Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1)

by Pat Patterson

  Jim pulled out a cigarette and lit up. A moment later Rico walked over and leaned against the railing. “You’re lucky, you know. Wish I lived out here.”

  “Buy my place. I can’t afford it anymore.”

  “Nah.” Rico spit a wad of used tobacco over the railing. “Bagwell. He’ll come to his senses.” Rico pulled a pouch from his pocket and repacked his gum with the sweet smelling brown tobacco. “Jeez, what a day though, huh?”

  Jim exhaled a long plume of light gray smoke. “I wish you hadn’t let him go.”

  “Had to, Jim. Without an eyewitness J-Rock is just another gang member. Let the detectives work.”

  Jim pushed away from the railing. “I told you what I saw.”

  “Yeah? Yeah that’s right…you saw a guy dressed in red running across the street. Jim, I can’t arrest the man for that.”

  “He was carrying a machine gun!”

  “Got a picture?”

  “So, it’s my word against his?”

  “Pretty much. Be thankful. You’re lucky to be going home.”

  “So, I’m the one who’s in trouble?”

  “Time being.”

  “That’s not right.” Jim inhaled the last inch of his cigarette and flung the butt over the rail. “I should’ve slit his throat.”

  “Yeah, uh huh, that would’ve been good. And maybe we’d see you about once a year. Don’t allow too many visitors at Central Prison.”

  “I would have too, if those cops hadn’t stopped me.”

  “Yeah? Then next time you see Officer Harvey, shake his hand.”

  Jim paused a moment and withdrew another smoke. “If I’d known what Sid was planning, I never would have let him go. Stupid!” He lit the smoke and threw the match overboard. “I should have been there.”

  “Sid was a grown man.”

  “That’s what Val said.”

  “Yeah? Well Valerie’s smart.”

  Jim grabbed the rail and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. “You know,” he said, motioning toward the sky, “Sid always said God works in strange ways. Well maybe someday, someone will explain to me why God would allow something like this to happen. Sid was such a gentle, compassionate guy, Rico. I just don’t understand.” Jim leaned against the railing to watch the final approach to the island. One car was waiting on the ramp for the return trip to Beaufort. “I wanted to believe, Rico, I really did. But that all knowing, all loving God Sid always talked about? He can’t exist. No way.”

  “That’s the million dollar question.” Rico reached into his pocket and withdrew a palm-sized knife. With the push of a button a four-inch blade clicked into place. “Here. Found it on the ground next to J-Rock.”

  Jim took the knife and rolled it over in his hand.

  “It’s heavier than I remember.”

  He pushed a button and the blade retreated into the handle. Another click and it was out again. He touched the razor sharp serrated edge and grimaced. He tried to hand it back.

  “Keep it,” Rico said. “Might come in handy some day.”

  Jim flicked the blade in and out, testing and retesting it. He found himself mesmerized by the quality of the action. It gave him a sense of power as if revenge would somehow replace the strange emptiness he felt in his chest. He stood quietly and watched as the ferry captain pulled the huge vessel between the pilings that led to the Core Creek Landing. He felt a strange sadness. Rico finally spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence, his gravelly voice just barely audible above the grumbling din of the reversing engines.

  “Sorry about Sid. Wish we could go back and undo it, but it’s done. Nothing nobody can do about it, bud.”

  Jim hung his head and stared over the railing, his mood as black as the swirling water beneath the bow.

  “Look,” Rico said. “Maybe you oughta get away from here for awhile. Take a holiday. Go someplace with that beautiful doctor lady of yours.”

  “After tonight?”

  “Listen,” Rico said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about nothin’, bud. Everything’s gonna be all right. I’ve always got your back, you know that.”

  Jim knew that. If he had ever had a guardian, it was Rico Rivetti. But Jim felt certain there was nothing more Rico could do for him. He was in a bind, and this time he would have to walk through fire. He stepped away from the railing as the ferry slowed and pushed up against the huge rubber dock fenders. A great wash of white foam boiled up beneath the bow and sloshed noisily to the sides, dissolving quickly into the dark water of the landing.

  “By the way,” Rico said. “When’d you start smoking again?”

  Jim tossed the unfinished cigarette aside and walked back across the deck to the car. He climbed in and slammed the door. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, grateful for the gentle narcotic-induced numbness that slowly replaced his pain and blurred the horrible images of his most terrible day. And for the moment he felt relief…sweet relief…but he had a feeling the pain would be back…and that life, as he knew it, would never again be the same.

  Chapter 6

  Jim awoke the next morning certain that someone had entered his house during the night and branded him with a red-hot poker. His back burned like a match head, his cheek and knee throbbed, and to make matters worse the pulsing sensation between his ears created a wave of nausea that demanded immediate attention. Caffeine. He climbed from his bed and limped stiffly into the kitchen. He didn’t waste time measuring. He poured a healthy dose of coffee grounds into a filter, added water to the machine, and pushed the button. A moment later he had a fresh pot.

  He poured a large mug. The brew tasted rough, in need of sugar and cream, but he decided to leave it that way. Somehow the thought of drinking it black seemed to increase the medicinal effect. He gulped the first half of the cup, refilled it, and then walked into his living room. Dawn was just beginning to filter through the curtains.

  Jim stood for a moment next to his bar and sipped his coffee wondering what had happened to Valerie and trying his best to piece together the terrible events of the night before. Had it really happened? Was it all a bad dream? He wanted to believe that it was, but he knew it wasn’t. The bloody images in his mind, the fresh cuts upon his skin, the deep sense of pain and loss that choked up in his throat and sat like a pit in the middle of his chest…they were all too real. His best friend was dead, and there was no bringing him back.

  He picked up the empty rum bottle he had drained sometime before midnight and tossed it into the trash, then he ambled across the room and opened the sliding glass door. He stepped out onto his deck. The morning breeze felt cool against his face, fresh to his lungs as he inhaled again and again. The eastern sky glowed like a watercolor painting lit from behind by a huge orange bulb. He sipped at his mug, trying to ignore the horrible images that slipped in and out of his mind. He wiped his eyes and lowered his view to glance around the marina.

  Pair-A-Docks still slept. Three-dozen boats of different sizes floated lazily in their slips just across the basin. A local fisherman’s boat moved slowly up the creek pushing a gentle bow wave that rocked the outer row of sailboats setting them into motion and creating a cacophony of metallic harbor sounds. Jim realized he should try to start forgetting, just let things go, but his temples still throbbed, his shoulder ached, and an intense need for revenge dominated his every thought. He dug into his pocket, pulled out the blade, and clicked it open.

  J-Rock.

  He felt his cheeks flush. He shoved the knife back into his pocket, shook his head forcefully, and then glanced at his watch. Valerie had never made it.

  He dumped the dregs from his cup over the railing and limped back inside the house. After taking a couple of pain pills and a Xanax he refilled his cup, then went back to the living room and picked up his phone. He punched in Valerie’s number and pushed SEND. The phone connected and began to ring. He noticed the ring box lying on the lacquered countertop next to his keys and wallet. He flipped open the lid and shook his h
ead as he looked at the diamond, and then snapped the lid shut as Valerie answered her phone.

  “Where are you?” Jim demanded.

  “Outside. I’m just pulling in.”

  “You’re here?”

  Jim heard a car door slam. He glanced out the window and saw Valerie walking toward the house, her chin held low as if to ward off a blizzard. From a distance she looked like she’d just stepped off the slopes at Wintergreen, her red fleece pullover zipped up tightly about her neck, a white stretch headband covering her ears. Jim closed his cell and stepped outside to greet her.

  “Where have you been?”

  Valerie stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped. “Good morning to you too.”

  “Well, Val—” Jim took a step closer to her to bridge the gap. “I thought you were coming out last night. I’ve been worried.”

  “I got stuck at the ER.”

  “You got stuck?”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Come ‘ere.”

  Valerie hesitated, lowered her chin, and walked over. Jim took a step forward and opened his arms, hoping she would fall into them, kiss him and hug him and tell him everything was going to be all right, but as he wrapped his arms around her he felt almost as if he were holding onto a stranger. She stepped away and lightly touched his cheek. “How’s this doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “And your back?”

  Jim shrugged his shoulder gingerly. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Would you like for me to take a look at it?”

  “No thanks,” he said. “I know the doctor. She does great work.”

  Valerie’s eyes warmed slightly. She took his hands and rolled them over. “Were you able to get any sleep?”

  “I must’ve—ouch!” Jim winced as she probed the split middle knuckle. “You can’t have nightmares unless you sleep.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “About Sid. I can’t get his face out of my mind, Val. Everywhere I look I see him staring at me. I keep expecting to hear his voice.” Jim felt his eyes well up. “I still can’t believe this all happened. Seems like a million years ago already.” Valerie wrapped her arms around him. Jim felt her begin to shake. Her shoulders dropped. Her arms tightened. She buried her face in his shoulder and began to cry. Jim clung to her as if there were no tomorrow, his own tears flowing. They held each other for minutes. Finally Valerie pushed away and composed herself, inhaling deeply until she was able to speak without her voice breaking. Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at the black tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Your mascara’s running.”

  “Oooh.” Valerie wiped her eyes. “I must look awful.”

  Jim wiped his own eyes and glanced up at the sky. He could feel his sinuses draining into his throat. “I’m gonna miss him, Val.”

  “I know,” she said with a sniffle. “Me too.”

  “Well…” Jim sniffed once and took her hand. “Come on inside. I’ve got a big day planned for us.”

  “Wait.” Valerie shied and looked away, dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “We really need to talk.”

  “Val, if this is about last night…that girl…”

  “Do you remember my mentioning a new job opportunity?”

  Jim stared at her for a moment before responding. “Chief of Emergency Medicine.”

  “That’s right. It’s come through.”

  Jim ignored the pain in his cheek and allowed his face the pleasure of a broad grin. “Val! Oh wow, that’s great!”

  “Wait, Jim, there’s more…it’s not here.”

  Jim felt a sudden thud against his chest. “What do you mean it’s not here? Where is it?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “Pittsburgh?”

  Valerie nodded. “My old ER.”

  “You mean, as in Pennsylvania?”

  Another nod. Jim cringed.

  “Jim.” Valerie grabbed his hands. He could see the hope in her eyes, sense her passion. “This is what I’ve been working towards all along. If it works out I’ll be running one of the most aggressive ER’s in the whole country.”

  “But, Val, you never mentioned moving. I mean, what about us? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Well that’s the best part. You can come with me.”

  “Go with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “With your experience you wouldn’t have any trouble getting a job.”

  “But, Val, I have a job. This is my home. This island. This house. Val, Sid and I built this place.”

  “I know.”

  “Rico said we should get away for awhile, but jeez, Pittsburgh?”

  “It’s nice there, Jim.”

  “It’s nice here.” Jim walked back toward the house, stepped up onto the deck and stopped. He hung his head. He recognized a dead-end when he saw one. He also realized he was being selfish. Valerie’s career meant the world to her. She would need his support. He sighed and walked back over to her. “When would you start? If you get it, I mean?”

  “Not for a couple of weeks. But, Jim…I interview tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m supposed to fly up this afternoon. I meet the hospital Board of Directors tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re gonna miss Sid’s funeral?”

  Valerie grimaced sheepishly as she nodded.

  Jim shook his head and walked back up onto the deck. He limped to the railing and stared past the breakwater at the sound. The water was becoming choppy, stirred up, kind of like his mood. He felt Valerie step close to his side. Her arm slipped through his.

  “I just found out about this last night, that’s why I never made it out here. I was on the phone until after midnight.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “You needed sleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I’d rather you had.”

  “Jim, look, if you need me here…if you want me to stay for Sid’s funeral, I can—”

  “No.” Jim pushed away from the railing and faced Valerie. Her eyes looked red, her face long with uncertainty. “I think you should go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You can’t pass up this opportunity.”

  “Okay, but listen to me please. Please believe me when I tell you I had no intention of surprising you like this.”

  “Well don’t worry—” Jim glanced back out at the wind whipped sound. He thought about the little felt-covered box sitting on the lacquered countertop next to his keys and wallet. “I had kind of a little surprise planned for you too.”

  Chapter 7

  Sonny Cay never advertised it, but the small plank cabin behind the harbormaster’s office was equipped with enough machine tools and parts to equip a small shipyard. Devoid of paint, with a tin roof and an eight-by-eight door that slid on a rusty overhead rail system, it looked more like a run down shed than a state-of-the-art workshop, but that’s just the way Sonny liked it. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of well-meaning transient sailors slipping in to borrow his tools. He’d been there before and he knew the truth. Borrowed tools rarely returned.

  Sonny grabbed the door handle and threw his weight into opening the huge metal door. The handle dug into his fingers threatening to cut the skin. The steel panel shrieked and started to move, scraping noisily as it made its way across the rail to its stops. Daylight poured into the 20 x 30-foot room. Sonny stepped inside.

  With the flip of a switch four banks of overhead fluorescent tubes flickered and came to life. Sonny glanced about the shop. Everything seemed in order, just the way he’d left it, hand tools hanging neatly along the walls, and a collection of wood and metalworking power tools strategically positioned around the room. He flipped another switch and the shop heater lit up. A moment later the fan switched on and warm air began to circulate. He walked over to the small desk situated in the corner and picked up the wood-framed picture of a radiant young woman and her six year-old son. And
for a moment he was transported back in time to a happier place, where a young family laughed and life was good. “Good morning,” he murmured, his eyes lovingly absorbing their joy. “I miss you both so much.” He breathed a deep sigh and set the picture back down on the desk, then rubbed his hands together and stepped over to his workbench. “Okay, you old machine. Let’s see how stubborn you’re going to be today.”

  The antique outboard motor clamped to the side of the workbench looked like a lost cause, a rusting chunk of corroded steel that showed no hope of revival. Sonny gave the flywheel a brisk spin. It turned like a greased spool. A good start, he knew, but he had his doubts about getting it off. He walked to his Craftsman toolbox, rummaged through his shelf of seldom used tools, and found what he was looking for, the same clunky flywheel puller he’d been using for almost thirty years, a heavy-duty unit more than capable of pulling the rusty flywheel up its shaft, if it could be done.

  Sonny jumped into his work, whistling softly, his thick fingers working with practiced precision. He hand tightened the flywheel puller center bolt, and then selected a one-inch box wrench to complete the task. He gave the wrench a forceful tug. Nothing happened. Another tug. The flywheel didn’t move. He set the wrench down and grabbed a can of WD-40. After spraying a healthy dose of the lubricant around the edge of the crankshaft, he tapped the wheel with a rubber mallet and tried again. Still no budge. “You sorry dog.” Sonny stopped and thought about it for a moment. “More oil.” He sprayed on more WD-40, allowed the oil several minutes to penetrate the rust, then reattached the wrench and gave a mighty pull. Still nothing. The flywheel held tight. He took a deep breath and threw his entire weight against the bolt, certain that it would shear off at the head, but nothing happened. The bolt held tight. The flywheel was stuck.