by Jeff Shelby
“I’m ready to go anytime,” I said. “Say the word.”
I felt drunk. The exhaustion and emotion had pulverized me. I knew that if Zanella made even a minute move in my direction, I would shred him. I was saying stupid things and acting even more stupid. But I didn’t care.
“Noah,” Klimes said, his voice a little more official now. “We know what you’re going through. It’d be natural for you to wanna go get Keene. Hell, you’ve got an entire department that wants him now. But we need to make sure it goes down the right way.”
“Really? And what’s the right way?”
“You know what that is, Noah,” Klimes said, trying to soothe me. “Let us do our work and bring him in the right way.”
I shook my head, the bitter laugh coming out again. “Right.”
“Think about it,” Klimes said. “We find Keene’s body, you know who the first person is we have to come to? You. We don’t want that. We’ll get him. And trust me. Nothing a bunch of cops like more than bringing in some piece of shit who killed one of our own.”
“How about you, Zanella?” I said, turning sharply to him. “You feel that way too? I mean, before, you told me that Santangelo didn’t mean shit to you. I believe because she was fucking me.”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but I wasn’t thinking exactly straight.
Zanella flushed again, started to speak, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “She was a cop. He killed her. That’s all I care about.”
I wanted to fight with someone, but even Zanella could see it and wouldn’t take the bait.
“She wouldn’t want it that way, Noah,” Klimes said. “We both know it. She would not want you to take the fall on this.”
I took a step closer to Klimes. “Do not tell me what she would’ve wanted. Ever.”
“We’re your friends, Noah,” Klimes said. “We’re all on the same side. Let’s make sure it stays that way.”
He turned to leave, and Zanella quickly followed him out. Wellton lingered in the living room, staring at his shoes.
“Your ride’s leaving,” I said.
Wellton turned and watched Klimes and Zanella disappear off the patio. Then he looked at me.
“You find him, you call me,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Any time, any place. Call me. Not them.”
He walked out into the rain.
FIFTY-EIGHT
A knock on the door the next morning startled me out of bed. I grabbed my gun for no other reason than I was hoping it was Landon Keene. I looked through the peephole and saw Miranda.
I opened the door, and she looked at the gun.
“Easy, Homeland Security,” she said.
“What do you want?”
“My stuff. I left some of it here.”
I stepped aside and let her in, closing the door behind her.
“I’m going home to San Francisco,” she said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa.
“Oh. I think your backpack is in the bedroom.”
“Great. I have to get back to school. And there’s nothing for me to do here anyway,” she said, disgust in her voice. “Not like anyone’s gonna do anything for Darcy now.”
I leaned against the door.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Look, I know your girlfriend is dead. I’m sorry. I really am. But my friend is dead, too. I didn’t know your girlfriend, but I did know Darcy. It bothers me that what happened to her is going to take a backseat now.”
I understood what Miranda was saying, but it didn’t change a thing for me. And I also thought that if I took care of Keene, that would be doing something for Darcy, too. Maybe Miranda didn’t see it that way.
“Look, I didn’t come here to fight with you,” she said. “I came to get my stuff and to confirm that you are off Simington’s case.” “Confirmed.”
She nodded slowly, not surprised. “Figured as much. I’ll see if I can find another attorney to take it over.”
“Won’t matter. He doesn’t want to get off. He’s done.”
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Whatever. Darcy would want me to find someone to at least try.”
I turned away from her. Trying was a waste of time, and we both knew it. But I didn’t doubt she’d go through the motions on Darcy’s behalf.
She disappeared into the bedroom and reemerged with her backpack.
“You gonna go see him again?” she asked. “I don’t know.”
“If you do, don’t go for the wrong reasons.” “And what the hell would those be?”
She clutched the backpack to her body. “I’m guessing you think he might be able to give you some answers, help you solve all this?” I didn’t say anything.
“Then you’ll take care of things on your own, right? Exact your own revenge because justice isn’t enough?”
I turned and looked at her. “You have a fuckin’ point?”
“You hate Simington,” she said, tilting her head to the side, like she was trying to get a better look at me. “And, probably, that’s fair. He fucked you over, and there’s no denying he’s a piece of shit.” Miranda stepped closer to me. “If you do this, you become him. The whole circle of life thing.”
Something resembling an icicle formed in my chest. “Fuck you.”
She laughed and smirked at me. “Are you serious? You don’t see it? You think because you’re hurt, that makes what you’re thinking about doing different?”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking about doing.”
“I don’t?” she said, raising the eyebrow with the ring in it. “That vicious scowl you’re wearing as a mask? What’s that for? That’s not grief, Noah. That is hate and anger and I’m-going-to-kill-the-motherfucker-who-did-this-to-me all over your face.” She let the eyebrow drop. “And why else would you think about going back to see a man you hate? It’s not going to be to tell him you’ll miss him.”
The icicle grew bigger, and I looked past her to the slider. Rain was slapping the big window, running down the glass in thick, blurred streams, obscuring the ocean.
I moved my gaze back to Miranda. “What about you? You don’t want justice for what happened to Darcy? We’re talking about one person who did this to both of them.”
A moment of hurt passed through her eyes. “Of course I want justice for her. But I want the right kind. Not vigilante shit. Darcy would’ve hated that. It’s exactly what she was fighting against.” She shook her head. “I’m angry. I’m hurt. I miss her. But I won’t let it ruin my life.”
She walked past me to the door and opened it, then paused and turned back to me.
“Killing is killing no matter the reason,” Miranda said. “Darcy used to say that a lot because she believed it. I do, too. There’s no difference between what Simington did and what you want to do. You can rationalize it all you want, but that won’t change it. I can see it in your eyes. You think doing this will make everything right and ruin this guy’s life.” She threw her backpack over her shoulder. “If you kill him, Noah, the only life it’s going to ruin is yours.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was two AM, and I wasn’t sleeping.
I’d wasted a whole day, pacing my living room, staring out at the black ocean, and ignoring the phone every time it rang. Now I was lying in bed, doing the mental equivalent of pacing.
Second thoughts were invading my head.
Miranda’s words had stuck with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t know that what I wanted to do was dangerous. Or that, in the entire scheme of things, it wouldn’t really change anything in my world.
It was anger that was propelling me forward, and I knew that was selfish.
But a man who’d killed two women whom I knew was walking around the streets just like I was. I had a problem with that.
The light shivered through the curtains. I could do the right thing. Let the police do their work and apprehend him. I could report the threats he’d made, tell them about the conversations he and I had. Yes, he was a career criminal and had
done a good job, so far, of evading the law. But he’d made a few mistakes in the last few days, and he’d probably be caught. There’d be jail time, then a trial, and then most likely prison.
Then he’d be done walking around.
But I wasn’t sure I was alright with that. As long as he was alive, even if he was in prison, I’d be wondering about him, wondering what he was doing, what he was saying. Maybe bragging about Darcy and Liz. And I’d be furious. There wasn’t any legal justice that could extinguish that anger.
It would screw up my life, Miranda was right about that. But at the moment, I didn’t care. I was lying in bed without Liz, never to feel her hands on my chest, her voice in my ear, or her lips on my cheek again. I didn’t feel like anything could screw up my life any further.
I knew that was emotion talking. Everything was still raw. I had no perspective and no distance, two things I knew I needed before making a decision.
I rolled over in the dark and wondered if I’d have the patience to wait for those two things to arrive.
SIXTY
The rain was pounding the beach the next morning, but I decided to go for a run anyway. I needed to get out of my house, even if it meant getting drenched. So for an hour, I ran down the rain-soaked sand, letting the drops of precipitation rip at my face as I went. The exercise didn’t do anything for my mood, but my body felt loose and my mind a little sharper.
Carter was on my sofa watching television when I came back.
“Why in God’s name would you go running in this shit?” he asked, sitting up and sliding his massive feet off the arm of the sofa.
I peeled off my wet sweatshirt. “Why not? Making yourself at home?”
“You have cable. I don’t.”
“Right.”
I went in the bedroom, stripped out of the rest of my wet clothes and threw on a sweatshirt and jeans. Needing a jolt of caffeine, I grabbed two sodas out of the fridge, handed Carter one, and fell in next to him on the sofa.
“Miranda came to see me yesterday on her way out of town,” I said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. What’d you tell her?” “Tell her? Nothing.” I stared at him.
He winced, like he knew he’d been caught. “Look. She’s not stupid. She sort of figured out what we were talking about doing. She wanted to know. She kind of beat it out of me.”
“Beat it out of you?”
“Well, no. But she wouldn’t leave me alone until I told her.” I drank from the soda. “You’d be great under torture.”
“She’d be great at doing the torture.” I shook my head.
He gulped down the rest of his drink, then looked at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie in a lot of ways right now for you, Noah,” he said, a thin smile on his face. “I’m not looking for a laundry list, but you look … preoccupied.”
I spun the cold can between my hands, staring at it, but thinking of other things.
“I’m wondering if I’m wrong,” I said.
“Wrong?”
“In thinking about … doing this.”
“You mean taking this motherfucker out?” he asked, almost incredulous.
I drank some more of the soda, then looked at him. “Yeah.”
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes surveying me to see if I was serious or if he was missing my point. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the soda can dangling from his hand.
“Noah, here’s what I know,” he said, his voice lower than before, pronouncing each word carefully. “This asshole is partly responsible for your dad being in prison. He killed a woman who came to you for help and dumped her here, in your living room. He’s threatened your mother. And he killed Liz.” He held the can to his lips then pulled it away. “There is nothing right about keeping this guy around.”
“I don’t disagree with any of that,” I said, annoyed that he went for the easy points. “I get all that.”
“Then there’s nothing else to get,” he said, equally annoyed that I was looking at anything other than his points.
“Yeah, there is,” I said, concentrating on remaining reasonable. I didn’t want to fight with him.
He leaned back in the sofa and held out a hand. “Enlighten me.”
“The cops have everything they need to go find him,” I said. “Chances are they will.”
“Whoopee. Doesn’t mean they can arrest him, and even if they do, doesn’t mean he’ll be convicted.” He made a face. “And you think he gives a shit about going to jail? Probably like a vacation home for him.”
I could tell he liked countering my arguments. “Taking Keene out,” I said, measuring my words. “It’s crossing a line.”
“A line that he’s drawn,” Carter said, punching a finger in my direction.
I sighed and sank back into the sofa. Anything I gave him, he was going to find a way to spin it in favor of killing Keene.
“No offense, but it’s not like you haven’t done it before,” he said.
“Different. Way different,” I said.
“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “How?”
“Nothing was ever planned out. Nothing was ever premeditated.”
“So as long as you don’t think about it ahead of time, it’s okay?” he deadpanned.
“In a way, yeah. But that’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” I said, fidgeting and frowning.
“Then say it, dude,” he said. “Say what it really is. What’s really holding you back?”
I tilted the can back and finished the soda. I squeezed the aluminum between my hands, the condensation slicking my palms. “I know she would hate it. It’s the opposite of everything she believed in. I know that it would disappoint her like nothing else I’ve ever done. It would make me more like Simington than I want to be. And I could never take that back.”
I waited for his response, but he didn’t say anything. He stood and walked over to the glass door, one hand in the pocket of his shorts and one clutching the now-crushed soda can.
“I’ll buy that more than I’ll buy any of your other arguments,” he finally said. “I can understand that. But she’s gone, and you’re here. You’ll be the one who has to live with knowing that he’s still out there, that no matter what happens to him, he got away with it. And, yeah, to me, even if he’s arrested and thrown in a cell, it still seems like he gets away with it. Motherfucker would be a hero in prison for killing a cop.”
We were going around in circles, and it wasn’t doing me any good.
“And there’s one other thing,” I said.
He turned away from the glass. “What’s that?”
I stood and walked over next to him, my eyes fixated on what looked like a boiling ocean. “No matter what I do, nothing brings her back. Ever.” I watched several waves roll in and collapse into a mess of foam. “And I’m not sure anything else matters.”
SIXTY-ONE
“I need to get going,” Carter said. “Let me know what you decide.”
“Do my best not to disappoint you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He walked toward the front door and turned around. “You won’t disappoint me, Noah. Whatever you end up thinking is right. You have to do what’s right for you. You do that, I won’t be disappointed.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He nodded and opened the door.
The alleyway roared and the concussive force of an explosion sent both of us to the floor. I slammed my head against the leg of the dining room table.
I rolled over, gathered my bearings, and sat up. “You alright?”
Carter used the sofa to pull himself up. “What the fuck was that?”
Smoke filled the air and the doorway, but I didn’t see any flames. Something was on fire, though. We went out through the slider and around the boardwalk to the alley.
Sirens were already whining in the distance. We turned the corner to the alley.
Carter’s truck w
as a bonfire. Flames shot high into the air, black smoke billowing from beneath what was left. The skull and crossbones on the hood were unrecognizable.
“Was I supposed to be in that?” Carter asked.
Things are gonna start blowing up in your face.
That’s what Keene had said.
The first fire engine arrived and filled the alley with red and white lights. The firefighters got to work hooking up a hose, soaking the charred remains of Carter’s truck.
Cars didn’t just blow up in alleys. I knew it was Keene.
Maybe he thought he’d scare me off. He’d already figured out that going after the people in my life was more effective than coming directly at me. I hated that he somehow knew that. He was clearly threatened by the idea of Simington giving up information to me and he was striking out quickly and violently.
But he wasn’t scaring me off. He was forcing me to deal with him.
Staring at the smoke and fire and destruction that Landon Keene had brought to my life and feeling the ache that had taken up permanent residence in my gut, I knew my decision was made.
SIXTY-TWO
The fire department needed most of the day to clean up the alley. Carter waved me off when I offered him a ride home, mumbling something about the walk being good for his head. I felt guilty about the car, but relieved he hadn’t been in it. I’d already lost Liz. I didn’t want to lose my best friend, too.
I went to bed, thinking I’d make a run at Moffitt in the morning. I still wasn’t sure how that was going to work, but he was where I needed to start. And to start was better than to keep thinking.
But when I opened my door to leave the next morning, the media had discovered me.
A well-groomed Hispanic man was standing in my way, his fist raised, about to knock.
“Mr. Braddock?” he asked with a smile. “Cesar Grotillo, Channel Eight News. Do you have a moment?”
The knot in my stomach tightened like someone was yanking on one end of it. “No.”
