The Redemption Lie

by Amanda J. Clay

  “Can’t you read that in your little file?” Nina said.

  “Probably. But I prefer talking to you than reading about you.”

  “My sister lives in some ritzy gated community in Emerald Gates with her husband and two kids. My mom is still in Crystal Bay. Dad is…” Nina thought for a moment and shrugged. “Not sure where Dad is now actually. I think he went up into the mountains. It’s what he always used to threaten to do.”

  “Not close with dad, then?”

  “Not really. Never really was. My parents got divorced when I was 17. Mom said it was the stress of dealing with me.” Nina guffawed. “I took that to heart then. Looking back, I suppose that could have been an excuse.”

  “And your sister?”

  Nina bit the inside of her cheek. “We aren’t so close anymore either. She’s never been able to forgive me for everything. She tried to warn me about Luther, tried to talk me out of getting involved, but I wouldn’t listen. I just…I always had something to prove with Cam. I mean, she was so perfect all the time. The golden child—perfect report cards, making the cheer squad, getting asked to prom by the boy next door with the nice dimples.”

  Beck laughed. “All those clichéd slices of Americana people think equate a perfect life.”

  Nina smiled. Perfect according to whom? Nina wanted to ask. Just because she didn't live her life according to a set of Hallmark manufactured rules, did it make her wants and needs any less valid? The simple answer was yes. At least in the mind of her parents.

  “Exactly. And even though I loved her, the resentment just festered. I just needed something in my life that was bigger than Cammy. I mean, God the least she could have done was be ugly, but no, she’s beautiful,” Nina said, laughing slightly.

  “You’re beautiful,” Beck said.

  Nina’s eyes shot up to meet his and for a moment they sat unmoving.

  “Sorry,” Beck said.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m just word vomiting my life story. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Don’t be. You’re incredibly interesting.”

  Nine stared into her drink. “Interesting? To most I’m just damaged.”

  “Aren’t we all? We all have scars from the inside out.”

  

  After Nina’s second whiskey, the alcohol was numbing her anxiety and nerves, until she felt a pleasant euphoria wash over her. This was the sweet spot, the moment when you felt a little buzz, a little happy but not sloppy. The mistake that most people made when they drank, was in an effort to extend these beautiful euphoric moments, they kept drinking, thinking that the more they put in their system the longer the high would last. But it didn't work like that. Because soon that euphoria breaks against your inner demons, and those waves of emotion come crashing to the surface until you're just a sloppy puddle on the bathroom floor.

  Nina was no stranger to that mistake. Those first few months after prison, she’d been a broken person. And she attracted broken men who were attracted to broken people.

  Was Beck the kind of guy attracted to broken people? Is that why he was here, sitting across the table, laughing and flirting with her. Was he flirting? It was hard to tell. Nina recognized the signs. Just like her, Beck would use his charm, his winning smile, his dashing good looks, to get people to do what he wanted them to. It's a dangerous day the day you wake up and realize how manipulative you can be. It can be your most powerful and your deadliest weapon. It can also be a cause for self-destruction. Because before you know it, you're manipulating people just for the fun of it. Just because you can, testing the muscle to see how far it will go.

  “So what's your story anyway?” Nina asked. Her tongue loosened around the whiskey.

  Beck laughed. “My story?”

  Nina shrugged. “Yeah, your story. Everyone has one. Other than being an American hero, where’d you come from?”

  “I’m surprised you’re interested,” Beck said.

  “Humor me.”

  Beck sipped his beer and looked as though he were debating on whether or not he could tell her the truth.

  “I don't know, just your average guy I guess.”

  Nina laughed. “Your average guy works in accounting, not the DEA.”

  “Ha, right, fair enough. Let's see, the highlights. I was raised outside LA, out in the desert. Kinda poor town, single mom. Bit of a troublemaker in my youth I guess. Didn’t set myself up well for a good future, so I went into the Army. And they kicked the shit out of me.”

  “Something tells me you deserved it,” Nina said.

  Beck grinned. “Something like that. After the Army, I used the G.I. Bill to get an education. And here I am.”

  “What did you study?”

  “What’s with the interrogation?”

  Nina shrugged. “You can read everything there is to know about me in that little file of yours. Just want to even the playing field a little.”

  “Fair enough. Criminal Justice. Master’s in psychology.”

  “Impressive. Siblings?”

  Beck’s face fell then. He lowered his eyes into the soft bubbles of his beer. Nina wanted to retract the question, but she couldn’t.

  “Younger brother. He died.”

  Nina’s heart clenched with phantom pain. She thought of Cammy, of the pain of losing her love. Was it the same grief?

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “So why the DEA?”

  She found herself not just being polite but rather genuinely interested. He intrigued her.

  “Oh you know, wanted to fight bad, do good in the world,” Beck said.

  “All right, be that way. I wasn’t going to talk about my past either.”

  “I'll just say that drugs caused a lot of problems for my family. Sent some people I loved down some dark paths. Enough that I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to stop the loss of more innocent lives. You don't really make real change by just arresting kids on the street peddling coke and stolen prescriptions. You gotta hit at the heart of the problem. You gotta take out the suppliers.”

  Nina was silent then, contemplating the truth of his words. It was true, human beings were all susceptible and not infallible. They were going to fuck up and make mistakes if given the opportunity. The last thing you wanted to do was give a susceptible population the rope with which to hang themselves.

  “Do you mean that?” Nina asked.

  Beck looked surprised. “Of course I do. I’m not a liar.”

  “There’s a fine line between bullshit and lying,” she grinned.

  “I’m not a bullshitter either. Never had to be. People believe what I tell them.” He flashed that smile again. A smile that hurt to look at.

  “You shouldn’t do that you know,” Nina said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Smile. Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

  They finished a third round and headed out. They stood outside the brewery, the brisk summer evening a refreshing blanket around her flushed skin. Was it the whiskey or was he standing a little closer than normal?

  Nina felt the heat of him radiating off his skin, its tendrils reaching out to stroke hers. Her body warmed with his proximity. He smelled of old leather and musk, whiskey, sweat and blood. He roused something basal in her, something raw and feral. It wasn't like with Luther, who had brought her to her knees, who had convinced her of subjugation. Nina didn't want to submit to Beck; she wanted to own him.

  The silence danced between them as the energy crackled. Their bodies ebbed closer. Everything burned, whether from the heat of his electricity, or the whiskey in her system, Nina couldn't be sure.

  “I don't know what to make of you agent Graham,” Nina finally said. Her eyelids felt heavy. Her throat thick.

  “Can't say I know what to make of you either, Nina Sullivan.”

  Nina lowered her gaze, not wanting to meet his steely eyes.

  “I should probably go. I have a long day tomorrow,” Nina said. It was the last thing she wanted to do. But the o
nly thing she knew she could do to save herself. Beck nodded.

  “Let me walk you to your car at least.”

  The small slivers of chivalry set her on edge. She could get lost in chivalry like that. Chivalry like that was a dangerous thing to get used to.

  As they followed the sidewalk to where she’d parked her jeep, his hand went to her lower back. She stiffened and her head shot up to meet his. The look in his eyes said he had done it instinctually. He started to move his hand away, and her eyes dropped to meet it. She wasn't sure she wanted him to pull it away. Wasn't sure she wanted to feel its vacancy. But at the same time, warning bells went off in her mind. Walk away from this, Nina. Don't let this thing happen.

  Quickly, she pulled from his touch. “I’ll see you around, Agent Graham.”

  She ran toward her Jeep, not looking back.

  Chapter 13

  Beck woke in a panicked sweat. He hadn't had the nightmares in so long that he’d concluded he was finally beyond them, finally freed from the endless wheel of inescapable torturous dreams. But tonight he dreamed again of the suffocating sand, of the heat, of the flames, the smell of burnt flesh and death. Jack was there as always, a mirage of his 10-year-old self, wide brown eyes and shaggy blonde hair, earnest goodness in his round cheeks. This time, Nina was there too.

  Nina stood at the edge of a concrete structure as the walls of the floor crumbled all around her. Tongues of flames licked up the sides of the buildings, coming closer to her. She screamed, a blood-curdling scream that he would never forget. The haunting screams of so many innocent children trapped in her voice.

  The flames crawled up her skin, devouring her pale soft flesh, eating away at her shiny dark hair. Beck ran toward her but he was helpless, the air too thick to move, the heat too much to breathe. The smoke clumped up all around him, stinging his eyes, jumping down his throat until he couldn't breathe. He fell to the ground. Helpless.

  Beck was clammy, shaking, and drenched. His pulse thrummed against his skin. He sat up and took in his surroundings, and realized he was safely in his own bed in his temporary apartment.

  He assessed.

  Real or not real?

  Not real.

  In the thin sober light of morning, the apartment looked abandoned and desolate; last night’s plates and glasses scattered on the coffee table, a tiny ghostly draft lifting the pages of notes on the table. Beer bottles littered the floor and the desk. His clothes were in a dirty heap. It smelled. It was stale and dank. He was losing his composure.

  He pulled himself up and showered, letting his tired aching muscles linger in the steamy heat. At least heat was one thing this dumpy apartment wasn't short on. The downtown loft-style apartment was small and sparse but that meant fewer distractions. The quiet serenity of the town was certainly peaceful, but he found it slightly unsettling, as though no place should be this serene. But he supposed after years of living in big city grit, he was bound to feel that way. For all its faults, he'd found comfort in the chaos and grime of Los Angeles. L.A. had been a constellation of microclimates and microcosms, a library with dozens of special collections. A 20-minute drive could bring a temperature change of 15 degrees. Crossing an intersection can feel like crossing a border between countries. It was chaos and dreams and a hellscape all at once.

  Anything as beautiful and serene as Tahoe Village had to have dark strata underfoot.

  Clean and mildly awake, he poured himself some coffee then tidied up the place until it resembled the dwelling of an adult man and not a petulant adolescent. Satisfied, he sat at the kitchen table and checked his email, the daily agency report, then the news.

  Then he checked his calendar. He already knew what day it was, but his eyes needed to read the letters on the screen to properly comprehend it as they did every year.

  Beck’s fingers circled the keypad. He dreaded the call—he dreaded every time he had to call her, but this day was always worse. All his regrets and guilt and inadequacies percolated up from the deep places within him.

  He sighed as he pressed the call button.

  After three rings she picked up.

  “Becker?”

  “Hey mom.”

  “Well isn’t this a surprise! I never hear from you.” Tonya Graham’s voice was gravelly and hoarse, as if she’d been up all night, plowing through Marlboros. It was also laced with that underlying disdain.

  Neither of his parents had forgiven him for Jack, even after all these years. Beck was the one person Jack should have been able to rely on, and he’d let him down.

  There were days he wasn't sure how he felt about Tonya. After their dad ran off, leaving a vast void in their lives, his mom who had never been a fully capable person to begin with, started to slowly unravel at the seams. The thin thread of her composure began to fray, until she was just a loosely woven together outline of her former self.

  Then came the slew of boyfriends, late nights and unreliable breakfasts. Beck and Jack were never quite sure if anyone would be there to pick them up from school, if they’d have food for lunches, or if they'd have a ride to their baseball game.

  So much of it had fallen on Beck's shoulders so young, he quickly learned to resent it, to resent his little brother. Now, he hated every moment of bitterness he’d ever felt toward Jack. None of it had been Jack's fault, he was simply the catalyst. Beck had taken it out on him. Maybe that's why Jack had turned toward self-destruction. Maybe Jack had blamed himself as well.

  “I've just been busy, mom. You know how it goes.”

  “Yes, I know. So busy saving the world. No time for a call back home to check in on your old mom.”

  “Please, mom. I didn’t call for a guilt trip.”

  “What did you call for? I can’t imagine you want anything for me.”

  “You know why I called. It’s the 6th.”

  “Mmm. It is. Nice of you to remember,” Tonya said dryly.

  “Does everything have to be a fight with you, mom? Can’t I just call and we talk nicely like normal mothers and sons do?”

  His mother snorted. “Since when have you ever been a normal son?”

  Since when have you been any kind of a mother?

  Beck rubbed his forehead and tried not to get angry. He was already regretting this decision.

  “He would have been 33 today,” Tonya said.

  “I know.”

  “So much potential.”

  “I know.”

  “A boy shouldn’t be born and die on the same day. It’s just not right. Sometimes I’m still just so angry with you Becki…but I’m trying every day to forgive.” Tonya’s voice started to crack and Beck didn’t know if it was genuine or well-practiced. Beck imagined how the same sob story came out at the local bar, coaxing a slew of free drinks from pitying men.

  Beck bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted the sharp copper pooling on his taste buds.

  “Look Mom, I know today isn’t the best day to tell you this, but I'm on a bit of a dangerous case. And you know it just gets me thinking about my family. And I want to make sure that I take the time to call you. To tell you that I love you.” The last part felt forced, the words feeling like cement mixing with the blood on his tongue.

  “Well. Isn't that something. I suppose there could be worse things than thinking about your poor mom in your dire hour. Although one would hope you’d think about me when things were going well too. When it wasn’t a day you felt obligated to call. Think about me on a nice sunny Sunday afternoon.”

  “Fucking hell, mom,” Beck said.

  “Watch your tongue, Becker Patrick Graham!” Tonya said in that self-righteous tone she got when she was pretending to be a parent.

  “Alright, I can see that this was a bad idea. I’ll talk to you later I guess.”

  “Wait, Beck, don't be like that. I'm sorry. I just had a late night.”

  “Yeah figured.”

  “Don’t give me that tone. Today is a hard day for me. You don’t know what it’s like for a mother. I me
t somebody though. He's a good guy. I think you'd like him.”

  “I’m sure I would mom,” Beck said with as much effort as he could. She met someone usually meant he'd get a call in a few weeks because she needed money because her new special someone had taken her for a ride.

  “Look, I need to get to work, but just hope you’re doing ok,” Beck said.

  “Oh yes, I’m just great. Really I am. It was good to talk to son. And Beck,” she said before Beck had the chance to hang up.

  “Yeah mom?”

  “Jackie would be proud of you. I hope you know that.”

  Beck hung up the phone before she could say anything else.

  

  Beck sucked down his fourth cup of coffee as Martinez rattled on.

  “In rural and semi-rural parts of the state, where the demographics resemble Appalachia more than Anaheim, the epidemic is raging,” Martinez quoted the article. He sat back and rubbed his forehead. “And we still don’t have a database to prevent docs from overprescribing. This shit hardly needs to come from Mexico—we’ve got overworked doctors right here stateside who either don’t give a shit, or who aren’t above lining their pockets by tossing an extra ‘scrip here and there. Thirty-nine other states have databases set up so that prescribing docs can check to make sure the patient—or dealer—isn’t doctor shopping. It’s a big fucking problem that no one seems to be doing anything about.”

  “Nobody but us,” Beck said.

  Martinez snorted. “Some days I wonder if we’re fucking doing anything. The more we fight, push, the bigger they grow. It’s like we’re trying to fight gremlins with water.”

  “You’d think if half a million people have died from something, they’d do something about it.”

  “They did. They labeled it an ‘epidemic’ and moved along. That’s Congress for you. That’s the thing about idealism. We always think it should go a certain way. But it only does with the right funding.”

  Beck didn’t have the energy to get worked up about it at the moment so he sat silently, nursing his coffee.