Blind Spot

by Maggie Kavanagh

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dan Sheldon?” Rivera’s voice rose and he lifted his hands, like Sam was a horse that needed slowing down. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Nathan sighed, and Sam felt firm pressure on his elbow. “Sam—”

  He brushed Nathan off and turned back to Rivera. “I went and had a little chat with Sheldon. He says he wasn’t involved, but I’ve got a source who says an old friend betrayed my father before he died. Now I don’t know what to believe and I want to get the accident case reopened. If you let me talk—”

  “Sam Flynn and Nathan Walker. Where the hell have you two been?” Donna Howard’s voice interrupted him. Sam turned. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there. “What’s this about Dan Sheldon?”

  Sam flushed. He probably should have brought the matter up in a more private setting, without the whole station listening in.

  “Hi, Chief,” he said. “Uh.”

  “Sam’s been under a lot of stress lately,” Nathan explained. His hand was back on Sam’s elbow, and this time Sam couldn’t shake him off without making a scene. He glared, not appreciating being manhandled in front of an audience. “And we’ve already taken up too much of your time, Tony. Donna.” Nathan gave her a grim smile, and she looked like she might say something, but her eyes were latched on Sam. Sam stared back.

  “I want to take a look at my parent’s accident report again. What happened that night was murder, and I’m not going to rest until I find out who did it.”

  BY THE time they made it outside the precinct, Sam was furious. Nathan had nearly dragged him out the door and down the steps through the crowd of reporters without speaking.

  He was surprised to find Nathan just as angry, his lips a thin, tense line. “What the hell were you doing back there?”

  “What are you talking about? We were supposed to talk to Judy. I thought you were with me on this.” But he hadn’t counted on Rivera’s resistance. And he’d run his mouth impulsively, even though they had decided they were going to make polite inquiries only.

  Instead of waiting for Nathan’s reply, Sam turned on his heel and stalked down the sidewalk, thrusting his hands in his pockets as he went. He had no idea where he was going. He heard footfalls on the pavement behind him but didn’t turn around.

  In few strides Nathan caught up. Sam cursed his long legs. He kept his gaze low, avoiding Nathan’s—the sole defense of the vertically challenged.

  “Will you hold up a second?” Nathan asked, his voice calm.

  Sam scowled. “No. I won’t. I have shit to do.” For one he’d promised Tim he’d be back to visit that afternoon. For another he needed to go on a run.

  “Sam, come on. Don’t be like this.”

  “If you tell me to be reasonable, I’ll punch you in the face.”

  At the next intersection, Sam was forced to stop and wait for the pedestrian walk signal. He thought again about his conversation with Dan Sheldon. Over the last couple of days, he’d wracked his mind for other people who could have been involved. His father had a lot of friends, but not many close ones. Sam discounted the list of names he came up with one by one. It kept coming back to Sheldon, but that solution didn’t ring true anymore. It was frustrating as hell.

  “I know you want answers,” Nathan said, his voice filled with understanding. “I do too. But going down to the station with guns blazing isn’t going to help. For one thing the place is in an uproar, and as much as I hate to say this, an accident from almost eight years ago isn’t first priority right now. And we need to be cautious. If the mob was involved, do you really want to drag Janice into it? I thought we agreed to wait until things died down.”

  The pedestrian signal started beeping. Sam was still angry about being patronized in public, but Nathan had a point.

  “I guess I didn’t think everything through,” he admitted once they’d crossed the street.

  “You never do.” The words were quiet but cut to the bone.

  “Oh, don’t be shy. Tell me how you really feel,” Sam said. “Impulsive Sam, never doing what I’m supposed to do. Good thing I have you to save the day. What about you? You arrogant bastard. Can’t you even admit you were wrong to drag me out of there? I’m not your slave.”

  Sam realized he was panting out the words. They stopped in front of their building, and Nathan watched him, eyes blown wide with pupil. His mouth curled into a smirk. “Oh. I think we both know that’s not true.”

  Sam’s cock started to harden in spite of his anger. “Apologize to me.”

  Nathan came closer. He cupped the back of Sam’s neck with one hand, and he used the other to caress Sam’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I admit I was out of line. Forgive me?” His voice was quiet, commanding. There was a glint of humor in his eyes. A guy walking his dog passed by and gave them a wide berth.

  Sam knew he was a fool, but he couldn’t do anything but nod. Nathan’s sincerity was impossible to resist. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m not your slave… 24-7, at least.” He grumbled the last few words, and Nathan smiled.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now get inside and I’ll make it up to you.”

  Sam didn’t have to be told twice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE STORAGE center was a huge compound of temporary and long-term units connected by a maze of muddy dirt and grass roads. Sam pulled his truck into the external lot, not surprised to find it vacant. On the few occasions he’d visited, he often wondered if he was the only one renting there. It was the cheapest place he could find after the accident, when he was broke and struggling with the idea of getting rid of all his family’s stuff, even after he unloaded the house.

  He hadn’t been there in a long time, but he still remembered exactly where unit 438 was located—near the back and to the left. As he slowed to a crawl and steered down the narrow dirt track, his heart started to pick up speed. He could handle it. He’d handle it for Timmy, and then he’d head home.

  A brown rabbit scurried across the road, stopped dead in the center, and eyed the oncoming truck with terror. Sam braked and waited for her to continue on her way, flashing his lights a few times to encourage her. The dusk was quickly approaching, and Sam wanted to get home before Nathan did, though he figured he had some time because Nathan had been in New York all day. Sam had told him he wanted to go on his own, but he knew how Nathan worried.

  After a few more seconds, the rabbit took off at full speed, and Sam chuckled and pressed the gas gingerly, in case another critter decided to chance its luck.

  The storage unit looked lonely when he pulled up in front of it, but he put the thought out of his mind, hopped out of the cab, and slapped a mosquito that landed on his bare arm almost immediately. With all the rain they’d had, the tiny bloodsuckers were out in full force. He swatted at the couple buzzing around his head and fished out the key from his pocket. Then he thought better of it and went back to his truck to douse himself with the last of an ancient bottle of bug spray.

  The padlock to his unit had rusted, but it unlocked easily enough. Sam swung up the overhead retracting door. The dull evening light washed over the contents inside. Plastic boxes, chosen to keep out the vermin, were set on slats and stacked into piles without labels. He’d packed them with little thought about organization, and now he regretted it. It might take hours to sort through all the stuff, and the cicadas in the field outside had already started to sing. Tonight he’d find a few things for Tim. He’d do the rest with Nathan another day.

  Luckily Sam had a heavy-duty flashlight among his tools. He grabbed it and then returned to tackle the first box.

  He sucked in a deep breath. The box held some of his mother’s belongings. Old jewelry that wasn’t worth anything but what it had meant to her. A few scarves she used to wear tied around her neck, or in her hair. Sam held a purple-and-gold one up to the fading light, and he remembered her washing dishes in the kitchen sink while he snacked at the table after school. You better eat your dinner! Even when she scolded him
, she always had a smile in her voice.

  On a whim, he brought it to his nose and inhaled. But any trace of his mother was gone, replaced by the musty smell of storage.

  Had she been happy? His father’s long-standing affair with Janice suggested there’d been trouble in the marriage, but his parents had done a damn good job of hiding it from their kids. And then there was the secretive drinking. It sounded to Sam like his father might have had a problem—just as he did—but at least Sam was facing his demons head-on. The previous day he’d gotten a therapist referral from his doctor.

  The rest of the box was filled with trinkets from her dressing table. There was a little bottle of perfume, evaporated, and a tiny dog made out of soap and still encased in plastic wrap. It was probably a gift from either him or his brother, though he didn’t remember. Sam’s throat closed around a swallow. He didn’t know why he’d saved those things.

  He discovered a box of general household items he had wanted to keep but hadn’t been able to fit into his apartment. Another held a treasure trove of books Sam had forgotten existed. He sandwiched his flashlight between chin and shoulder and leafed through a few pages of an old copy of Robinson Crusoe. It had been his father’s, then his, and then Tim’s. He was setting it aside in the take-with pile when it hit him. How would he tell Timmy about the accident? How would he tell him their parents were dead?

  Shit.

  He made his way quickly through the rest of the boxes, occasionally finding something he thought Tim might like. At some point he heard the rumble of another car engine within the compound. It was comforting to know someone else was around.

  The photos made him linger. His mother had loved her camera, and there were many framed pictures of him and his brother together as kids—baby Tim perched on Sam’s lap as Sam stared down at him, a picture of Tim on his third birthday, covered in chocolate cake. His parents’ wedding day album was at the bottom of the box. He set it aside.

  He’d lived so long with the idealized versions of his parents that the reality they might have kept secrets from each other—lied and cheated—was hard to face. He’d been blind, but even though it hurt, maybe finding out the truth was for the best. Nathan had said something along those lines the other night. Everyone had struggles. It was a part of life, and it was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one with problems.

  At the end of the search, he came across a box filled with his father’s stuff. He stared down at the New York University Class of 1978 yearbook, and a chill ran through him. There was something he wasn’t remembering—something important. Something about NYU. He chased the thought, and his mind scrambled back through the recent past. So much of it was a jumble because of his drinking.

  Drinking with Rivera. Hadn’t he mentioned attending NYU that night at the bar? Sam could hardly remember the conversation, and he cursed himself for being such a damned fool. Rivera was a Yankees fan, just like Yuri. He was in his fifties, just like Sam’s father would have been if he lived.

  He held the flashlight with his chin and opened the book. Surely his suspicion was unfounded. Rivera wasn’t crooked. He was Nathan’s friend.

  His father had been on the law review staff in college, and Sam found a picture of the group in the clubs and activities section of the yearbook. His father was front and center. In spite of the queasy feeling in his gut, Sam chuckled at his heavy-framed glasses and mustache. The rest of the club—all men—stood around him with goofy smiles. One of them looked horribly familiar.

  Sam’s blood chilled as he read the names under the picture.

  Timothy Barnes ’79, Rupert Natick ’78…. Antonio Rivera ’78.

  Sam’s head ached as he tried to remember the night with Rivera. They’d talked briefly about their fathers, but Rivera hadn’t mentioned knowing Sam’s dad or going to school with him—least of all being in the same damn class and club.

  Maybe he’d forgotten? Or maybe he didn’t realize he was dealing with the son of the same Flynn?

  It seemed impossible. Being in Stonebridge for so long after the Sheldon case, he would definitely have made the connection. And if he followed his alma mater’s alumni news at all or talked to other classmates, he would have heard about the accident.

  Why wouldn’t Rivera mention he knew Sam’s father unless he had something to hide? Could that night at the bar have been a stealthy attempt to find out if Sam was onto him?

  Sam flipped to the section with individual pictures. When he got to the Rs, he aimed the flashlight with a trembling hand.

  Antonio Rivera ’78. Even without the scar, there was no doubting his identity. But it was the nickname underneath the photo that made Sam’s stomach lurch. A cold frisson of fear shot through him.

  Tony the Tiger. Holy Shit. Was he the tiger Sam’s father had referred to in his drunken state? It seemed like the only viable explanation.

  Sam yanked out his phone to check the time. It was going on nine, and Nathan still hadn’t called or texted. Since they’d been home, they made a point to message each other at least a couple times a day. Maybe he thought he was giving Sam the space he needed to do what he had to do. But he couldn’t wait. If Rivera was responsible, he knew exactly what Sam was looking for, and he would be dangerous. Dammit. Nathan had been right the other day at the station. Sam should never have blurted out his plans like a complete idiot.

  He had to get out of there.

  Think Rivera’s our guy. On my way home. He pressed send and quickly looked around. The take-with pile was too large for one trip, so he grabbed as much as he could and made sure to tuck the yearbook under his arm. Then he aimed the flashlight at the door and shone it directly into the face of Antonio Rivera.

  He was holding a gun in one hand, and a cell phone in the other.

  “Think Rivera’s our guy,” Rivera read out loud from the screen. “On my way home. I don’t think that was very smart of you, Sam.”

  “Why do you have Nathan’s phone?” Sam asked stupidly.

  “He’s in the car.” Rivera gestured over his shoulder with his gun hand, like he was mentioning the weather. “Believe me when I tell you I didn’t want it to be this way.”

  Rage bubbled up in Sam’s chest, but it was blotted out by a paralyzing sense of dread. “Is he alive?”

  “He’s unconscious. But yes, he’s alive. And he’ll stay alive if you come quietly.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Sam fought to keep his voice steady.

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  “Did you murder my parents?”

  Rivera cocked his head and pocketed Nathan’s phone. His gun hand was steady. “Murder is such a loaded term. Don’t you think? I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your brother and your mother, and I’m sorry about that. It’s unfortunate, but it’s business. Now put that stuff down and come on out of there. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “You son of a bitch. Why?”

  Rivera scowled. “Spare me the drama. We could have avoided this if you and Nate had come to the New York office like I asked. But no. You had to go snooping around. You never follow the rules. Do you, Sam?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Why make this harder than it has to be? Get out here. Now.”

  With the gun pointed directly at his chest and Nathan’s life at stake, Sam could do little but obey. He set down the things he’d intended to bring to Tim on the lid of one of the closed boxes. Who knew if his brother would ever get them? Who would take care of Tim?

  “The old college yearbook,” Rivera said, a tinge of surprise in his voice. “Better bring that along. But leave the flashlight and toss me your phone and your keys.”

  Sam was strangely calm as he followed Rivera’s instructions. Rivera even had the audacity to help him down off the riser. Sam held his father’s yearbook as Rivera locked up the storage unit.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  SAM STARTED walking, and Rivera followed behind as they made their way through the muddy gr
ass and then toward the right, where Rivera’s unmarked car was parked. All seemed quiet inside as they approached, and Sam’s heart leapt with hope. Maybe Rivera was lying about Nathan being inside.

  But when Rivera opened the rear door, Sam saw a familiar figure slumped on the backseat.

  “Nathan,” he called out. Then he felt a hand over his mouth, muffling his speech. “Gef offa me sonfabitch,” Sam mumbled. The chilling feel of the gun barrel against his spine stopped his struggle.

  “Are you going to be quiet, or am I going to have to gag you and stick you in the trunk? Come on, Sam. Make the right choice.”

  Sam went limp. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize Nathan’s safety, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to help him from inside a locked trunk. If he was hurt….

  “Attaboy,” Rivera said. “Now get in before I change my mind.”

  Sam didn’t need to be told twice. When Rivera released him, he lunged for the backseat. The door slammed behind him, but he didn’t care. Even though it was dark, he could tell Nathan was pale. With trembling hands, he felt Nathan’s still body for injuries. He pressed the pads of his fingers to Nathan’s throat. His pulse was steady and strong. Sam leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Thank God.

  Several minutes later Rivera climbed into the front seat. There was a bulletproof divider between it and the back, broken only by a couple small holes to allow sound to pass through. Sam didn’t need to try the door to know it was safety locked. He and Nathan wouldn’t be getting out of the car unless someone opened the door from the outside.

  “What did you do to him?” Sam asked, resting Nathan’s head in his lap. It didn’t look like Nathan and Rivera had fought. Aside from his unconscious state, Nathan seemed intact.

  Rivera didn’t answer right away. He was busy texting someone. “Dose of Rohypnol at dinner,” he said absently. “He’ll be fine.”