The Ridealong

by Michaelbrent Collings

  killed a man killed a man killed a child

  when will I forget when can I forget oh please let me forget)

  I try to focus on Dad. He's worried for me more than for himself, I know – but that doesn't mean he's all right. Loving someone else and wanting the best for them doesn't mean you lose your own needs. It just means you push them away. Shove them deep, to deal with later or never at all.

  I wonder, for a second, if that's what makes a good parent: the ability to push away self an infinite number of times.

  Maybe.

  Dad blinks, and for a minute I don't know if he can even see me. He's somewhere faraway. Somewhere I don't think I want to know about – but somewhere I need to know about, if we're going to make it through this.

  Doing what you need to do, instead of what you want – another thing good parents do.

  But I'm not a parent. I'm not Dad. I'm the kid. I'm just the kid. Why can't I just let this go? Why does it have to be me?

  Useless questions. And time's wasting.

  I touch Dad's shirt. It's all wet where he held me. "I got you wet," I say. Another lame thing. Everything I say is stupid. I can't help it. I think I've blown a few fuses through the course of the night.

  Dad blinks. Touches his shirt. His pants, which are damp as well. He shakes his head. Then holds out the package. "I know this," he says.

  The package is a small thing. About the size of a shoebox, completely covered in duct tape. On top of it – the side opposite the "truth will make you free" line – are two letters: "RR."

  "What is it?"

  "Few months ago there was a drug bust. Big one. New kind of drug."

  "Red Rocks," I guess.

  "Right. It's a designer MDPV."

  "What's MDPV?"

  Dad gives me a funny smile. "I can't tell you how much I love that you have to ask that, Mel." He takes out a knife. "It's a popular drug at raves. Makes people euphoric, increases wakefulness and their ability to concentrate. Other than the fact that it makes them want to screw each other silly, have panic attacks, and go psychotic from time to time, it's awesome stuff." He stabs the packet. White powder spews out. "This is a new type of MDPV. Supposed to be much more potent. We seized almost thirty kilos. Thirty packages that looked just like this, full of stuff that looked just like this." He looks back at the hole I came out of a moment ago. It's full of water, spewing out not in a geyser but more in a small fountain, bubbling up and down in a two-foot surge with the ins and outs of the tide. "Whoever's smuggling it now must be using this as a drop point. Leaving drugs, picking up cash. It's a safe place, no one would go there normally."

  "Holy cow. That's –" I break off as I realize something. "Wait, we seized almost thirty kilos? Do you mean 'we' like 'my fellow officers, or 'we' like 'me and my partner'?"

  "Me. Linde. Zevahk. Knight." He grimaces. "And then there was that shootout a few months later."

  "Are they connected?"

  For a moment Dad looks unsure. Not like he doesn't know the answer. More like he's not even sure where he is. I worry for a second that I'm not the only person who blew a fuse or two. Maybe I'm not even the one whose fuses have blown the worst.

  Then Dad's eyes lose focus. All of a sudden he's barely with me. Body present, but mind faraway in a memory that most would hide from forever. Not him. Not now.

  Sometimes memories warm us. Sometimes they burn. And Dad is braving the brightest flame.

  "We got called in by Knight and Zevahk. They were doing a routine patrol. Heard shots fired. Found... found these dealers had a hostage... killed a kid. We provided backup. Me and Steve and Voss." His eyes come back to me, swimming back to Now from the horrible distance of a too-vivid Then. "The dealers were known providers of Red Rocks."

  So we have Jack on the police bands. At least one dirty cop who tried to kill us earlier –

  (are they the same? is Jack the same person who shot at us from the police car? I don't think so, but is he?)

  – and it's all connected to a drug bust that turned into some kind of assassination.

  Dad flings the remains of the Red Rocks package in his hands out into the waves. It froths, then sinks. There are going to be a lot of crazed fish in a few seconds.

  He looks at it as it sinks.

  The Ocean's Tomb moans.

  Or maybe it's just me.

  9

  "WHAT NOW?" DAD SAYS. He's still looking at where he threw the box, full of a drug that people might be willing to die for – and will certainly kill for. "The truth will set you free."

  I look around. We've got two dead bodies bashing around in a cave below our feet. An entire city of police convinced we're on a police-killing murder spree. And at least one bad cop them who wants to shut us up for reasons unknown.

  A whiff of fish wafts up from the market below. I turn away. It's too rank, reminds me too much of the smell of the cave, the smell of Voss's body as it's being picked over by the busy little crab.

  I look over the far side of the rocks, down the steep side opposite the fish market.

  And see the car.

  "Dad," I say.

  He comes over to me. Looks at me like I'm looking at him: confused, worried.

  Scared.

  We climb down. Moving as fast as we can without tumbling head over heels down the slick, sharp stone. It's harder to go down than it was to come up. After all the banging around in the cave, the terror of seeing Voss, fight, the shock of nearly drowning... I can barely move my arms and legs. They feel far away, and I have to fight for every instant of control.

  By the time we get to the bottom I'm shaking with exhaustion. Some of it's got to be a delayed shock reaction, too. Not every day you get to see a dead man in a cave under the ocean. And I got to see two. I even caused one of them.

  Lucky me.

  Dad puts an arm around me. His touch is so light I barely feel it, but I shake him off. "I'm okay," I say. A lie, and we both know it. But the important thing isn't that he believe me, it's that he keep moving. If we both stop, even for a moment, I think we might not start again. Sometimes movement – even blind, unthinking movement – is the only thing between you and despair.

  Sometimes motion is a kind of counterfeit hope.

  This is one of those times. We don't know what's going on. It looks bleak. But we'll keep moving. Keep moving.

  I manage to straighten and start walking before Dad's gone two steps. I'm abreast of him almost instantly, and another second later I'm in front of him.

  Then Dad's ahead. Running.

  I didn't want to believe it. From the top of the rocks it was easy to fool myself. To say, "No, it's not that car."

  But now, right on top of it... impossible to deny. There's the Darth Vader bobblehead sitting on the dash, the ripped passenger side seat, the small crack in the windshield.

  Dad knows the car better than I do. But I know it well enough. Always parked away from the others when we go to the park for the Fourth of July barbecue, like the owner is afraid someone is going to maim his fifteen-year-old junker.

  "This is...."

  "Yeah," Dad says. And he finishes, because it has to be said. The words have to be said, because if they aren't they'll just hang there in the middle of the universe and drive us both mad.

  If we're not already there.

  "It's Knight's car."

  10

  DAD LOOKS SUDDENLY lost. Knight was how this all started: his dead body in the alley, his finger apparently having drawn our name in his own blood. We saw Knight's body, so how did the car get here? Why is it here?

  So many questions. Not enough answers. And that lack of answers is going to kill us.

  Or, at best, put us in jail forever.

  Which reminds me. "Dad, call Jack."

  Dad grimaces. "His Lordship?"

  The joke is a weak one. Falls flat. But it's good to hear. When the jokes die, life isn't far behind. Laughter is the last, best defense against despair.

  Of course, it's also
just a socially acceptable alternative to running away shrieking at the top of your lungs. A lot of what we laugh at is gruesome, terrible when you really think about it. So maybe Dad's laugh isn't a good thing.

  He clicks the button on his mic. "Jack, you there?"

  "I'm here, Officer Latham. I'm always here. You should know that by now."

  Dad looks at me. His eyebrows dance up to his hairline in the classic "What now?" position. I motion for him to give me the mic. He does. Doesn't even hesitate, and that makes me feel kinda warm, despite the circumstances. My dad's a cop. My dad's a good guy.

  And my dad completely trusts me.

  I click on. "I think I've figured you out, Jack."

  "Oh?" His voice, always so expressive, sounds amused. He's smiling somewhere – probably somewhere close, since he always seems to know where we are and what we're doing. "Do tell."

  "You love your kid, Jack?"

  I'm going out on a limb. Way out. In fact, I'm basically dancing on a twig at this point. Right or wrong. If I'm wrong I might just piss him off for my assumption. If I'm right it might be much worse.

  But we can't keep on going like this. We have to shake things up; turn them to our favor.

  For maybe ten seconds he doesn't answer. And ten seconds isn't long when you're waiting for a movie to start or for a stoplight to change. When you're in a holding pattern at the door, hoping the guy of your dreams will kiss you, or when you're talking to a madman, hoping what you said won't be your end... ten seconds is forever.

  He finally says, "Bravo, Melly Belly."

  At the first word I think I have him. I figured it out. But the second two words change everything again. Because not even Liam knows –

  (knew, remember, he's dead and he doesn't know anything anymore just what it feels like to feel nothing at all)

  – that little pet name.

  "How long have you been planning this?" I whisper.

  "The whole month," says the voice on the other line. "Watching. Listening. Ever since your father and his friends killed my girl."

  11

  "THIS ISN'T ABOUT RED Rocks?" Dad says. He's finally getting it. Getting who Jack really is.

  The kid in the alley. The innocent in the crossfire.

  A scream from my dreams. A sound I know from what Dad has told me: "I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!"

  Looks like someone's making good on the threat.

  "Do you know who this is?" I ask Dad.

  "I don't remember his name. I never got it, and the investigators from internal affairs kept me away from the files. I could maybe get it if I was at the station or had my MDT, but...."

  "Right about now," said Jack, "you're probably discussing who I am, right? I mean, who I really am."

  Neither of us answer. We both just look at the mic like Jack might reach through and kill us with a combination of bare hands and dark magic.

  "Come now. Let's keep things civil. I ask, you answer. That's how polite conversation goes."

  I hold out the mic to Dad. "Fine, what do you want to know?" he says.

  "Tsk, tsk." I can almost picture Jack shaking his head through the radio. "Put Mel back on. We were having such a good chat, after all. Besides, you're not ready for what I have to say." And then something dark creeps into his voice, which has until now been oh-so-pleasant. "Not yet, anway. But soon, Latham. Soon."

  Dad hands the mic back to me.

  Sure. No problem.

  Sometimes having a dad who trusts you is a big pile of suck.

  I click the mic. "Yeah, we're talking about who you are."

  "Well, that's fine. You don't have your car, your computer. So that just leaves your father's memory, which is probably pretty spotty after everything that went down."

  I can practically hear Dad's fists clench. I know he's thinking about the lost lives in the alley. About his partner, Linde, dying and him not being able to do anything about it.

  "So are you going to tell us who you are? Who you really are?" I say.

  The voice is silent again. Then: "Sure." I look at Dad. He's leaning forward so far I think he might topple over. Not just ears, but every muscle oriented on the words that are about to come from the radio.

  It clicks. The voice: "I'm nobody."

  I lift a shaking mic to my mouth. "What do you mean?"

  "I used to be a man with a family. I used to be a father with a child. But now... I'm just a voice on the other side of darkness. I'm truth." He pauses. Another ten second slice of forever. "I'm the end."

  The radio gives that telltale click that tells us it's off again. I still give it a try. "Jack?" No response. "Jack, what do you want us to do? What now? Jack?"

  Nothing.

  "What now?" I ask.

  I'm still talking to Jack, but Dad is the one who answers. He looks at the car. "Go to the station. Hopefully we can get in and –"

  "Are you nuts?" The words burst out before I can control them. And I don't think I would have stopped them even if I could. "That's suicide. The whole police force has got to be looking for us. We go there we're nailed."

  "You got a better idea?" He almost snarls at me. I fall back a step or two.

  "Yeah," I say. I don't, but my brain scrambles for something. All I can think is that I don't want Dad to go to jail. I don't want me to go to jail, either, but for a second I forget about myself. I just don't want him going to jail. If he ends up in jail, there'll be no coming back. Cops don't tend to last long or do too well when they get thrown in with the same people they've been putting away. And I don't want him leaving me.

  Too many people have left me.

  My brain finds something. "Zevahk," I say.

  "What?"

  "Let's go to one of them. Zevahk was there. At the shooting. Maybe he'll listen."

  Dad waves the base of the radio around. "You really think Jack Be Nimble is going to let us get to them? He's got us on a string, and he knows it."

  "It's better than nothing!" The words shriek out of me, so loud they drown out the moans of the Ocean's Tomb and the slamming surf at our back. Dad doesn't exactly fall back, but he does sort of shrink into himself for a moment.

  "I.... Sorry," he finally manages. He passes a hand in front of his eyes, like he's trying to drop the curtain on the night. "I'm tired. Just so tired."

  Then the hand falls away. His eyes shine, but they seem present, alert.

  "Yeah. Let's go see him. Maybe he'll... maybe he'll help."

  Dad turns, grabs the handle of the driver's side door. Then pauses, staring inside. "You wouldn't happen to know how to hotwire a 1999 POC, would you?" Then he snaps his fingers. "Knight kept a spare in the trunk, behind the lug wrench."

  Dad leans in. Pops the trunk.

  "You want me to drive?" I say, aware he's been awake and driving for something like fifteen or sixteen hours at this point.

  "No. I'm good." He flashes me a smile that somehow makes me feel a little better. "Thanks, Melly. You're a good girl."

  The little compliment is like a match in deep space. It doesn't get rid of the blackness, but it's something. A tiny spot of hope and warmth.

  We go around back to get the key from the trunk.

  And stop dead when we see what's back there.

  12

  I DON'T KNOW HOW JACK crushed Zevahk into the trunk of Knight's car. Zevahk must weigh over two hundred pounds, and every inch of him is folded up on itself. The round body that looked like a weird blue sausage whenever he was crammed into his police uniform now just looks awkward and ugly now that he's crammed in the back of Knight's trunk.

  Blood streams down the side of his head, over his closed eyes. A lake of the stuff has pooled on the mat of the trunk, drying into a sticky black-brown gunk.

  "Is he...?" I can't say the word. The last word. The word that matters.

  "I don't know." Dad leans in. "I think so." His voice hitches.

  He touches Zevahk's neck, feeling for a pulse. "I can't...." He frowns. Not the frown of a man touch
ing death. Just someone concentrating. "Maybe."

  Then Zevahk's eyes pop open. I scream. So does he. Mine is wordless. A cry of terror, the shriek of a person who is looking at death come to life.

  His cry is not wordless. His scream packs an entire world of sound and emotion into three small syllables. "I'm SORRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYY!"

  His eyes are wild, spinning in their sockets like he's trapped in a dream, a nightmare. He sobs, gasps. Life surging out of him, then being yanked back as he sucks each breath into his lungs by force of will.

  I realize that his face isn't the only thing bloodied. Everything on him is bent and bruised. His bones have been broken. Arms twisted, legs cracked so what should have had single joints in the middle now have multiple hinges.

  One of his feet is twisted around so it faces completely backward. For some reason, that's the worst thing. I can't imagine what could have done it, or how much it must have hurt.

  "Sorry... sorry... sorry... sorry...." Zevahk is saying the word with every breath now. Eyes still spinning sightlessly, still empty of everything.

  No, that's wrong. There's something there. He's insane.

  And that's true. He's gone mad. Whoever put him in this car also pushed him to a place so far beyond reality that I don't know if he'll ever come back.

  "Sorry... sorry...."

  "Zevahk," says Dad. He's looking around the man like he wants to help but doesn't know where to start. How do you do first aid on a guy who looks like he was put through a machine press before being compacted into the trunk of a car? I've crushed aluminum cans that looked better than Zevahk does.

  "Sorry... sorry... sorry...."

  Dad reaches for Zevahk. "Who did this to you, buddy?"

  "Sorry... sorry... SORRY!"

  Zevahk's cries raise in volume the closer Dad's hands come. To the point I worry the guy is going to burst whatever blood vessels are still whole in his body and die right there.

  I don't know if I can handle another dead body.

  Dad seems to think the same thing. His hands go back. "We'll get you some help, Z."