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

by Pat Patterson

  “Which partner?”

  “Sid. The one he killed.”

  “How did you save his life?”

  “We woke him up from a heroin overdose. He ripped the IV out and that was it.”

  “What was it?”

  “He jumped out of the truck and took off.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “We let him go.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No sir.”

  “Did he point a weapon at you?”

  “No, the cops were with us. They took a pistol off of him while he was unconscious. He was too gone at the time to be any kind of a threat.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Jim sighed. “Last year.”

  “Did you ever hear him threaten Sid Drake?”

  “No sir.”

  “Have you had any run-ins with him since? Any phone calls or threatening advances?”

  Jim glanced at Rico. “No.”

  “Before last night did you ever have any kind of encounter with J-Rock, or his gang, the so called Core Street Crew?”

  “Other than that OD call, no sir.”

  Murphy looked at Rico and shook his head. “This isn’t good enough, Rico. Without some kind of motive, I’d be sticking my neck out not to pursue this.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jim stood up, his hands automatically coiling into tight fists. “Motive? Sir, I found my best friend’s body lying in a pool of blood!”

  “Mr. Stockbridge,” Murphy said his voice barely above a whisper. “If I were you I would sit back down and lower my voice.”

  Jim took a deep breath and sat down.

  “What you’re describing, Mr. Stockbridge, isn’t motive, it’s revenge.”

  “But—”

  “If he’d threatened you, or taken a shot at you, then I might have something to go on, but this?” Murphy leaned back in his chair and muttered something obscene, then leaned forward and pointed his finger at Jim. “All right, listen up. Rico and I go way back, and that’s the only reason I didn’t have you arrested and brought down here in the first place. But the favors end right now. I’m going to let you go this time, but I can guarantee you one thing, if you step out of line just once, and I mean even a spit on the sidewalk, you’ll find yourself back in here so fast your head will be spinning! And if you think I’m tough, you’re going to love Judge Spicer.”

  “Yes sir.” Jim didn’t think Sean Murphy was especially tough, but he had no intention of getting to know him. Or the judge. He counted his losses, nodded, and gave a courteous bow as he stood. “Thank you then.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Murphy said. “Thank Rico.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now get out of here. And don’t let me catch you in trouble again.”

  “No sir.” Jim held out his hand. Murphy shook it. “You won’t have any more trouble with me.”

  Chapter 12

  Mad at the world? Jim had always considered himself a rather happy person, but with the way things were going, mad at the world seemed to describe him exactly. And why not? His best friend was dead, his girlfriend was leaving him for a better deal, he just lost his job, and if he so much as spit on a sidewalk he could end up in jail. He found a spot on the granite staircase in front of police headquarters and sat down to wait for Rico. The huge columns to his right and left looked like concrete trees, ten feet around and over thirty feet high, holding up the concrete slab on the front of the colossal old building. He felt as if he was sitting in a forest of giants and the whole world was getting ready to come down on his shoulders.

  The popping sound of distant gunfire suddenly echoed between the buildings. A rapid burst followed. The type a trained shooter might use to put down his opponent.

  Jim felt his pulse quicken. He heard the whelp-whelp-whelp of a siren. A police cruiser sped past. Then another. Then the high-pitched wail of a Code-3 ambulance grew out of the night.

  It’s starting.

  All other thoughts vanished. Jim wanted to be on that truck so bad he could smell it. The odor of sanitized vinyl. The aroma of latex gloves. His ambulance. At least there, he thought, I know where I stand. He felt his hands shaking. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, relishing the rush of the drug as the smoke filtered through his alveolar membranes and into his bloodstream. Soon his hands calmed. His palms dried and his cramped fingers began to relax. The drug worked, temporarily satisfying his need for speed, but it seemed a poor substitute for the rush he got on a Code-3 call. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was addicted to it. The rush. Each and every time he went out. Perhaps it was the unknown, or something magical in the wail of the siren. He didn’t know. He listened intently. The siren grew louder and louder, faded slightly, and then came to an abrupt stop a few blocks away.

  Jim heard a door swing open behind him. He tossed the cigarette away and stood up. Rico walked out of police headquarters and started down the steps toward him, two-way radio in hand. A positive expression brightened his face.

  “Well,” Rico said, “I thought that went pretty well.”

  “For who? Your friend made me look like an idiot.”

  “Yeah? He let you go, didn’t he?”

  “He let me go, but—” Jim felt his blood pressure rising. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away from Rico, gritting his teeth. “Look, this whole thing, it’s not right, Rico. That detective, he—”

  “Jim, Murphy just did you a major favor. He could have locked you up.”

  “That’s what’s killing me, Rico…that I’m the one in trouble! What about the punks that killed Sid?”

  “We’ll catch them.”

  Jim dug in his pocket for another smoke, pulled out the pack, saw Rico frown and shoved it back in.

  “Look,” Jim started with a long heavy sigh, “I appreciate all you did for me in there, I really do, but I think I’m gonna head back to the boat now. I kind of need to be alone for awhile.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Docked East Beach Harbor.”

  “Well c’mon then.” Rico started down the steps. “I’ll give you a ride, but we need to hurry. One of my guys was involved in a fatal shooting at the Terrace, and I need to get over there.”

  “Go ahead,” Jim said. “I’ll walk.”

  “Nothin’ doin,’ champ. You heard what Murphy said…no more trouble.”

  “I’ll take Reservoir.”

  “No.”

  “Why not, Rico? There’s nothing back there but sand and marsh.”

  “And Fat Jack’s Saloon.”

  “Yeah, but I won’t—”

  “Yes you will. I know you better than that.”

  “Look, Rico, I promise I’ll go straight to the boat. No bar. The walk will do me good.”

  Rico shook his head.

  “Come on, man, I need some time to clear my head.”

  Rico sighed and glanced at his watch. “I haven’t got time to argue with you.”

  “Then go.” Jim shooed him away with his hand. “I can take of myself.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Rico shook his head. “All right, walk. But you get yourself back to the boat ASAP. No Fat Jack’s. And don’t you so much as set foot in this town again until I tell you to, you got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean it, Jim. The last thing you need right now is more trouble.”

  Chapter 13

  The district behind police headquarters was no different than the rest of central East Beach at night, dangerous at best. Gang graffiti decorated the walls, dark alleys connected the streets, and an air of tension seemed to fill the air, but Jim couldn’t have cared less. The way he was feeling no gang would dare mess with him. He took a shortcut through the warehouse district and jumped the tracks onto Reservoir Street, a desolate strip of broken asphalt that ran behind the old cannery. There was nothing much there but a couple of private boat docks and a small out of the way bar tucked up into the reeds beside the sound, but that was just fine f
or Jim. He felt relieved to escape from the harsh realities of downtown East Beach. He maintained a fast pace as he approached the sound. An occasional clamshell crunched beneath his feet. The briny odor of the breeze did wonders to settle his angry mood, and after a few moments he was feeling his old self again. He thought of his encounter with Detective Murphy. The guy irked him—his squatty appearance, his puffy ears, and the way his face reddened when he pointed his finger and yelled—but he realized the man was right, and that he had been very lucky tonight. But for Rico, he would be behind bars at the moment instead of walking free down a dark dirt road.

  He started the long straight stretch of road that paralleled the water—Reservoir Street. His knee felt stiff, sore where the stitches held his flesh together, but he didn’t mind, it felt great to be free. To his left, the wide-bodied Core Creek Sound stretched out like a dark blanket with miniscule pinpoints of light dancing across the surface of the brackish water. He could still hear the constant hum of downtown traffic, but just barely, the only real noise came from the breeze and the chirping nocturnal insects gathered in the grasses on the water’s edge. Jim felt as if he’d stepped back in time. It was the East Beach he remembered from his childhood, a quiet, isolated piece of the world where nothing serious ever really happened. But that solitude was to be short lived.

  A deep, grumbling noise startled him, a hot popping sound somewhere to his rear. He turned on his heels and watched a bright headlight appear around the corner of Reservoir and start up the road behind him. Another soon followed.

  Jim stepped into the weeds on the side of the road and waited as a pair of clattering and popping Harley-Davidson Fat Boys rolled past. The big bikes continued a hundred yards down the road then took a hard left on Shell Street toward the hazy blue glow on the other side of the marsh, the neon sign for Fat Jack’s Saloon. He continued on his way trying his best to clear the rattling from his ears, but the rumbling soon returned. Another bike cruised past. Then another. Another. And another. He counted a total of six big, fat, noisy machines, each carrying a heavy denim-clad biker. He covered his ears and gritted his teeth, angered by the loud exhaust emanating from the bulky, oversized bikes.

  He picked up his pace. He hadn’t made it twenty yards before another bike raced up behind him and rolled past. It, too, slowed and turned.

  Jim’s curiosity finally got the best of him. He turned off Reservoir and followed the short dirt road to Fat Jack’s, a small square brick building sitting alone in the reeds at the water’s edge. The neon sign that hung above the entrance reflected a myriad of pink and blue highlights in the chrome of the motorcycles parked out front. He knew the place well. He’d been there many times, only he had never seen so many motorcycles parked out front. He walked closer and counted them…thirty in all…most a beautifully painted Harley-Davidson with leather saddlebags and fancy polished chrome. The quiet ticking of cooling exhaust pipes indicated the most recent arrivals. He counted another fifteen or twenty cars and pickups in the crushed oyster shell parking lot to the side. The building seemed too small to handle the sheer number of people that must have been inside, but he could tell by the shouting, the laughter, the loud rumble of music, that a rowdy crowd partied within.

  Jim ignored the loud warning in the back of his mind. He pushed aside Rico’s orders, walked up the front steps, and opened the front door. The saloon was packed. Hard southern rock music boomed. The odor of sweaty underarms and cigar smoke hung in the air like a cloud. He glanced around the bar at the rag-tag collection of people and tried not to laugh. Everyone in the joint seemed to be either drunk or stoned. He pushed a couple of inebriated cowboys out of the way and muscled up to the bar, a long, rough hewn counter against the far wall with no stools and no apparent need for any. Men leaned against it from all angles, most with a woman under one arm, some with two. The rest of the room was wide open with a large crowded dance floor and four green pool tables, all in use. The bartender—the fat tattooed man who owned the place—an angry looking boxer of man named Fat Jack Sullivan—glanced Jim’s way and nodded.

  “What’ll it be?”

  Jim reconsidered Rico’s warning—The last thing you need right now is more trouble. He wrestled internally, unsure what to do.

  “Hey,” Fat Jack shouted. “You want something or what?”

  “Let me have a bottled water.”

  Fat Jack scowled and cupped a hand to his ear. “Speak up.”

  “Water,” Jim shouted. “Let me have a bottled water.”

  “Water? Beer or liquor, Mac. Take your pick.”

  “All right then, give me a beer.” Jim pulled a five from his wallet and laid it on the bar. Fat Jack returned a moment later and slid him a long neck bottle. Jim took a swig, rinsed his mouth with the cold foamy beverage, took another swig, and then turned the bottle up and drained it. “Hey,” he shouted leaning against the bar and snapping his fingers in the air. Fat Jack returned and stared at him from the other side of the bar without speaking. Jim slapped another five onto the bar. “Let me have a double black jack. No ice.”

  Fat Jack grabbed a heavy glass and filled it with two shots of Tennessee whiskey. There was no smile on his face when he returned and set it on the bar in front of Jim. Like the beer, Jim downed it in three quick bolts. The cold liquid burned all the way down his throat. He relished the taste of it, the strength he knew that was about to return. He noticed Fat Jack staring at him. It made him uneasy.

  “Can I help you?” he said, a challenging tone to his voice.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, friend?”

  “Shoot.”

  Fat Jack pointed at his cheek. “What happened?”

  Jim tapped the sore skin around the sutures. “I got into a fight.”

  “Did you win?”

  Jim felt a sudden rush of anger. He pictured Sid’s body lying in the alley…his eyes frozen…his lifeblood poured out like water on the ground. He started to tighten up, but then checked himself and backed down. This guy doesn’t mean any harm. Let it be. “No,” he murmured, shaking his head and looking away. “I lost more than I ever imagined possible.”

  “Well then, would you mind some friendly advice?”

  Jim felt the fire return. He looked up and met Fat Jack’s gaze. “That depends.”

  “Walk on out of here while you still can.”

  Jim looked around as if trying to find the WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE sign. “Why?”

  “This place has a tendency to get pretty rough and, no offense, but your type don’t exactly fit in.”

  “My type?”

  “Let’s just say, some of my customers don’t mix well with jarheads.”

  “I’m not a Marine.”

  “Maybe not, but you may have a difficult time convincing those bikers over there. They’ve been eyeing you ever since you walked in the joint.”

  “Why don’t you ask them to leave?”

  The bartender shrugged indifferently. “Just trying to help you out, pal.”

  “Well thanks,” Jim said, “but I think I can take care of myself.”

  “It’s your neck.”

  Fat Jack grabbed the five and walked to the register. Jim felt a warm fire burning in his belly. A feeling of invincibility rushed to his brain. He felt pumped, ready for anything. He was a fighter and proud of it. He glanced around the bar and noticed a few unfriendly glances, but most of the people seemed either too drunk or too preoccupied to even notice him. Still, despite the sudden onset of courage, he decided he’d had enough. Fat Jack was right. He did not belong there. Rednecks. Bikers. Jim turned and started making his way back through the crowd. He was almost to the front door when he felt a soft hand touch his arm. A female voice called his name. He spun around to face a pretty young woman wearing a black sleeveless top that fit too well, tight jeans, and a pair of brown cowboy boots that totally worked. He studied her for a moment trying to make out her face. She was gorgeous. Long black hair. Sapphire eyes. She looked familiar t
oo, and under different circumstances he knew he would have wanted to stay and find out who she was, but he decided he really didn’t need to know. It was time to leave. He said hello and kept walking.

  “Wait!” She grabbed his arm and gave a gentle tug. “Don’t go!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stay. We can have some fun.” She slid her hand up his arm. “Is this sore yet?”

  “What?”

  “Your arm, silly. Tetanus shots usually make people’s arms sore.”

  “Umm—” Jim stammered, searching for the right words. He could smell the girl’s perfume. He could practically taste her red lips. He felt his willpower beginning to fade, but his curiosity was on the rise. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “Not officially. I’m Linda.”

  “Linda?” He felt her arm slide around his back. Her shoulder rubbed against his chest. He thought of Valerie and pulled away. “Linda who?”

  “Newton.”

  “Newton? Oh, wait a minute, I remember you. You work in the ER. You’re the nurse that gave me that tetanus shot last night. Come to think of it,” he said rolling his shoulder, “it is kind of sore.”

  Linda’s nose crinkled up. Her face broke into a girlish grin.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward,” she said, “but how involved are you with that doctor at Regional?”

  “Excuse me?” Jim felt stunned. She was being forward, downright pushy in fact, and at first he wasn’t sure how to take it, but he had to admit he found her irresistible. Her smile, it seemed to beckon him to take a closer look. He allowed his eyes the freedom to roam a little, across her curves and back to those candy red lips, and as he did, suddenly he decided he really didn’t care anymore. She was here, this was now, and that was all that mattered. And she was gorgeous. Answer the question, dummy. “You mean, Valerie?”

  “Doctor Vick.”

  “Yeah,” Jim said, “we’re, um, well, pretty serious I guess.”

  “I thought so. I saw it in her eyes last night. Her heart was, like, melted to you.”

  “Well, I have been seeing her for over a year.”