by Davis Bunn
“You sound pretty calm for a guy on death row.”
“You have no idea what I left behind. The cancer. The pain. At least this way I get to live a few more good days.”
“Not to mention saving my life.”
Ethan nodded. There was certainly that as well.
“How long do you have?”
“Four, maybe five weeks tops.” Not to mention what getting shot and suffering a concussion might do to the timing.
Adrian rose to his feet. Lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. Slipped it on. Adjusted his lapels. Ethan understood his brother’s slow-motion acts, the attempt to retreat from imminent loss.
When he spoke, Adrian had resumed his dry courtroom voice. “Your saving my life, that was primo circumstantial evidence. You understand where I’m headed?”
“Yes.” Here it came.
“But there are so many impossible issues I’m being asked to take in.” Adrian waved at the world beyond the door. “This means I need to redefine my entire existence. And our relationship. And Sonya . . .” His arm dropped, the attorney rendered speechless. “Ethan, don’t take this the wrong way. I need . . .”
“Something more,” Ethan said. “Something concrete.”
Adrian’s gaze tightened. “You were expecting this.”
“Of course. I know you.”
“So tell.”
“The business deal that took me to New York,” Ethan replied. “It was a bet.”
Adrian’s shoulders slumped. “The Open?”
“My first time around, I lost the surfing contest in the quarterfinals. You knew I was in trouble. You called every day. Tried to keep me connected to the world beyond my defeat by telling me what was happening at the Open. Those were our last conversations. I remember every word, seems like.”
Adrian opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“I won just under a million. Your share comes to just over a hundred and fifty thou. I’ve invested most. The account is in all our names.”
A pause, then, “Sonya knows?”
“It’s why she believed me.”
“That and how you’ve changed. It’s all she talked about.”
“I asked her to let me tell you.”
“So . . . this is real.”
“As real as it gets.”
Adrian did a slow-motion turn to the door. The way he fumbled for the knob, it was unlikely he saw much of anything. “I need to think. We’ll talk—”
“There’s something else, and it can’t wait.”
Adrian did not turn back. “I don’t know if I can take—”
“You need to hear this. For Sonya’s sake as well as yours. She’s pregnant, Adrian. She doesn’t know yet. You’re going to have a daughter . . .”
Ethan stopped talking because Adrian was no longer there.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Ethan slept through much of the day. Around five the duty nurse woke him, checked his vitals, fed him more pills, then brought him dinner. The surgeon arrived while he was eating, changed the two bandages, and probed the wounds, leaving Ethan very glad he had not refused the meds.
The physical therapist entered as the doctor was leaving. An hour of having his arm twisted and extended left Ethan utterly washed out.
He dozed off, then opened his eyes only a moment later. Or so he thought. But the world beyond his window was awash in strong morning light. Gina was curled up in the chair that had been moved back to the far corner. A blanket was tucked up tight below her chin, and she was breathing in a deep-throated pattern that was one notch off a snore. Ethan remembered her making that sound, back when they shared a home. It was strange, the things that made his eyes burn. He might have become a great deal more caught up in memories from a different era, except that Gary passed by in the hallway, saw he was awake, and entered the room.
The PI smiled at Gina’s slumbering form and said, “Found her a couple of hours ago trying to sleep in the waiting room. Kids squalling and families fretting. Gina looked about done in. So I brought her up. Hope it’s okay.”
Having the former cop ask for his approval about anything was definitely a step in the right direction. “It’s fine. Thanks.”
Gary kept his voice down to a soft rumble. “How’s the shoulder?”
“It hurts almost as bad as my head.”
He grinned. “A better man than me would say something about how I should have been the one to catch that bullet. But I ain’t that guy.”
Ethan asked, “Any line on the shooter?”
“Name’s Rickie Schofeld. Two-time loser. Drugs, assault and battery, B&E. Adrian represented him pro bono. The guy went away for ten to twenty, got early release for good behavior and time served.”
“Will you check on him, see if there’s any connection?”
“To what?”
The question was simple enough. Gary’s easy tone suggested he was finally all in.
Ethan glanced over at Gina, made sure she was still asleep, and said, “I need to walk you through some things.”
“About time.”
“None of this is definite. It’s basically what I’ve come up with since . . .”
“Hearing from that unnamed source of yours,” Gary offered.
That worked as well as anything. “I’m worried that this guy might not have been acting alone.”
“You mean, a second gunman?”
“No. Well, yes . . .”
“Just take it slow and easy,” Gary said. “Working on the what-ifs is how cops make their best busts.”
“What if . . .” Ethan breathed easier now with the pro on his side. “What if the gunman is fronting for some hidden threat? One that doesn’t just vanish after this shooter goes back inside?”
Gary rocked slowly, his bulk causing the chair to creak. “Which is what you were saying on the courthouse steps. Only I was too busy disbelieving you to listen.”
“You listened,” Ethan corrected. “You just didn’t have any reason to believe.”
“Schofeld hasn’t said a word since he was arrested. Not even to give his name.” Gary kept rocking, as if his nods required the motion of his entire body. “I could go through his priors, see if there’s any connection to a bigger organization. It’s doubtful the group buying Sonya’s company would stand that close to a smoking gun. But there might be a link.” He nodded slowly. “I can do that.”
“Adrian is being protected?”
“Twenty-four seven.” Gary started to say something more but stopped when Gina’s breathing changed. The men glanced over. She settled and her eyes remained closed. Gary’s voice lowered another notch. “Pretty lady. I’d call her a keeper.”
“Do me a favor. Book her a room in the Casa Marina. Tell them to put it on my bill.”
“Sure thing.” Gary smiled at Gina. “I imagine she won’t complain about a bed with a sea view.”
“Any idea when I can get out of here?”
“The doc is still saying tomorrow afternoon. He wants them to change the bandages again, make sure your head is behaving, take you through another PT session.”
Truth be told, another day of bed rest sounded just fine. “My car’s still at the courthouse.”
“Nah, I took it back to the hotel.” Gary stood, walked over to the curtains, and swept them closed so the interior hallway was blocked from view. Then he turned back to Ethan, started to say something, and stopped.
“What is it?”
“The doc and Sonya got into a spat out there. He wanted to run tests. Sonya chopped him off at the knees.”
Ethan heard the unspoken question. “There’s something you need to know. I’ve gotten bad news from some other doctors. I’m checking out. Four more weeks is the best guess.”
Gary’s response was cut off by a nurse knocking on his door. The sound startled Gina from sleep. While the nurse took his vitals, Ethan explained about Gary booking her a room. Ethan liked how she tried to protest, much as she clearly wante
d nothing more than a shower and a non-hospital meal and real rest in a real bed. She hugged him gently, kissed his cheek, and promised to come and pick him up first thing the next morning. The nurse instructed Gina in best medical fashion to sleep late, as the doctor would not show up until the early afternoon.
As soon as Gary and Gina left, the nurse fed him more pills, then brought him dinner. When he finished eating he tried to watch the news, but the words were a jumble. Half an hour later, he was sound asleep. He dreamed of Gina’s smile.
The physical therapist arrived late Sunday morning and worked on Ethan until his morning meds felt like a distant memory. After lunch Ethan slipped into the bathroom to change and found a surfing shirt, drawstring trousers, and sandals that he assumed were all Adrian’s. His clothes from the attack were hung on the back of the door. A jacket sleeve and both knees of his trousers were torn. All the buttons from his shirt were missing. As he dumped them into the trash, he caught a whiff of potent odors, his own sweat and something more, perhaps burned cordite. The scent took him straight back to the steps and the shooter and the closeness of failing his brother again.
He waited until the shakes subsided to slip on the trousers. When he opened the door, he found Gina and the nurse waiting with a wheelchair. “Can you help me with the shirt?”
“Of course.” Gina eased his arm from the sling, threaded it through the sleeve, did the other arm, then buttoned up the front. The act drew them close enough for Ethan to see the stains of stress on her own face as well. She did her best to smile and said, “There. All better.”
Once he was seated, Gina took hold of his hand while the nurse pushed him down the hall. Gina looked as tousled and weary as he felt. And achingly beautiful. When the elevator doors shut, she said, “Adrian and Sonya are off handling something to do with her family. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but they feel really guilty leaving you.”
“They shouldn’t. Life doesn’t just stop.”
“It’s something about her mom needing care. They set up the appointments before . . .”
“The attack. I understand.”
“Gary was here when I arrived. He’s going to drive us back to the hotel.” She reached out her free hand and traced his hairline with one finger. “Thank you for arranging a room.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Gina.”
“And I’m beginning to think you mean it.”
Gina pushed him through the foyer and out the front doors. The heat and humidity were September intense. Even so, the air smelled heavenly. Florida locals called this the sweet season, when the orange trees and wild jasmine bloomed and filled the air with a comforting flavor. This was the other side to the height of hurricane season, as if nature offered such perfumed days as a promise of better things to come.
When Gary pulled up in his Buick, Ethan rose from the chair, thanked the nurse, and offered Gina the front passenger seat.
Gary waited until they were passing over the Saint Johns bridge to ask, “You mind if we talk work?”
“We have to,” Ethan replied. “I’m going to fade as soon as we reach the hotel. Maybe sooner.”
“The detective in charge of this case is a former partner. He’s given you this time to get back on your feet because I asked nice. But you need to give him your statement.”
“Set it up.” He settled his head onto the seat back. “You also need to extend that security to include Sonya, her lab, and their home.”
“I imagine the lady will kick up a fuss.”
Gina said, “I like her.”
Gary glanced over. “I don’t often hear newcomers say that about Sonya.”
“The lady does have her ways,” Ethan agreed.
“She tells me the truth,” Gina said. “She answers my questions. She treats me as an equal.”
“Well now,” Gary said.
Ethan asked Gina, “Do you want to help out?”
“More than anything.” She paused. “Almost.”
“Handling Sonya would take a huge load off my mind,” Ethan said.
“That’s your first mistake.” Gina turned in the seat so she could address both men. “Thinking you can handle her.”
Ethan pressed on. “There are a lot of questions we need Sonya’s help with. Starting with exactly what makes the Washington group so eager to buy her out.”
“You need to give me more than that,” Gina said.
“And I will,” Ethan replied. “Tomorrow.”
Gary said, “That it on my end?”
“One thing more. I need you to set up an appointment for us to meet with Adrian. You and me and him. Nobody else.” His head was throbbing now. Each bump in the road caused his shoulder to complain. He closed his eyes. “Might be best not to let him know it’s me. Just say it’s a new client.”
Gina asked, “Can I come?”
Ethan nodded his head and regretted it. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When they arrived at the hotel, Ethan excused himself, saying he needed to rest. He knew Gina was tempted to insert herself into his evening, his world. To her credit, she merely kissed his cheek and wished him a good rest.
Ethan ordered room service, took the most exquisite shower of two lifetimes, ate by the open balcony doors, watched another late afternoon storm sweep in from the Atlantic, then eased himself into bed and let the rain sing him to sleep.
That night he dreamed of a world that never was.
After two difficult miscarriages, he and Gina had stopped trying to have children. By then, the fractures had already begun to appear in their relationship. They never seriously considered adoption. Which made his dream a complete and utter impossibility.
In it, he and Gina were seated and holding hands on an almost empty beach. In the strange awareness of dreams, Ethan knew they were in Tahiti. The wave breaking far outside, beyond the coral shelf protecting the bay, was called Teahupo’o.
It was also the place where Ethan had finally grown disgusted with his rambling, empty, self-absorbed days.
He had never taken Gina there, though she had asked. Many times. For Ethan, Teahupo’o represented all the wrong turns and dead-end days. Remembering those final months in Tahiti always filled Ethan with a sense of defeat. He had gotten everything he ever wanted, and on his terms. And look where it had brought him.
In the dream, though, he and Gina chatted happily while their two children played in the shallows.
Their children.
As soon as he glanced their way, Ethan knew them intimately. Pablo was Colombian, orphaned by the cocaine trade. Christine’s Jamaican mother had abandoned her at a Miami orphanage when the child was four months old. Nothing was known about her father.
Pablo was seven now, and a scamp. Christine was six and incredibly mature and so intensely intelligent it astonished and awed her parents. Pablo often treated her as an older sister, except when they fought, which was often. They formed the greatest joy Ethan had ever known.
The scene shifted in the easy abruptness of a good dream. Ethan found himself seated in Tahiti’s international airport. They were checked in for their flight and were making a picnic of fruits and nuts that Gina and the kids had bought at the local market. They chattered and laughed as they ate. Ethan could not make out precisely what they were saying. He only heard them clearly say one word. Each of them said it over and over.
Home.
He watched the three of them and was filled with a joy so intense it threatened to shatter him.
The dream shifted again.
He was still seated in the Faa’a international airport of Papeete, the Tahitian capital and main island. Exactly the same place as before. Only now he was alone.
Now the scene was as Ethan had actually lived it. A violent late-spring storm had struck the island chain and shut down all flights. Anyone who spent time in the tropics learned to take such delays in stride. Ethan watched wealthy tourists berate the man behind the check-in desk, as if they expected the manager to rewire the day an
d banish the storm to Tonga. The attendant smiled in that special way the Tahitians used to deal with impolite tourists, pouring scorn on them in silent ease. Each time the tourists paused for breath, he repeated the same word. Bientot. The official French definition was “soon.” Tahitians more often used it for “sometime” or “next week.”
Ethan watched the argument with a sense of bitter emptiness. He was neither of one world nor the other. He belonged nowhere. He had chased some elusive dream of perfect days and wound up here. Utterly alone, saying farewell to an empty life, and going back to . . . what? He was twenty years old and felt consumed by an ancient’s sorrow.
When he woke, he found his pillow wet from tears.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Monday morning Ethan took his time showering and dressing. His head and shoulder were both much improved. When the clock struck nine, he walked down to Gina’s room.
As he had requested, Gary had booked Gina into an oceanfront room located in the hotel’s opposite corner. As he raised his hand to knock, he heard two women’s voices.
They were trying to be quiet, given the hour. But it was clear they were locked in a fierce argument. One or the other hit a strident note, sounding as sharp to Ethan’s ear as a slap.
As soon as he knocked, the voices cut off. “Gina?”
She opened her door a fraction. “Did somebody complain?”
“I don’t . . . Is everything all right?”
“No.” Her tousled look was a throwback to their own lengthy quarrels. Gina’s hair was delicate as woven silk. When she became angry, she generated a current that turned it into a rat’s nest. Just like now. “Mother is here.”
“I just wondered if you’d like to join me for breakfast.” He raised his voice. “Hi, Mrs. Devoe. You’re both welcome.”
Gina shot a tight look beyond his field of vision. “Mom?”
“That . . . sounds nice.”
“Come up to suite 404.”
As he turned away, Gina asked, “You have a suite?”
By the time they finally arrived, the room-service waiter had brought chafing dishes of eggs and breakfast potatoes and bacon and biscuits and two thermoses of coffee. Gina tapped on the open door, then stepped back to let the waiter depart. “Ethan?”
