Fallen Five

by Erica Spindler

  But today, with the early hour and chill wind, she was nearly alone. Which suited her. She didn’t want the distraction of others. She wanted to focus on the air filling her lungs to near-bursting, the hammer of her heart, and the burn of out-of-practice muscles.

  No doubt she would pay the price later, but for now she was nearly giddy with pleasure.

  Finally, Micki admitted she had no choice but to head back. As she neared her exit point, she slowed to cool down. Her street lay below, and she glanced that way, thoughts turning to the day ahead.

  A man on the sidewalk, walking past her house. He glanced toward her cottage and the light caught his hair just so. It gleamed silver.

  She caught her breath. That stance, the way he moved. She would recognize it anywhere.

  Hank. The man was Hank.

  Even as she told herself she was crazy—Hank was dead and buried—an involuntary sound passed her lips and she started to run, calling out as loudly and desperately as she could.

  He wasn’t dead. It couldn’t be, but it was her Hank.

  At the same moment she realized she was going too fast, she went down. Tumbling forward, hitting the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of her. Pain shot through the side that took the brunt of the fall.

  “Hey! Are you okay?”

  Micki blinked, vision clearing. Another runner, descending in her direction. Micki sat up, wincing. “I’m fine,” she called.

  The woman reached her and held out a hand to help her up. “Think you can stand?”

  Micki nodded. “The only thing that’s really hurt is my pride. I feel like a total idiot.” She took the woman’s hand and cautiously stood. She was happy to find that, although a bit wobbly, she was fine.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “You were heading down the hill pretty fast.”

  Micki pictured the man with the silver hair. Hank? Come back to life? She was losing her freaking mind.

  Choosing to scowl instead of cry, she shook her head. “Yeah, I feel pretty stupid. Worst part is, I know better.”

  The woman made a sound of sympathy. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t worry about it.” She indicated Micki’s right arm. “You’re bleeding, by the way.”

  Micki looked at her arm and frowned. A two-inch patch of her forearm oozed blood. “Scraped it pretty good, it looks like.” She smiled ruefully at the woman. “I guess I’d better go take care of it. Thanks again.”

  She started down the embankment, then stopped and looked back. “I’m Micki, by the way.”

  “Paulette.” She smiled slightly. “See you around.”

  Micki continued to make her way down to River Road, then across it to her street. By the time she made it to her cottage, she’d decided her mind had been playing tricks on her. A combination of fatigue and the morning’s trip down Memory Lane.

  Dead men did not come back to life.

  She blinked furiously against tears. So much for Mad Dog Dare. From skull crusher to clumsy crybaby. Reputation shot.

  When she reached her porch, she saw a padded mailing envelope propped up to the left of her front door. Angel had seen a shirt she’d really liked online, so Micki had ordered it, hoping to surprise her and maybe lift her friend’s spirits.

  Micki snatched the package up, thoughts still on her fall and runaway imagination. Hank, alive? Maybe she really did need some time off? Or an appointment with the department shrink?

  No way. A shrink poking around in her head? Now that was a truly crazy thought. She dropped the envelope onto the entryway table and set her keys and sunglasses on top of it.

  Her arm hurt. She looked at her wound. A single trail of blood ran down her arm, a few drops landing on the wooden floor.

  Not a lot of blood. But enough for crime scene detectives to work with.

  She shook off the thought. She needed to get her head straight, and fast. This kind of thinking sent cops to a permanent position riding a desk.

  Micki headed to the bathroom. Her injury was only a scrape, mostly just nasty-looking. She cleaned it well, covered it, then noticed she’d torn a hole in her favorite yoga pants and gotten blood on her favorite Saints T-shirt.

  Could this day get any more screwed up?

  She stripped off the ruined pants, tossed them in the trash and jumped in for a quick shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed, shoulder-length, dishwater blond hair brushed and neatly tucked behind her ears.

  She collected the package and headed to the kitchen to grab breakfast.

  Poor envelope looked as if it had gotten stuck in a stamping machine, then been run over by a truck. She turned it over and frowned slightly. Not from the e-tailer where she’d ordered Angel’s shirt. In fact, there was no return address at all. Her name and address had been handwritten in a familiar angular scrawl.

  She grabbed a Greek yogurt and a hard-boiled egg from the fridge, eyebrows drawn together in thought. Where did she know this handwriting from?

  “Old man, maybe you should think about a laptop and printer? Who can read this chicken scratch?”

  She dropped the envelope as if it burned. Hank. It was Hank’s handwriting.

  No.

  No . . . no . . . no. Stop it, Micki.

  Somebody was messing with her. She took a deep breath. A perp with a grudge. Or someone in the NOPD she’d pissed off. She had a habit of doing that. She released the breath slowly, feeling calm coming over her. Or even J.B., the jokester from her unit at the Eighth. He’d think screwing with her mind this way was hysterically funny. Asshole.

  Now she was mad. The son of a bitch, whoever it was, wasn’t going to get away with it. In case she was dealing with somebody she’d put away, she ran to her car, retrieved a pair of scene gloves from her console and ran back. She opened the envelope as carefully as she could, preserving evidence her top priority—be it prints, hair, fiber or even saliva—just in case.

  She unsealed the mailer and peered inside. A folded piece of paper and a small box, the kind department store jewelry might come in. With an abundance of caution, she grabbed a dishtowel and held it over her mouth and nose. She slid the folded paper out.

  February, 23

  Dear Michaela,

  I knew this day would come, and I wanted you to have this. It has protected me all these years. Now it will protect you. Remember when you called me a silly old man for believing in the power of a “cheap, mass-produced trinket?” What you didn’t understand is, I never believed the trinket protected me. What protected me was the power of what it stands for.

  I believe in you. And not only because you are a warrior for what’s right. You are a special person. You are here now, in this place and time, to fulfill an important purpose. Believe in yourself!

  I love you, girl. You’re the daughter I never had.

  Hank.

  Her mind went tumbling back. She remembered the conversation he’d referenced so clearly. It had been in the early years of their friendship. She’d been young. And self-destructive. He’d seen something in her she certainly hadn’t seen in herself.

  She’d asked him about the St. Michael medal he always wore. And laughed at his answer. She’d been so cynical and so sure of her own belief in nothing.

  No one would know that but him.

  She should open the box, Micki realized, a tear rolling down her cheek, hitting the paper. She carefully wiped it away, then set the letter aside. With shaking hands, she slid it out of the mailer and lifted the lid. Nestled inside was the necklace she remembered. She took it from the box, ran her fingers over the chain and across the stamped medal.

  The chain was worn from being around his neck. She brought it to her nose. It smelled like him, she thought. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply and felt surrounded by him.

  Like the chain, the medal was worn from wear, its edges softened from years of rubbing against skin and fabric. She curled her fingers tightly around it. The disk felt warm against her palm. As if, somehow, it thrummed
with Hank’s life force.

  Memories swamped her. Tears with them. Of times spent together, of conversations, and of feelings. Of safety, comfort. Happiness.

  Then of loss. Deep and shattering. Of losing Hank, yes. But ones that had come earlier and struck deeper: the theft of her childhood and her innocence.

  Micki’s knees gave and she sank to the floor, medal still clutched in her hand. Tears came. A storm of them. A tsunami of grief.

  She couldn’t fight it; she didn’t have the strength. Not anymore. Not alone.

  In her pocket, her cell went off. She managed to answer it, though she didn’t know how, wasn’t aware of what she said, or even if she spoke.

  “Mick? Is that you?”

  Zach. Concerned. “Yes . . . Something’s . . . Hap . . . pened—”

  “Angel? Is she—”

  “Fine,” she managed around sobs.

  “Mick, talk to me. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t . . . No. . . I—” The last was swamped by a round of fresh tears.

  “Hold on, partner. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  9:45 A.M.

  Zach made it from his door to hers in record time. Micki stepped into his arms and he just held her. The tears had stopped but she trembled so violently, her teeth chattered. He’d never seen her this way, not even after she was shot or when Angel had gone missing.

  Raw. Completely vulnerable.

  What the hell did he do? How did he help her? People needing him wasn’t his thing. Staying, being that guy, wasn’t his thing.

  But hadn’t he longed to get a peek beyond her tough exterior, of the places she didn’t share? A glimpse of what had made her into the woman she’d become?

  He tightened his arms; instead of stiffening or pulling away, she seemed to melt deeper into him, accepting the security and comfort he offered.

  Something pinched inside him. Deep in his chest. A catch that signaled something he didn’t want and wasn’t ready for.

  He’d felt many things for this complex, sometimes infuriating woman. Loyalty and friendship. Respect, frustration. Sexual desire.

  But this . . . softness? This protectiveness? No. Never.

  He couldn’t start now.

  “Oh, Mick. I’m sorry.” He murmured the words automatically, meaning to follow them by loosening his arms and stepping away. He knew her well enough to know she would rally at that. Pull herself together, fit her armor back in place. But instead of doing what was smart, he threaded his fingers through her hair, the strands silky against them.

  She looked up at him, the expression in her eyes unbearably vulnerable.

  Dammit. What did he do with that? With the way that vulnerability made him feel? With the pinch in his chest that had become a gnawing ache?

  So, he kissed her. Softly but deeply, drawing her into him.

  It’ll be all right, the kiss said. I’m here. I won’t leave. I’ll protect you.

  The lies a man told a woman when he didn’t know what else to do. Or say. The lies they told when they might not stay, because leaving was always on the table.

  Or because they were afraid. That they wouldn’t go, not ever. That maybe, just maybe, he needed her just as much as she needed him. Maybe more.

  He ended the kiss, rested his forehead on hers. Her trembling ceased. Bit by bit, he felt her transform back into the emotionally-controlled woman he knew. His Mick, he thought. The woman who needed—and depended on—no one.

  Finally, she took an awkward step away. “I’m sorry, I don’t, um . . . thank you for—”

  “No,” he murmured, “don’t be sorry. And don’t be embarrassed.”

  “It’s just— Dammit!” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I hate this. I hate being weak.”

  He could have told her that falling apart, or needing someone, wasn’t the same as being weak, but he didn’t. “Tell me what happened,” he said instead.

  “It’s crazy.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He motioned toward the living room. “How about we sit down?”

  She nodded and headed to the sofa, sank onto it, clasping her hands in front of her. He noticed an opened mailing envelope, a folded sheet of paper, and a small box on the coffee table in front of her.

  He took the chair across from her and waited.

  “It sounds . . . no, it is crazy. You’re going to think I’ve lost it.”

  “Me, Mick? Mr. Crazy himself? C’mon, you can trust me. You know you can.”

  She nodded, averted her gaze a moment, then met his eyes again. “I think Hank’s alive.”

  He hadn’t expected that. How could he have? He cleared his throat. “You are talking about—”

  “Yes, that Hank. The one who’s been dead six years. Or at least I thought he was.”

  “You told me you were the one who found him, that you were there when the paramedics came—”

  “And I was at his funeral. Yes, to all of the above.”

  He processed that. “Okay, Mick,” he said, keeping his tone easy, “you’re one of the most level-headed people I know, so you must have a good reason for even considering that.”

  “You’re not supposed to encourage me, Zach.” She shook her head. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m crazy. That what I’m thinking is impossible, outlandish and—”

  “I can do that, Mick, but I’d rather hear what you have to say first.”

  So, she began. He listened as she shared her thoughts upon waking, her memories of Hank, how they would sometimes, in the mornings, sit quietly and sip coffee; how they would go for runs, just because.

  The Mick she described through those memories was happier, more relaxed, than the one he knew, and he wondered how one person could have had such a profound effect on another.

  “I decided to go for a run,” she told him. “The way he and I used to.” Her voice deepened; her hand went to her bandaged forearm. “That’s when I saw him. Or rather, thought I saw him.”

  “Hank?”

  “Yes. Passing on the sidewalk in front of my house.”

  “So, you don’t believe it was Hank?”

  “I’m not . . . I don’t.” She clasped her hands together. “How could it have been him?”

  “It couldn’t have been. Just like the man you saw on the sidewalk outside the Eighth couldn’t have been him.”

  “Right.” She pointed at the open envelope, note paper and box. “That was on the porch when I got home.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from Hank. And this.”

  She handed Zach the box. He opened it and took out the necklace.

  “A St. Michael medal,” she said. “He wore it all the time.”

  He drew his eyebrows together. “And this was delivered this morning?”

  “Or it could have been yesterday or last night. I don’t know for sure.”

  “Maybe it’s not his. Maybe it’s from someone who knows about your relationship with Hank and is trying to mess with your head?”

  “It was his. Look how worn it is.”

  “So, somebody sent you a used medal. I doubt they’re a rare item, especially in a predominantly Catholic city like New Orleans.”

  “I could buy all that, if not for the letter. It’s his handwriting, Zach.” She handed it over. “And that conversation he references, nobody else would know that.”

  He read the letter, frown deepening. She had a point. But what she was suggesting was impossible.

  “Why have I been dreaming about him so much? Maybe it’s because he’s alive?” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I dream I see him, and then I see him. Crazy, huh?”

  It was. Crazy enough to worry him. “Let’s think this through. He’s been dead six years.”

  “Exactly. So how can I be receiving this now?”

  “Maybe it got lost in the mail. I saw a story not that long ago about a woman receiving a letter that arrived fifty years late. All because of transposed numbers and no return addr
ess.”

  She picked up the envelope. “No return address, but mine is correct.” She frowned. “It’s stamped, but it doesn’t look like it was metered. That’s weird.”

  “Maybe he meant to send it, but didn’t, and the folks that bought his house ran across it and popped it into the mail.”

  “That could be,” she murmured. “I sold them the house, they had my address. But it’s been six years. How could they not run across it before now?”

  “Call them and find out.”

  She picked up the letter. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  She met his eyes. “He wrote this the day he died. February twenty-third.”

  Zach reached around and plucked the letter from her fingers, read the date. “That’s the day he died? You’re certain?”

  “We talked that afternoon.” She brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “I remember, he was acting . . . I don’t know, different. I wondered if something was wrong. I didn’t ask because . . . I was working this case . . .”

  Her words trailed off and her expression turned pensive. Zach frowned. “What case?”

  She stood, crossed to the window. “The Three Queens. We had a strong suspect and had gotten a search warrant for her practice. She got wind of it and skipped town before we could bring her in for questioning. It always felt like . . . somehow the perp—”

  She bit the last back. He crossed to her, laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You’re exhausted, your mind played a trick on you, and at the same time this long-lost package arrived.”

  She nodded. “There’s no way Hank could be alive. Seeing his handwriting . . . the medal— I just lost it.”

  “It’s okay. Everybody loses it sometimes. The last thing you should be is embarrassed.”

  She stepped away. “Who said I was embarrassed? I’m pissed off.”

  She practically growled the words, and he grinned. “That’s the Mick I know and love.”

  “You tell anyone about this, Hollywood, I’ll kick your ass.”

  “I know you will.” He scooped up his jacket. “Maybe you should take the day off? Get some rest? Clear your head.”