by Sarina Bowen
The line goes dead. But I know I just got the biggest scoop of my career.
Thirty-Seven
Benito
There is nothing like the mayhem of a good bust. My boss has called in every special team that Vermont has—the Tactical Unit, the Clandestine Laboratory Enforcement Team, the Crime Scene Search Team. Okay, he lets the SCUBA guys and the canine teams sleep. But Colebury is swarming with Vermont’s finest, and they’re all dedicated to sealing this case up tightly.
“Look at this!” a crime scene investigator says, waving me over to Gage’s car. We’ve got floodlights back here already, and photos have been taken. The investigator opens Gage’s suitcase with a gloved hand, displaying bundles of hundred dollar bills. “Someone was on his way to South America, probably.”
“He’ll have to settle for the Southeastern facility!” someone else says.
The wreck of Gage’s shed is still smoldering. My greatest regret in this case was failing to find his processing place. Before he incinerated it, the shed was probably a bastion of fingerprints and drug residue. I’ll be praying hard that the crime scene guys can still find traces of narcotics in the wreckage.
We don’t need the fingerprints. Gage owns this property and Skye saw him torch it. His prints will be all over the car, too. Thank goodness.
But I never found this spot because we missed the primitive little road he cut back here. I want to kick myself. My failure was assuming that I knew this spot already. The sergeant was right. I really was too close to this one. In so many ways.
Even so, when I walk back to the circle of trailers, I get a clap on the back from Sergeant Chapman. “Nice police work, Rossi.” He chuckles. “You won’t retire now that you got your nemesis, right?”
“No sir,” I answer, even though he’s joking.
“Good man. Because some other cockroach will skitter into town to take his place.”
“I know.” That’s the job. It’s like that old arcade game—Whack-a-Mole. But the more often we whack the moles, then fewer overdose deaths we’ll see. It’s a reality that I can live with.
Skye is leaning against her rental car while a colleague interviews her. I lurk nearby, keeping an eye on the two of them. After tonight I might have trouble letting her out of my sight. It gives me the cold sweats to think of her in hand-to-hand combat with Gage.
In fact, I had to let Nelligan cuff him earlier because I didn’t know if I could get that close to Gage without thumping his skull against the ground and then stepping on his kidney.
I’m not a violent man most days, but I might not be able to resist when it comes to Gage. The world would be better off without him. But I’m going to have to settle for sending him away for life in jail.
He lawyered up before we even got him into a cruiser. The physical evidence will do him in. I’ll make sure of it. Either that, or Sparks will rat him out. I hope.
Maybe I’ll go to church this weekend. My mother will be thrilled.
A van crests the hill, and there’s a satellite dish on top of it. Fuck. The TV-news is here to ask a lot of questions and get in the way. It’s already pretty crowded, so the news truck has to wedge itself onto the grass at the center of the trailer circle.
A cameraman climbs out of the van. And then a woman in a suit pops out, too. Lane Barker. I recognize her from her reporting days. Now she’s the producer. Her eyes scan the crowd, landing on me. Oh great. But her gaze keeps sweeping. “Skylar Copeland!” she barks. “Let’s do this.”
Skye pushes off the car, to the surprise of my startled colleague. “Just a couple more questions…” Rick tries, but Skylar is already crossing the space toward the news van, where Lane is holding out a sheet of paper to her.
“What did you get off the police scanner?” Skye asks.
“Police action at a motorcycle repair shop on State Road Eleven,” Jane rattles off, handing Skye the pad. “At least one arrest confirmed, no suspect yet named. How long do you need?”
Skye glances around the space, looking right past me. She’s all business. “I’m good to go. We can set up in front of the suspect’s trailer. It’s that one.” She points at Gage’s place. “Unless we could get closer to the raging fire. That would look great on camera…”
“No chance,” I hear myself say. “And that’s a restricted area.”
“Of course it is,” Skye grumbles. “The trailer it is, then. Let’s go…” She glances at the camera man. “Sorry, I’m Skye. Your name is…?”
“Warren,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Warren.” Her gaze snaps toward Misty. “Hey, is your mom home yet?” she asks the girl.
“Yeah. I called her home from work.”
“Ask her if you can be on TV. Lane, do you have a release form?”
“On it,” she says, diving back into the van.
Skye marches toward the trailer, and the cameraman hurries after her.
And I’m spellbound. I should be doing ten different things right now, but I drift closer to watch Skye work. The cameraman fiddles with his equipment. He hands Skye a microphone. He turns on a bright light, and Skye’s golden hair shimmers in the sudden brightness.
“We have ninety seconds,” Lane calls, scurrying over. “There’s dirt on your shirt.”
“Oh, geez,” Skye says, brushing at it with her free hand.
“Is that a bruise on your neck?” Lane squawks. “Jesus.”
My blood stops circulating. Gage bruised her neck?
“Quick, your jacket,” Skye says. “Hold this.” She thrusts her microphone at the camera guy and then shrugs off her sweater. She’s wearing nothing but a tiny tank top underneath.
The entire Colebury police force turns to stare. But all I see is an ugly purple bruise across Skye’s collarbone.
I feel murderous.
Lane drops her suit jacket onto Skye’s shoulders, and my girl shrugs it on in a hurry. The sleeves are too short, so she pushes them up while Lane buttons the jacket, concealing the bruise.
“Thirty seconds,” the camera guy says, handing back the microphone.
“No problem.” Skye tucks in an ear piece. “Testing sound? Can you hear me?”
“We’re good with sound” someone calls from the van.
“Six, five, four…” Lane counts down with her fingers.
Jesus Christ. If you want something done in a hurry, call some newsies. Skye dons a professional smile as Lane finishes the countdown. “This is Emily Skye, reporting from the Pine View trailer park in Colebury Vermont. Police are on the scene tonight to arrest ex-policeman James Gage in alleged connection with other arrests in a major drug sting operation. Given the sudden spike in overdose deaths from fentanyl, police have been heavily focused on the Colebury drug trade. This could be—to quote one officer on the Vermont State Police Task Force—Vermont’s biggest drug bust.”
My jaw unhinges. I don’t know whether I’m more annoyed that she quoted me without my permission or that she said that it could be Vermont’s biggest drug bust.
It totally is.
And I want to haul Skye out of that spotlight, check that bruise on her body, and then kiss the hell out of her. But it will have to wait.
“Police took Gage away in handcuffs. And in a moment we’ll hear from at least one other Pine View resident about Gage as a neighbor. Now back to Charlotte on the news desk for more.”
The light winks off and Lane Barker lets out a little shriek of excitement. “And there’s still nobody else here! Kiss my ass, NBC! I smell an award for this one.”
“I need more,” Skye says. “We need to know what was found at the scene on route eleven.”
“Press conference tomorrow,” my boss says hastily. “And not a moment sooner.”
“Can you confirm that John Oscar Sparks is in police custody?” Skye asks.
“Who’s asking the questions here?” grumbles the sergeant. “You come over here and finish telling my deputy what you saw.”
Skye hands off the microphone, l
ooking reluctant. Then she removes Lane’s jacket, and reaches for her sweater.
“Hold on,” I say, aiming my flashlight at the purple flesh on her collarbone. “Could this be broken?” I touch the spot gently and she flinches. “After you’re done here, I want to get you checked out.”
She pulls the sweater over her head, and then blue eyes flash into mine. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Yeah, I can see that. But…” I pull her against my chest and kiss her forehead. “You gave me a scare. I can’t lose you. Not ever again. I may not let you out of my sight. What were you doing here, anyway? That’s the part I don’t understand.”
“I was leaving,” she says. “I was going to drive back to New York tonight. I was bringing a tiramisu to your mother…”
“What? She moved ten years ago.”
Skye yawns. “I figured that out, thanks. But then I was chatting with Misty, and I saw Gage drive away. I thought he was gone. That’s why I texted you.”
“Thanks for that. Now let’s back up to the part where you were going to New York.”
“Well.” She clears her throat. “I panicked. Flipping Jill Sullivan, you know? It was like reliving my worst nightmare.”
“Really?” I would have thought Gage was her worst nightmare. And Skye is fading before my eyes. Her eyelids droop. “Are you okay?”
“Adrenaline crash,” she says. “And I never ate dinner.”
I tuck her against my side and pull out my phone, touching Zara’s number. “Hey. Are you still with Mom?” I ask when she answers.
“Just about to leave. Why?”
“Is there any way you could leave Nicole there and meet us? Skylar needs some company and I’m going to be working all night.”
“Company?”
“She subdued Gage in a fistfight before his arrest, and she’s a little banged up and underfed.”
“Jesus…bleeping Christ.”
“Pretty much. She needs the emergency room and a snack.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Skye murmurs against my shoulder.
“Pizza and a stiff drink, then,” Zara improvises in my ear. “Where is she now?”
“Pine View Circle.”
“Gross. I’ll be there in ten.”
“I have one more segment to film,” Skye says with another yawn. “I’m going to interview Misty.”
“Make it snappy. Then let us take care of you.”
“If you insist,” she says, and I hug her a little tighter.
Thirty-Eight
Skylar
We get some film of Misty and her mom. And then Lane declares me done for the night. “Thanks for the scoop, kid. This is going to be big. Come to the press conference tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I promise her.
“Your dickweed of a boss is going to shit himself over this. I might be getting you into trouble by letting you cover it for us.”
“He might not even notice,” I point out. “And it’s my story.”
“That it is,” she agrees. “Later, Skye.” She hops into her van and they drive away.
The place is still crawling with cops and firemen. After I refuse again to go to the hospital, Benito finds a fire department EMT to look at my bruise.
“That’s gonna hurt awhile. Use ice,” the EMT says.
“Could it be broken?” Ben presses.
“Probably not. But if she’s still in significant pain after a couple of days, she can get an X-ray.”
“Fair enough,” I mumble. I’m practically asleep on my feet.
Zara arrives, and I let Benito put me in the passenger seat of her car. It’s only a few miles from here to the Gin Mill, but they might be right that I shouldn’t drive right now.
Before we can leave, though, Benito opens the car door and leans down. “Honey, Rayanne was just arrested at the train station in White River Junction.”
“Oh.” Oh no.
“Sweetheart, did you know she was running away?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I saw her earlier.”
He closes his eyes. “You should have told me where to find her. If she came in willingly, it would be easier to make her case.”
“I didn’t…” Trust you. “I didn’t want to make that decision for her. You both put me on the spot.”
“Right,” he says. “But now there’s no way for me to be involved with her case. It’s my own sister she allegedly endangered. That’s a conflict of interest. And we’ve already arrested our drug trafficker and seized his loot.”
“You still need whatever evidence she has,” I remind him. But there’s a new bubble of hysteria rising inside me. I could have just told Benito where to find Rayanne. I could have let him talk her into surrendering herself. “She doesn’t belong in jail.”
If I’d just trusted him, this could have been prevented.
“Leaving the scene of an accident can be either a felony or a misdemeanor. Tomorrow we’ll learn more,” he says, kissing my nose. “It could turn out okay.”
“All right,” I say, but my teeth begin to chatter.
“Go get some rest,” he says.
“I’ll take care of her,” Zara says. “Let us go, okay?”
He shuts the door.
I’m trembling as Zara pulls away. Because now we’re starting down the access road, where I ran away from Gage. I can still hear the sound of his pounding footsteps behind me…
I shiver.
“Five minutes,” Zara says soothingly. “We need to get some food in you. And maybe hot tea. The tequila will have to wait for another time.”
She’s being really nice, but I don’t know if I can eat. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so afraid after the fact. “I feel…nuts,” I whisper, shivering again.
“It’s shock. It will pass. I had the same thing happen to me the night of my hit and run.”
I wince. Zara deserves to know how that happened, and yet I can’t talk about Rayanne right now. I’m barely holding it together.
We arrive at the Gin Mill, where the parking lot is full of bar customers. Somehow I cross the lot on my own power and walk up the flight of stairs necessary to reach Benito’s place.
Zara opens the door with her own key, and I make a beeline for the bedroom. All I want is the bed.
No—a shower first. I want to wash Gage off me.
So I wash my hair. I scrub the night off my skin. The hot water feels amazing as long as I keep it off the tender bruise on my collarbone. I’m just going to ignore the pain. Gage tried to get me, and he failed. What’s one more bruise? He left plenty of those on my heart.
I wrap myself in Benito’s bathrobe, and then head into the bedroom. I hadn’t planned on staying here tonight. But now all I want is the comfort of Benito’s bed.
And, whoops, my duffel bag is in the back of my rental car, which is still at Pine View. So I open and shut Benito’s dresser drawers until I’ve located a giant Army T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts with a cinch waist.
I shed the robe and change. The T-shirt smells like Ben. I wish I didn’t find that so comforting, but I do. I climb into his bed, where the scent of him is even stronger. I pull the comforter over me and sigh. Everything will be okay if I never leave this spot. I’m pretty sure.
My limbs still feel shaky and weird. But as I lie in Benito’s bed, I begin to drift, and the spasms of fear become more intermittent. I doze. Maybe half an hour later my eyes fly open when Zara enters the room with a tray.
“Ben had some of my mother’s homemade soup in his freezer,” she says. “Try a little of this.”
“I’m not very hungry,” I say from the safety of the covers.
“Your body can’t shore itself up on nothing,” Zara insists. “Sit up. Humor me.”
Because she’s being so nice (again!) I actually do it. I take the tray and lift the spoon. The soup has a tomato base with a hint of peppery spiciness. And there’s pasta and white beans in it. “Okay, this is good,” I admit, spooning up some more. “Thank
you.”
“You can thank Mom sometime.”
“She moved.”
Zara smiles. “Of course she did. She’s very happy in the new trailer park. It’s a bunch of gossipy women. The play bridge and trade secrets. Nicole is sleeping over there tonight. In the morning they’ll all feed her too much sugar and spoil her.”
That sounds orders of magnitude nicer than the old place. “I went to Pine View tonight because I was trying to take your mom a tiramisu. That’s how I ended up fighting off Gage.”
Zara flinches. “You’re braver than I am.”
“Well, I started out trying to be brave. But then I wished I hadn’t. You know what? He did it again. He threatened to… force me.” I put down the spoon on the tray with a clunk, because the memory steals my joy.
“Oh sweetie.” Zara’s big brown eyes are so much like Benito’s.
“The thing is? For once I didn’t believe him. Like—you’re trying to flee the scene of a drug-dealing operation, but you pause in the driveway for sex? It doesn’t make sense. But I was still terrified. He’s all about the fear, you know?”
“Well, it's very effective. I was terrified of that man. Still am.”
“Really?” That stuns me. “You always seemed fearless to me.”
“Totally an act.” Zara smiles. “I’m glad to hear that I fooled one person. “Oh! I forgot your tea.” She gets up and runs out of the room before I get a chance to say that I don’t really need tea.
Having Zara wait on me is pretty weird, anyway. I don’t know what to think about that.
She returns a minute later, though, looking grumpy. “Okay, look. I know you're fragile right now. But what the hell is this?” She holds up a piece of paper—the goodbye note I left on Benito's counter.
I wrote that note four hours ago, tops. But it feels like another lifetime. “That's personal,” I say
She makes a face. “No kidding, but I’m from a family of five kids. We forgot the meaning of ‘personal’ two decades ago. And I cannot allow you to ditch Benito in a note. Jesus.” She tears the letter right in half.
