by J. P. Bowie
“Depends on just how much they want to help.” Nick tapped his empty beer bottle and grinned at his brother-in-law. “What happened to the good service I used to get here?”
Rich grunted and rose to get him another bottle. “But he must still have some contacts out there,” he said when he came back in from the kitchen.
“Garcia’s been off the scene for three years,” Nick told him. “Three years is a long time to be out of circulation in the drug business. I have no doubt he has contacts, but they’ve gotten along without him while he’s been in prison. Remember, he was on death row. His friends, if he still has any, weren’t figuring on him getting out, ever. Could be he’s found out he’s on his own, apart from his cousin.”
“So that might make him even more desperate,” Doreen remarked.
“And that could make him careless,” Nick said.
“Yeah, so careless that he took a pot shot at you in a cemetery, and managed to get away.” Rich looked at Nick with concern. “We know you’re making light of this for our sakes, Nick. But we read the papers and hear the news. Garcia’s reputation is, in a word, scary—and you can’t make light of that.”
“Believe me, I would never underestimate Garcia’s cleverness, Rich.” Nick took a long pull on his beer. “I know just what he’s capable of, but I really do think he’s going to have a problem rallying his old allies. He’s a cop-killer and those guys are going to steer clear of him, because of that. Now, how about we change the subject, and talk about when you’re coming out to California?”
Nick stayed over that night. Doreen made up the sofa bed in the den for him, promising to get him up good and early for his early morning flight. For a long time after his sister and brother-in-law had gone to bed, he lay unable to sleep, the events of the day crowding his mind. Garcia, still out there somewhere. The lucky break that had helped him dodge that bullet. And what would Garcia try next?
It was early morning. He was running on a beach. It was not a beach he knew. The shoreline seemed to extend beyond him to an almost impossible distance. He could discern no sailboats on the glass-like ocean. The only sounds he could hear came from the scrunching of his feet on the sand beneath him, and his own steady breathing. What was this place, he wondered, and why was it so deserted? Where was everyone?
His pace was measured and controlled. He felt as though he could run forever. There was no fatigue, no constriction of his breath. He ran, and ran… Up ahead he could see two men standing near the water, watching him approach. As he neared where they stood, they stepped aside to let him pass, then joined him in his run, one on either side of him. They ran in silence, each keeping apace. Nick wanted to run faster, to distance himself from this unsought companionship, but as hard as he tried, he found he could not pull ahead of the two men.
“Who are you?” he yelled.
“Hey Nick, glad you could join us, buddy.”
Nick turned and looked at the man’s smiling face. “Sam?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You remember Joseph?”
Startled, Nick turned to the young man who ran by his side. “But—how? I thought you guys were dead.”
“Oh, we are!” Joseph’s voice was filled with laughter. “But we’re still together. See, even death couldn’t part us.”
“That’s impossible,” Nick gasped.
“Not impossible, Nick.” Sam grabbed his arm. “You’ll understand one day.”
Nick woke with a start and sat up, rubbing his arm. It was as though he could still feel the pressure from Sam’s fingers. He stared into the semidarkness of the room. What the hell was all that about? He hadn’t dreamed about Sam in years. After the shootings he had relived those desperate moments night after night. Crazy dreams in which Sam and Joseph’s deaths were replayed over and over in his mind, leaving him mentally and physically exhausted—but he had never dreamed of them being alive again, running on a beach, laughing and kidding with him. Only, they weren’t really alive. They’d said they were dead. Shit!
He rubbed his eyes, punched the pillow a couple of times then lay back down. Maybe it was Andy’s funeral, and coming that close to Garcia again after all these years. Yes, that must have triggered the dream. Perhaps also because his mind had been so filled with thoughts of the past. Okay, he told himself, no more dreams like that. But as he drifted back to sleep, he fancied he could still feel Sam’s hand on his arm, and Joseph’s words echoing in his mind, “Even death couldn’t part us…”
Chapter Eight
John Wayne Airport, Ca.
Eric had insisted he pick Nick up at the airport, and Nick felt himself filled with an almost overwhelming sense of longing and relief when he saw Eric’s beaming smile light up the baggage claim area. Disregarding the press of people all around them, they flung their arms around each other.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Eric whispered in Nick’s ear, the touch of his lips sending a visceral thrill through Nick’s body.
“It’s only been two days,” Nick chuckled, hugging Eric to him.
“Three nights,” Eric corrected him. “D’you know this was the first time we’ve been apart since we moved in together?”
“And still you talk to me,” Nick said with wry amazement. He steered Eric toward the exit, his arm around his lover’s shoulders. “It’s good to be home.”
“How was it?” Eric asked him.
“Pretty grim, just like you’d expect a funeral to be.”
“But not every funeral has some madman lurking behind the tombstones,” Eric was quick to point out.
“Doreen sends her love,” Nick said, trying to change the subject. “I had dinner with her and Rich last night.”
“That’s nice.” Eric wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “So, tell me. What’s the latest on Garcia?”
“Well, they haven’t caught him yet, if that’s what you mean.”
“What a surprise.” Eric’s tone was heavy with sarcasm.
“They’re doing all they can, Eric. They’ve got every airport, train station, bus station, car rentals, all covered—”
“Great,” Eric muttered, unlocking his car doors.
Nick threw his bag into the back seat. “Want me to drive?”
“No, I got it.” He started the engine, then turned to face Nick. “I am not going to stay over at Andrew and David’s, so don’t even suggest it.”
“Eric…”
“No, Nick. I’m going to live up to my reputation of being the stubborn little prick you so nicely called me the other night. I am staying close to you no matter what.”
Nick’s lips tightened with frustration. “We’ve been through this—”
“Yes, we have,” Eric interrupted. “And I have a say in this also.” His eyes glistened as he caressed Nick’s thigh. “I don’t know how many ways I can say this without sounding like a broken record, but I love you, Nick—more than my life. If anything happened to you… When you told me about what happened at the cemetery, how close he came to killing you, well, it was as if the world had stopped for me, and all I could think was, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t with you—where I should have been.” He looked away as a sob caught in his throat.
Nick pulled him into his arms. “Hey, come on,” he said gently. “I’m here, nothing happened. It’s going to be all right.”
“This time, nothing happened.” Eric pulled away from Nick’s embrace. “This time you were lucky. But what if Garcia gets you in his sights again?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Nick snapped. “Look, chances are he managed to get back to Puerto Rico. If he did, he’s not going to risk everything just to get a shot at me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Eric said, putting the car in gear and reversing out of the parking space.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Nick asked.
“I’m fine.” After he had paid the attendant, he glanced at Nick. “Well, if what you say is correct, there’s no need for me to stay over at Andrew’s, now, is there?”
Nick groaned and slumped against the headrest. “Okay, you win. But, if there’s the slightest sign that I’m wrong, I reserve the right to change the conditions of this contract.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I will carry your cute little ass over to Andrew’s myself, and there you will stay until it’s safe for you to come home.”
“Okay. I could argue the point, I suppose, but I’ll agree to those terms—for right now.”
“Eric.”
“Okay, okay.” He took Nick’s hand in his own. “But only ’cause I love you.”
“So hurry up and get me home,” Nick growled. “Then you can show me just how much.”
§ § § §
Pittsburgh: the same day.
Garcia flung the newspaper he had been reading to one side in disgust. So, the police already knew that the man they held was not him. How had they discovered the ruse so quickly? José had been perfect. All their lives, they had often been mistaken for brothers, and now, when it mattered the most, the resemblance, so skillfully enhanced, had not been enough. He had counted on the police not bothering with fingerprints. Why would they bother? They already had all of that on file. He had counted on their eagerness to get him back into the State penitentiary—and it had almost worked.
Who could have been astute enough to call the jail van and have it return to the station? Not Fitzpatrick, the man was a cretin. One of the other officers—or, could it have been Fallon himself? Yes, badly wounded as he was, he might have imparted his suspicions to Fitzpatrick. In his mind’s eye, Garcia relived that moment when he had pulled the trigger, having a clear shot to Fallon’s head. Not for one second had he doubted that he had hit the man. A head injury of that magnitude was always fatal. The newspapers had reported that he was in critical condition. Amazing, really, that he would still be alive. The sudden downpour that had immediately obscured his vision after he had fired the shot had robbed him of the satisfaction of seeing Fallon fall—yet, he was sure he had not missed. Or had he?
What if the man in the hospital was not Fallon at all? Garcia’s brow furrowed as he scowled at the thought that Fallon might still be out there, alive and well. This he could not live with. Once again, he drew a mental picture of the shooting. Fallon was standing with a woman, listening to the words of the priest. He, Garcia, leveled the rifle sights on the middle of Fallon’s forehead, but at the crucial moment, Fallon had turned to look at someone. Still, a shot to the side of his head would still have been enough to kill him, or at least render him brain dead. Garcia drummed his fingers with an edgy impatience as he mulled this over. He stood and walked to the window of the hotel room he had been using since his escape. The man he had shot was in the hospital only a few blocks from the hotel. He had to find out if it was Fallon or not. He could not follow through with the rest of his plans until he was sure that Fallon was either dead, or, at the very least, unable to live the life he had previously known.
Alfredo waited to be set free. He had promised him that. Alfredo’s wife waited for him in Puerto Rico. She had been waiting a long time—too long, Garcia thought now. A woman like Rosa could not be trusted to wait in purity for her husband’s return. He should know—Anna, his own wife, filed for divorce the day he was sentenced to death. The bitch could not even wait for his demise—may God send her to hell! Garcia turned from the window and fell back onto the bed, where he lay gazing up at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting back to the son he had loved more than his own life. Joseph, so full of promise—young and eager for life, handsome, intelligent, born to be someone of importance and above all, bring respectability to the Garcia name. That had been his dream for his son, a dream that could never be fulfilled. His young life cut off forever by bullets from an assassin’s gun.
“Joseph,” Garcia murmured. “Are you yet avenged? Has the sacrifice I made in your name, appeased your soul?” Deep within himself, Garcia felt an aching void of loneliness. So many things did not feel right anymore. His years of incarceration had done nothing to diminish the hatred he felt for his son’s killers, but now, alone and cut off from those he needed to sustain him, he felt almost disabled. The network of confederates he had so painstakingly built up over the years was now closed to him. His colleagues, wary of being involved with a convicted cop-killer, had disassociated themselves from him and his family. Only his cousin José had stood by him—and now even that link had been severed.
His mind was in turmoil. Where to go from here? Was his work really finished? Could he go peacefully to his hideaway and the money he had secreted so many years ago? Was it safe? One thing he knew, before he left America he had to make sure that the man in the hospital was indeed the one responsible for Joseph’s death. Dead or incapacitated forever—either would do.
Nurse Rachel Adams switched on the reading light over her desk at the nurses’ station on the third floor of Pittsburgh General. So much paperwork, she groused to herself. How was she supposed to get through all this and see to the numerous needs of the patients on her floor? Time they hired some decent staff to take care of the overload she had to deal with every night.
She looked up as a shadow fell across her desktop. “Oh hi, Fred.” She beamed at the burly police officer assigned to watching room ten, where the victim of the cemetery shooting still lay in critical condition. “How’s it going?”
“Boring as shit, Rachel. I hate this kind of duty, if you must know.”
“Well, stick around, I’m making some coffee. It’ll help keep us awake.”
Police Officer Fred Johnson nodded and eased his considerable bulk into a chair by the nurses’ station. He watched Rachel’s spare and efficient movements as she prepared the coffee. Nice, he thought, taking in the nurse’s trim body. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated whether she’d be up for a little fooling around. He’d been assigned this type of hospital duty before, and had struck up a pleasant, chatty relationship with Nurse Adams, but he’d sensed something else in her easygoing demeanor. Something…flighty, he mused.
Garcia stood at the corner of the long corridor, watching the police officer and the nurse, neither of whom had noticed his presence. Certain that their involvement with one another had their total attention, he eased himself round the corner, keeping close to the wall, and walked quickly to the room where the injured man lay. Pushing the door open he moved silently to the side of the bed and looked down at the prone figure lying there. A sound of disgust escaped him through clenched teeth as he gazed at the man’s face.
This was not the man he had vowed to kill. Had he come to the wrong room? Was Fallon lying in some other bed, in another part of the hospital? With a mounting anger he grabbed the chart at the end of the bed and studied it. The patient’s name was Grant Williams, police officer. Injury: a bullet wound to the upper chest.
With a curse, Garcia flung the chart to the floor and stormed from the room. His work was not yet done—his son was not fully avenged. He had failed him! The bullet meant for Fallon, the bullet he had sent to end the life of the man who had taken away his son, had missed its mark.
At the other end of the corridor, Officer Johnson leered over the top of his coffee cup and licked his lips as Nurse Adams bent over to retrieve some spilled paperwork. Maybe he’d get enough nerve up to ask her tonight.
Chapter Nine
Laguna Beach: Saturday morning, one week later
When Eric was able to look back on the events of that morning, he would blame himself for being so gullible. The tall, heavily built man who entered the gallery shortly after Eric had opened for business seemed at first to be merely browsing. But after he acknowledged Eric’s cheerful, “Good Morning!” with a slight nod of his head, he moved with great deliberation from one painting to another, studying each one with an air of authority.
Was he a potential buyer? Eric wondered, feeling the prickle of excitement selling one of Peter’s paintings always brought him. In the year that he had managed Peter Brandon’s gallery Eric had gathe
red a great deal of knowledge, and had found himself to be gifted with a naturally discerning eye. Peter was the one who had first noticed this quality and had encouraged Eric to hone and fine-tune his ability.
After the man had stared at one of Peter’s landscapes for some time, he turned his dark, glittering gaze on Eric. “The Scottish Glen, is it for sale?”
“They are all for sale, sir.” Eric rose from his desk and approached the man.
“Are you the artist?”
Eric chuckled politely. “I only wish I were. Peter Brandon is on vacation in Europe. I manage the gallery for him.”
“Ah…”
Eric extended his hand. “I’m Eric, Eric Jamieson.”
The man inclined his head in a slight bow as he took Eric’s hand in his own. “Federico Gonzales.” He looked back at the painting. “I think I would like to buy this one. Can you deliver it to my house tonight?”
