pillaging his resources.

  “I’m going to lay waste to the dealer network in Colebury,” I say quietly. “He’s moving lethal stuff through your town. I can stop him faster with your help.”

  His shrug is completely indifferent. “The week after you nail Gage I’ll have fresh faces peddling heroin in the alleys. And there’s no shortage of fucktards lining up to buy that shit and jam it into their veins.”

  And there it is—the reason he doesn’t care. Law enforcement needs to see opioid addiction as a disease, not a moral failing. But some of these guys just can’t view it that way. They think users just deserve what they get.

  I can’t make him care. So I try another tack.

  “A Colebury girl is missing. I think something is going on inside the organization.”

  Lewis nods. “If a missing-persons report is filed, Nelligan can investigate. Let me know if she turns up. Let me know if that camera of yours spots a Colebury resident climbing out of that lake. Then we can search her house and tap her phone and her whole damn life. Until then, good luck to you.”

  Fuck. I want to break something. Instead I say, “Thank you sir.” It’s my only line. I have no leverage over this man. I’m too new at this job and my case is still developing.

  Irritated, I go outside.

  My job is complicated. And since last night, my life is also complicated. And one of these things looks like it’s gonna calm down soon. But now it’s time for lunch.

  I check my texts and spot Skye’s request for me to call her. I’m free now. Can I take you to lunch?

  Her reply is almost instantaneous. Can you come get me? she asks. I’m up the hill in Colebury.

  Sure. Where?

  She starts tapping her response right away. There’s a street that runs behind Rayanne’s street. I’m there.

  That’s a strange choice. But maybe she took a walk? Be there in two minutes, I reply, because Colebury is a small town.

  Sure enough, when I coast past a tiny neighborhood playground, her head swivels from where she’s seated on a bench, her back to me.

  And I’m floored all over again. Seeing her again is a shock to my system. Countless nights I’ve had dreams just like this—that I’d look up to finally see her face.

  Ten years ago, when the ache was still fresh, I used to look for her in crowds. I wondered where she was, what she was doing. I wanted to know if she had friends, and if she ever thought about her difficult year in Vermont.

  I’m in a dream state even as Skye moves quickly on long legs toward the car. She slides into the passenger seat and then slams the door. “Thank
you,” she says, exhaling.

  “Don’t mention it. How do you feel about burritos?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Who?” It takes me a beat, but all at once I understand. “Seriously? You saw Gage?”

  “Well, I heard him. I was in Rayanne’s house, looking around. I went out the back door to throw something in her garbage can. And he came in the front door, talking on the phone. I heard his voice. It was definitely him. I know what he sounds like.” Her voice is shaking.

  “Okay,” I say, pulling over and putting the car in park. “Are you all right?”

  She gulps. “Yeah. Of course.”

  But that’s the same answer she always used to give me. And when I look closer, she’s too pale. “Take a deep breath, honey. Can I pick up some takeout food and drive you home?”

  She nods quickly. “Okay.”

  I clasp her hand in mine. “Do you have any idea what Gage was doing at Rayanne’s place?”

  “Looking for her.” She swallows hard. “He told whoever was on the other end of the phone that she was just flaky that maybe she went away for the weekend.”

  I chew on that for a minute. I still can’t figure out exactly how Rayanne is involved. But if Gage doesn’t know where she is, maybe she’s not in as deeply as I thought.

  Or maybe she’s trying to get out.

  “God, I hate feeling like this. It’s like…” Her voice is panicky. “I heard his voice, and I’m sixteen years old again and cowering in that bedroom. This is why I don’t come back to Vermont.”

  All I can do is reach across the gearbox and take her other hand, too. “I get it,” I say.

  She’s silent for a moment. “I’m so angry. That’s what I didn’t expect. All this rage.” She won’t look at me. She’s staring out the window.

  And I can barely breathe. Because it’s a cruel trick to have her back and to know that the same evil man is still standing between me and Skye, and between Skye and happiness.

  “I’m going to get him,” I promise. “I’m going to lock him up. For you and Zara and everyone he’s ever harmed.”

  She lets out a breath. “He was gone from my life until I came back here.”

  My stomach dives. “You can get on the train to New York tonight. I’ll find the Jeep, and I’ll find Rayanne.” I am making a shitload of promises right now but I mean every one of them. “You can go home.”

  She turns her chin to look at me, and her eyes blaze with anger. “I want to see her. And I want to help you get him.”

  “You can’t help,” I say quickly. That’s not even a little bit practical. “But you can stay as long as you like. Let’s have some lunch and figure a couple of things out.”

  “Okay,” she says. Then she gives me a tiny smile. “You’re the only good guy on earth, Benito. Swear to God.”

  It’s not true. But I sure like hearing it.

  Fifteen

  Skye

  Ben stops at a little roadside food truck called Sally’s Soups. I fidget in the front seat for the entire six minutes that he’s out of the car.

  Calm down, I order myself, but it doesn’t really work. Until I’d heard Gage’s voice, I was able to convince myself that Rayanne was a drama queen who’d made my weekend awkward on purpose.

  All it took was sixty seconds of terror to remind me that some people in the world are just scary.

  “Hey.” Benito’s voice is gentle as he slides into the driver’s seat and hands me a warm sack. “Hang on to this for ten minutes, and then you can choose between clam chowder and chicken tortilla.”

  We end up going halfsies, splitting both soups while sitting on Benito’s sofa. There are fresh rolls and butter, too. After eating, I feel almost restored.

  “Better?” he asks, handing me a cup of peppermint tea.

  “Yeah.” His presence is more impactful than the soup. I keep this to myself, but it’s true. He was always able to make me feel safe, even sitting in the woods in the wintery breeze.

  The brick walls and shining floorboards of his apartment are about a million steps up from our old hangout. Benito’s place feels impenetrable, although my better mood has more to do with the hot cop beside me than the deadbolt on his door.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” he says. “About the conversation you overheard.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you know who Gage was talking to? Did he use a name?”

  “Um, I feel like he did use a name. But…” I’d been so terrified, I hadn’t taken much in. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”

  Ben gives me a smile. “I get that. Just tell me what tone he was using. Was he happy? Mad?”

  “Gruff,” I say slowly. “His tone was sort of bitchy. Like he was talking to a subordinate.” As soon as I start talking, more of it comes back to me. “The guy was asking questions about Rayanne, and Gage didn’t like it. He was sort of telling the guy to mind his own business and get back to whatever it was that Gage needed him to do.”

  “And the name?” Benito presses. “Was it long or short?”

  “Not long. Just…” I wrack my brain. “One syllable. Not Mark, but something abrupt like that.”

  “Like…Sparks?”

  My head jerks back with recognition. “Yes. Sparks. How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.” Benito picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze. “So Sparks was asking Gage questions about Rayanne?”

  “It seemed that way—like he wanted to know where she was. But Gage was just trying to shut him up. That’s how it sounded anyway.” I tell Benito everything else I can remember about the conversation, which isn’t much. And then I tell him about the text conversation Rayanne and I had earlier.

  He listens while he strokes my hand. Even after I stop talking, his long fingers press against mine, and his thumb slides sweetly against the back of my hand.

  Maybe sex always lets me down, but hand-holding is pretty great.

  When I check Benito’s face, there’s a distant look in his eye, though. He’s not concentrating on me at all. He’s thinking. “It doesn’t look great that Rayanne won’t ask for my help,” he says eventually. “If she’s trying not to get killed, there are better ways of doing that.

  “I know,” I say miserably. “She’s afraid of something. Would Gage implicate his own kid?”

  “Maybe, if it kept him out of jail. Or maybe she’s afraid of someone else. Like Sparks,” Benito muses. “Can I see the texts she sent?”

  I hesitate.

  “You want to help her, right?” he asks. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

  But I’ve already told him everything we said to each other. Except the last bit…

  “Skye,” he whispers. “Help me out here.”

  I dip into my bag and hand him the phone. He opens the text messages and scans the conversation. Then he laughs out loud.

  My face is bright red. “Stop, okay?”

  “Your stepsister has boundary issues.”

  “I noticed.”

  He drops the phone into my bag and grins at me. “You didn’t answer her question.”

  “It’s none of her business.”

  “Why is she asking, anyway?” His big brown eyes bore into mine.

  Because she knows you’re my biggest regret. I won’t admit it, though. “Because she’s nosy,” I say instead.

  Benito leans forward. He slides one arm under my knees and lifts me onto his lap as if I’m weightless, not a six-foot giant. Strong arms wrap around my body and warm lips kiss the underside of my jaw.

  I break out in goosebumps everywhere. The good kind of goosebumps—not the hiding-next-to-the-garbage-cans kind.

  “You can tell her,” he whispers as his lips trace my cheek. “Tell her I’m going to lay you out on my bed and turn you into a moaning, shuddering wreck the second I get the chance.” He kisses a sensitive spot beneath my ear, and I give a little shiver of longing.

  Then he sighs and tucks my head against his neck. “
But first, I have to go back to work.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I have to interrogate the asswipe I arrested this morning. My goal in life is to get one of these guys to hand me information I can use against Sparks or Gage or whoever is fucking up the drug supply around here.”

  “It’s the fentanyl, right? Someone is killing people.”

  He chuckles, and since my ear is pressed to his body, I hear it in stereo. “You are the little investigative journalist, aren’t you?”

  “Do I look little to you?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck. I don’t like to seem needy, but he just said he was going back to work. I hate this idea.

  “You look like everything I ever wanted,” he says, stroking my hair. “And I can’t believe I have to go right now, because it’s seriously tempting to stay here and get started on our other project.”

  “Project?”

  “Naked adventure? Sexperience? Call it whatever you want.” He slides me back onto the sofa with a groan. “You are not easy to walk away from. But I’m going to do it anyway, before my dick gets any harder. Later, honey. Text me if you need anything. Or call me here…” He slides a business card out of his wallet and sets it on the coffee table. “Someone will answer the station phone and fetch me out of the interrogation room if you tell them it’s important.”

  “Bye,” I say softly, wishing he wouldn’t leave.

  He shrugs his jacket on, then pauses with one hand on the doorknob. “You’re going to be fine here alone. You know that right?”

  I nod, trying to look brave.

  His eyes soften. “Lock the deadbolt behind me, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Good. Now go watch some TV, or download a book. Distract yourself. I’ll be back before you know it.” He winks, then opens the door and disappears.

  I don’t watch TV or read a novel.

  Instead, I call another junior reporter at New York News and Sports. He’s my rival, I suppose. But he owes me a favor. Everybody there does, actually. “Hey, Hooper,” I say when he picks up. “It’s Skye.”