Tomorrow We Die

by Shawn Grady

  The dark bar made a stark contrast to the afternoon sunshine. Long and narrow, it reeked of cigarette smoke and salty nuts. Sure enough, my father sat at the far end, leaning on his forearms, watching the Giants game on an old television, a tall glass of amber beer in front of him.

  I slid onto the stool beside him and glanced at the game. “Looks like Lincecum’s on it today.”

  My dad nodded. “He’s pitching a good one, all right.” He turned. “Jonner.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Strange to see you here.”

  “Yeah. I’ve run into some unusual circumstances.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked him for help. Maybe I didn’t want to.

  But I didn’t know when I would see him again. And as inconvenient as it was right then, I knew I needed to try to make my peace.

  For the first time since I was a child, I looked at my father without loathing or contempt. It was strange and sudden. “Dad, I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  He kept his eyes on the tube.

  “I don’t want to be bitter, or angry, or anything like that anymore. And I don’t want to heap guilt on you.”

  He looked at his beer.

  “We all make different choices, Dad. I don’t want it to be that we can’t have any real interaction. Actual conversation. I want to be able to relate with you.”

  The bartender strolled over.

  I put a hand up. “Nothing right now. Thank you.”

  He meandered back down the bar.

  My father removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He blinked away moisture. “Thank you for that, Jonner. I hope I can think that way about myself . . . someday.” He grimaced.

  I exhaled. “There’s something else too. Another reason I’m here.”

  A crowd roared on TV. A high fly ball sailed over the centerfield fence. Pablo Sandoval trotted around first.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “How are you to drive?”

  “Barely touched my first.”

  “I need to get some things from the house. But it doesn’t work for me to do it myself.”

  He eyed me. “You in trouble?”

  “Yeah. Pretty big-time.”

  He looked down at the bar, then back at me. “What do you need?”

  “Some clothes. My laptop. Cell phone charger.”

  He lifted a trembling cigarette to his lips and lit it. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. “Okay.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by saying more.”

  He stood and patted me on the arm. “There’s no need to.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The bar made an adequate interim hideout. I nursed a Sprite and watched the game. Eli called at the top of the ninth.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  “How’d it go with Kurtz?”

  “You mean before or after he fired his gun?”

  “What happened?”

  I gave him the details, covering my mouth as I spoke.

  After a long quiet spell, he said, “This is getting worse by the minute.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now you’ve got the bad guys and the good guys looking for you.”

  “Hard to tell who is who.” I watched the bartender fill a glass at the tap.

  “We need to change plans.”

  “Why?”

  “RPD knows I’m here.”

  “How?”

  “There was a murder-suicide domestic case on the north end of town last night. Two detectives met me at the morgue after you dropped me off.”

  “You think it’s related?”

  “Doesn’t look that way.”

  I spread my forefinger and thumb across my brow. “Are you still coming up to – ”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “You think we’re being listened to?”

  “Just in case. Hard to know anymore. But yes, I will. Later. I’ll ride up with the other.”

  Naomi. She wouldn’t get off until eight that evening. “All right. You want me to wait?”

  He exhaled. “I don’t know. It’s probably best to stagger arrivals.”

  “Sure.” Things were too hot for me in town anyway. “I should probably get going.”

  “Okay. That sounds best.”

  “See you later, then.”

  “God willing, son. Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  I pocketed my phone. The game ended and a teaser for the five o’clock news flashed on the screen. “Shots fired at UNR. A prominent staff member rushed to the hospital. Suspect at large.” My Aprisa employee photo flashed on the screen. It was followed by a cutaway of armed officers staking out the grounds and clips of an ambulance leaving the scene. “Full story tonight at five.”

  The bar door opened. My father walked in, silhouetted by the outside light. I strode over and hugged him. He pulled away, a bit surprised.

  I squeezed his shoulders. “You’re just in time.”

  The drive to Tahoe felt long and eerie, the night before like a distant dream.

  But Naomi and Eli were only a matter of hours behind me.

  Soon I’d be in the company of friends.

  The lake stretched out beyond Tahoe City, sparkling and choppy with the late afternoon winds. The fuel gauge lingered at a quarter tank. I had fifty dollars cash. The only other money I had was squirreled away in traceable bank accounts. I hoped Eli kept another rainy day ammo box buried around the cabin somewhere.

  My phone vibrated. A profile of Bones driving in the ambulance flashed on the screen.

  “Hey.”

  “Jonathan. What is going on? Where are you at?”

  “Not so free to say right now, bud.”

  “Did you have something to do with what went down at UNR today?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Jon-boy, come on.”

  “Are you working today?”

  “I did a shift trade for somebody.”

  “Are you in the ambulance?”

  “I’m at County.” His voice lowered. “There are cops everywhere. I’ve already been taken aside for questioning. They want to know if I’ve ever seen you take narcs from the drug cabinet. Or if you ever came to work under the influence. Then they started asking other questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if I’ve ever seen you lie to a patient. Or if you’ve falsified facts on a chart. If you’ve seemed unhappy in your job.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I told them you were a tweeker with a propensity for fabrication.” “Great. Thanks, Bones.”

  “No problem.”

  Someone spoke in the background, and Bones said, “On my way. Hey, bro?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re level zero again.”

  No ambulances available. “Imagine that.”

  “Wherever you are, be safe. And if you need anything – –anything – just call. All right?”

  “Thanks, Bones.”

  I spotted the turnoff and wound onto the sheltered dirt road that descended to the cabin. A short way in, a sky-blue Prius sat parked in a shallow turnout. Perhaps the least threatening car imaginable, yet my heart beat harder and my breathing quickened.

  Could be some hikers or cyclists. I reached under the seat and found Eli’s holstered revolver. I unbuttoned the strap and wrapped my hand around the wood-laminate handle. The words SMITH AND WESSON were stamped into the short barrel. I ran a finger along the cylinder. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d touched a gun. I dislodged the cylinder to the left. All six chambers were still loaded. I clicked it back in place and set the weapon between the gearshifts.

  Nothing more now but to go on.

  I dropped the transmission in four low. The pistol rattled with the rocky descent. Shadows twitched at the roadsides. I picked up the gun and held it at the wheel.

  Tire tracks in the dirt caught my
eye. A set with the same tread.

  From our trip this morning, I reasoned. Until I saw another pair with a differing pattern.

  I skidded to a stop.

  The new tracks split off from the others for a brief section. It looked as if someone had been trying to follow the previous tire tread and veered off.

  I ran my thumbs along the steering wheel. I didn’t want to push on if there was a better option. Go back to Reno and meet up with Eli? Drive back up the road and intercept Eli and Naomi before they got to the turnoff?

  I dropped the Scout back in gear and pressed on, my palm sweating around the revolver handle.

  Several turns later I came upon two hikers in the middle of the road. One was a grimacing heavyset man, about thirty, sitting with his leg in a two-foot-deep hole. The second was a woman of similar age with a water backpack and hat and a worried expression.

  I set the emergency brake and left the engine running.

  I opened the door and stood sideways behind it, the way I’d seen cops do, keeping the firearm hidden by my leg. “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER 36

  The woman’s brow furrowed. “He’s hurt badly.”

  The man gripped his leg with both hands and tucked his chin to his chest.

  I glanced at the edges of the road. “Why are you here?”

  She put her hands on her head, looking about to cry. “We were hiking. Can’t you help us? Please.”

  I looked closer at the hole. It was more like a trench, about four feet long and three feet wide. Two rows of iron spikes, at least eight of them, protruded from the bottom. A different pattern and color to the dirt traced along a line where it looked as if the ditch might extend across the whole road.

  The woman paced away.

  “Stop!” I put up a hand. “Don’t move!”

  She froze midstep, hovering over the odd-colored ground.

  “Look down.”

  She brought her foot back and turned toward me.

  I sidestepped out from behind the door, inching forward, keeping my head on a swivel. I put both hands in the air, still holding the gun.

  Her eyes grew wide.

  At the edge of the different-colored dirt, I poked the ground with the gun barrel. Dust shook on a thin layer of cardboard. I pushed harder and it slid into the trench, revealing another set of iron spikes.

  The woman stumbled back. “What is all this?”

  Two seconds more and I would have driven the Scout right into it.

  I searched the roadsides. The surrounding foliage spun into a mass of green, brown, and gray. Someone could be out there, just feet away, and I wouldn’t be able to see them.

  The obese male hiker looked on, pale face twisted in anguish, his lower calf pierced through with a spike. Blood soaked through his sock. Nothing fake-looking about the injury.

  They’d simply had the misfortune of stumbling upon a trap set for me.

  The spike may have severed the man’s popliteal artery. I tucked the gun in my belt. “I’m a paramedic. I’m going to check him out.

  Okay?” I knelt by the trench and reached out for his wrist. “Hey.

  What’s your name?”

  “James.”

  His pulse felt thready and rapid – compensating shock from the bleeding. Removing his calf from the spike could worsen the blood loss. I felt around the lower leg. The tibia and fibula bones seemed intact. With care I removed his hiking boot and checked for a dorsalis pedis pulse at the arch of his foot. I shifted my fingers around but couldn’t feel anything.

  Eli had a shed behind the cabin. I reasoned I might be able to find something there to cut through the spike. James needed a surgeon and a way out of there. An ambulance wouldn’t make it down the road. He needed the helicopter.

  “Have you called for help yet?”

  The woman shook her head. “No cell service here.”

  I pulled mine out. One bar. Worth a try. I dialed 9-1-1. The choppy sound of an intermittent ringer came through static. A female voice at the other end said something about dispatch.

  “Yes, hello? I’m in Emerald Bay, near the south side shoreline with a hiker who has a traumatic injury to his lower leg.”

  “Sir, you – very broken. I understand you – leg – ald Bay?”

  “Yes. Emerald Bay. We’ll need a helicopter.”

  “Underst – On way.”

  The line disconnected. I called back twice with no success. The hikers looked on with expectation and concern.

  “They’re on their way. The medical helicopter is.”

  If it was AprisEvac, Naomi would be with it.

  James tilted his head. “I’m so thirsty.”

  The woman came up to him and placed the rubber tube from her water backpack in his mouth. “Here. Here you go, babe.”

  I shut off the engine in the Scout and found a box of road flares in the back. I took four to set up a landing zone for the helicopter by the shore. Flight time for the bird would be about fifteen minutes, plus seven minutes or so warm-up time on the pad at County. I’d strike the flares in twenty. Sooner if I heard them coming.

  I leapt over the trench. “James, I’m afraid you’ll lose too much blood if we pull your leg off the spike.”

  He nodded, as if in agreement. They had probably come to that conclusion on their own.

  “I’m going to see if I can find a hacksaw by the cabin down this road. We’ll cut the spike and secure it until you get to the hospital, where they can remove it safely.”

  “Do what you need to.”

  I pulled the revolver from my belt and jogged down the road – the gun swinging in my fist still seeming odd and out of place. Eli’s cabin came into view a couple hundred feet ahead. I slowed and moved to the side of the road.

  A hiker might be hurt, but I wasn’t going to do him any good if I got killed trying to help him. I brought the hand that held the flares up in front of me and rested the gun across my forearm. I moved steady and deliberate, with as little noise as possible.

  Wind rustled the pine trees. A mountain bluebird flapped and squawked from a nearby branch.

  A thud hit the forest duff.

  I pointed the pistol at a squirrel skittering toward a fallen pinecone. He went to work stripping out the seeds. I wondered if I would have even hit the tree behind him had I fired.

  I turned my attention back toward the cabin and the shed behind it.

  A hundred feet to go.

  I could hear the lake now, a subtle lapping of wind-driven waves.

  I decided to clear the house before entering the toolshed. I didn’t want any more surprises.

  Whoever set the spike trap wanted the Scout incapacitated.

  Were they hanging around to apprehend me as well?

  I sidestepped in a broad arc around the cabin, squeezing closer in a descending orbit.

  At the porch steps I stopped and listened, gun pointed at the front door.

  I crouched, set down the flares, and eased up the board that covered the ammo box with the door key. As I lifted the box, I noticed the combination lock hanging on the front latch.

  Thinking Eli may have left the door unlocked, I shifted to the side of it, held the revolver across my chest, and tested the doorknob with my free hand.

  It clicked. With a slight push the door creaked inward.

  At the end of the hallway a shadow moved.

  CHAPTER 37

  I slammed back against the log wall, gripping the revolver with two hands.

  Perspiration dropped from my temples.

  Inching to the edge of the doorframe, I peeked in. A rectangle of light stretched along one wall.

  I wrangled down my breathing to listen.

  Nothing.

  My eyes darted to the outside corners of the house.

  I rubbed my brow with a forearm and threw another glance inside.

  Hallway. Light.

  And the shadow again.

  I drew back and shouted, “Who’s there?”

  No response
.

  With another glance I saw the same shadow.

  Something wasn’t right. It was making the same motion.

  I stared down the hallway.

  Sure enough, I saw the shadow again, moving up and down like a blacksmith hammering a hot iron. But it didn’t have quite the right shape to be a fist holding a hammer. Or even an arm for that matter.

  A fluttering sounded overhead. A large falcon flew away from the cabin with a chipmunk in its beak. Inside, the shadow’s motion diminished, and I realized that it resembled a tree limb – one that swayed with the weight of a bird of prey.

  I firmed my resolve and stepped inside, arms in front with the pistol in hand. I checked the kitchen and living room and kept moving at a slow but steady pace down the hall, clearing both back bedrooms.

  I walked back to the entry, muted light shining through the half-open doorway. I lowered the gun and leaned on the wall. Cold black soot lay in the fireplace, couch pillows still askew. The blanket we’d slept under lay folded over an armrest.

  The threshold creaked. A gun-wielding hand froze in the doorway.

  I drove my shoulder against the door. It slammed on the wrist, and the handgun dropped. I threw open the door to see a slim-built man with a navy blue ski mask. I raised my gun, but his fist crashed against my face, knocking me to the floor. A boot kicked my pistol hand, knocking the gun free and flaring pain through my fingers. I swiped at his knees and scampered backward.

  He bent for the gun, and I launched into him, driving him to the floor. He grabbed at my face and yanked at my hair. I shoved my palm into his nostrils and swung my fist against his ear. He swiped at my arms. Grabbing his collar, I shoved him to the floor and yanked off his hood.

  We stopped for a split second – me in recognition of his face, he in realizing I had.

  Trent Matley.

  He lurched sideways. Locked like steers, we struggled to our feet. He broke free a fist and drove it to my abdomen. Breath burst from my lungs.

  We whipped around and tumbled over the couch. I sprang from the floor, toppling the coffee table, and fixed my hands in a boxing guard. Blows struck my forearms and flanks. I strafed back. My heel hit the hearth. I snatched the poker and whipped it toward his head. He ducked with an inch to spare. I swung again, and he jumped back, then hurdled the couch.