“I think so.” Dakota had given up on sleep some two or three hours earlier. Now she might as well just swallow a gallon of coffee and be done with it. She closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck. Bad idea. A movie played inside her head, bright Technicolor with faces popping in and out of focus as she tried to make sense of the last few hours. Sean. Ethan. Sarah. Gunnar. Beale Street. The guy with the cell phone. The cop. When she opened her eyes again, they were already out the door, waiting for her on the sidewalk. Dakota gave up trying to figure out answers and went to join them.
6:00 a.m.
Ethan merged onto the highway, deserted except for the occasional car that passed him every so often. He loosened his fingers around the steering wheel and tried to draw a full breath. Just keep it at sixty. No one’ll pull you over. No one’ll even look twice.
In the passenger seat, Sean mumbled under his breath. He still held the gun in one hand, knuckles tensed, knee bobbing. Every so often, he glanced out the window. “How much farther?”
“Two exits.”
Ethan wondered what Sean would do at the airport—just walk up to the reservations desk, wave his gun and demand a first-class ticket to Mexico? From the way his hair stood up on end and the dried blood around his nose and mouth, Ethan couldn’t imagine anyone mistaking the guy for a regular traveler.
But that’s not my problem. The minute he gets out of my car, I’m gone. His phone remained silent. No buzz indicating a returned text from Mike. Maybe Ethan’s text hadn’t gone through. Or maybe it had been such a jumble of words, Mike wrote it off as a drunken mistake.
They passed a turn-around, where a police cruiser parked facing their direction. Sean jumped. “Shit.”
Ethan kept his speed steady even as he willed the cruiser to pull into traffic.
Sean twisted around in his seat. “He’s pullin’ out.”
Oh thank you, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Ethan wasn’t speeding, wasn’t swerving, wasn’t on his phone, didn’t have an expired license. So maybe that meant the cops had an APB out for anyone who looked like Sean. Ethan could only hope.
Sean’s finger flinched on the trigger. “He’s following us!” His voice raced up the octave and Ethan glanced into the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the cop had pulled in behind them. A few seconds later, red lights started whirling. Ethan let off the gas and started to pull onto the shoulder.
“Speed up.” Sean pressed the gun into Ethan’s side. “Get back on the road and speed the fuck up.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I. Said. Speed. Up.” With each word, Sean jabbed the barrel of the gun into Ethan’s ribs.
Fine. I’ll speed up, you homicidal maniac. And get us both killed. He pressed down on the accelerator. The needle rose to seventy-five. Eighty. The cop turned on his siren. Eighty-five.
Sean had turned completely around in the seat, watching behind them. “Can’t this piece of shit move any faster?”
An exit sign flashed by, but too late for Ethan to try and pull over. Not that he dared to, at this point. Driving seemed to be the best option to stay alive. Ahead of him, a tractor-trailer moved into the right lane. Ethan swerved to the left and sped up to ninety. Mile markers zipped by, little flickers of white in the early morning light. One-two-three... He wondered absently if he could count them all, if he could mark the passing of pavement with every second they flew down the near-empty highway.
The cop car neared his bumper. Ethan stopped looking into his rearview mirror. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleven... The needle on the speedometer moved right. The sun slipped over the horizon. Black dots blinded him, and he reached up to wipe tears from his eyes. ...nineteentwentytwentyone...
When he reached one hundred miles per hour, Ethan stopped counting and started praying.
MIKE ROLLED OVER. AS usual, his covers had ended up on the floor. He reached under the pillow and pulled out his cell phone. Better than an alarm, he always told Ethan. Put that thing on vibrate and it always wakes me up.
But he was damn sure he hadn’t set the phone’s alarm last night. Not for six o’clock on a Sunday morning, anyway.
He squinted into the half-light. The thing was definitely vibrating. A message? Mike propped himself up on one elbow and set the phone on his bedside table. He didn’t care who it was—Mom, sis, even that chick Katie from last week with the big boobs— he had sleeping to do.
Shit, his ankle hurt. Where were those pain pills? He groped around the table and knocked his phone onto the floor. It vibrated again, a steel insect buzzing around on the carpet, but he ignored it. His fingers closed around the prescription bottle and he flipped off the lid. Finally Mike worked two pills to the back of his throat and swallowed.
But now he was awake after all. His ankle throbbed, and he adjusted the covers so they weren’t putting pressure on it. He reached for the remote, and a panel on the wall opposite his bed slid open to reveal a seventy-two inch flat-screen television. He propped his foot up on two pillows, stuck two more behind his head, and laid back to channel surf. Five minutes later, he realized there was nothing on except for infomercials and a couple of sitcom reruns he’d seen a thousand times.
His stomach rumbled, but he didn’t feel like limping to the kitchen to find breakfast. Maybe in another couple of hours, he’d call Ethan and see if he wanted to get some bacon and eggs. Finally, he found a local news channel and reached over to check his messages.
Whoops. Landed on the floor, remember, Einstein? He leaned over and felt around the carpet. When he finally found the phone and righted himself, a cute news reporter in a bright pink suit was waving a manicured hand in the air.
“—are currently following the suspect in a high speed chase down highway 240...”
He stared at the screen. A car chase? Cool. Maybe he’d see a good wreck. He turned up the volume.
“And now we’ll send it up to Marty, who’s in our traffic helicopter above the highway. Marty?”
Marty’s equipment must not have worked at first, because all Mike could make out was a fuzzy shot of pavement and a broken audio track. He glanced down at his cell and punched in his code to check the messages.
One voicemail from Howie, around two. Jackass sounded like he’d gotten himself in some kind of trouble, needed a ride home, Ethan wasn’t around, blah, blah, blah. Mike deleted the message halfway through. The only other message was a text from Ethan. Mike’s brows lifted. At five-thirty in the morning? Good for him. Maybe he got lucky. Maybe he got laid. Finally. But as he squinted at the screen, trying to make out the words, goose pimples raised on his bare chest and arms.
In slow motion, he focused again on the television screen. This time, Marty came in loud and clear, giving a play by play of the police chase that was still taking place. The camera zoomed in and Mike could make out everything. A familiar blue sedan, weaving in and out of traffic. Three cop cars, close behind. Barricades set up at the nearest exit and median. His gaze moved to the cell phone and then back up to the television.
“Holy mother of Christ,” he whispered. “Ethan, what the hell did you get yourself into?”
“YOU KNOW, MAYBE I SHOULD just pull over,” Ethan said through gritted teeth.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Sean swiveled in his seat and the gun nicked Ethan on the shoulder.
He winced and kept driving. Two other cops had joined the first, but he didn’t dare slow down, or he’d get shot by the asshole sitting beside him. You can get yourself out of this. The next exit’s a mile away. Stay in the right lane and aim for the water barrier. Thanks to ongoing construction, bright orange barrels filled with water lined the highway. He’d seen them last week on his way to interview the city’s newest minor league pitcher.
Ethan wrapped and unwrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. What would happen after he hit them? Would his airbags go off? Would the police car rear end them and send the Corolla into a tailspin? Would the car catch on fire? Would he even live to see to see the ball game he w
as supposed to report on later that day?
Change happens whether or not you’re afraid of it. It’s how you deal with it that matters...
Dakota’s face flashed into his mind’s eye, and his frantic thoughts quieted. His fear slipped away. She was out there. She was out there and waiting for him to get back to her. They hadn’t said a proper goodbye. They’d barely finished saying hello. So if he had to crawl through fire or water to see her again, he would.
7:00 a.m.
“I’m fine,” Ethan tried to say, but for some reason his mouth wouldn’t work. He raised one hand to his head and felt a bump at the back of his skull. The sky spun and he let the figure above him shine a light into his eyes and wrap something tight around his arm.
“Is he conscious? Can he give a statement?” From somewhere to his right came a deep, raspy voice. Ethan strained to see past the shoulder of the person kneeling above him. Three, maybe four figures hurried by. Cops? Where the hell was he? Then the last ten minutes of his life slammed back into focus.
I just played chicken with a cop car. Everything rushed back: Sean and the gun, the alley, the car chase. Ethan had jammed the Corolla across two lanes of traffic, stood on the brakes, and slid to a mighty stop in front of a construction barrier. Had he hit it? He couldn’t remember.
Now hard cement dug into his skull. He didn’t know how he’d gotten out of the car or how he’d ended up flat on his back. And he had no idea what had happened to his maniacal passenger. With all the noise and the lights swirling around him, he supposed he should be grateful for the temporary amnesia. He only hoped he could make the cops understand what he’d been trying to do. He struggled to draw a breath.
The figure beside him spoke. “Doubt he knows much of anything right now. He’s pretty banged up.”
Ethan rolled his head on the pavement, and from the corner of his eye, he saw his Corolla, crushed almost beyond recognition. Guess I did hit the barrier, after all. A few feet away sat three police cars and an ambulance. Beyond that, a news van. Wasn’t his paper, but a rival. Above them circled a helicopter. Great. Just great. Ethan wondered how his editor would feel about that. Medics knelt on either side of him. One wrote on a clipboard while the other tended to his injuries. Sean himself was being escorted into one of the waiting cruisers.
“Looks like some lacerations to the face and hands and possibly a concussion from hitting the airbag. Right leg might have sustained some injury. But he’s regained consciousness.”
Ethan tried to sit up. “I can talk,” he croaked. He had one hell of a story to tell. But the moment he tried, an ache ricocheted through every bone and nerve in his body and he tasted bitterness at the back of his throat. Without warning, he pitched forward and threw up. Ugh. Gross. Vomit covered the ground between his feet.
“Don’t worry about that. Let’s get you on this.” Two paramedics with a stretcher appeared beside him.
“No. I’ll just go home, take some aspirin and be fine.” He didn’t want to go back to the hospital. Not for the second time in one weekend.
“Sorry. Gotta take precautions,” one of medics said. “You’ve been involved in a pretty serious accident.”
Ethan didn’t struggle after that.
The medics helped him onto the stretcher and carried him to the ambulance. “We’re going to take you over to Baptist Memorial. The police will take your statement there.”
You mean I’m not gonna be hauled away in handcuffs? Ethan closed his eyes. Cool.
“Is there someone we can call? An emergency contact? Someone who can meet you at the hospital?”
Lydia...
But Lydia was long gone, a stone marker in a cemetery on the other side of town the only physical proof she’d ever existed in his life. He shook his head. Mike? Other than his best friend, Ethan couldn’t think of a single person. “No one,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
The medic frowned. “You’re sure?”
For a fleeting moment, Ethan thought of Dakota. Maybe she’ll be at the hospital with Gunnar and Sarah. But the idea seemed absurd. “There’s no one to call. I’ll be fine.”
I’ll be fine.
How many times had he echoed those words in the last year? Ten? Fifty? Probably closer to a hundred. Yet they were always a lie. Always a cover for the pain that tightened his jaw, his chest, his life. Tonight, back at Piano Alley, had been the first time in forever that he’d glimpsed the possibility of remembering what fine truly felt like. And now it might as well be gone.
“Hang on, then,” the medic said. He and his partner lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and climbed inside. One crouched near Ethan, checking his leg and then shining a penlight into his eyes again. She set up an IV, and a few minutes later his pain eased. Red lights whirled. A siren whined. The vehicle moved forward, and the medic patted his shoulder.
“Let’s get you to the hospital and taken care of.”
A few minutes later, they slowed to a stop outside the Emergency Room. As the ambulance doors swung open, Ethan strained to look around. Nothing. No one. His gut tightened and he realized that even though it had seemed like a long shot, he’d hoped Dakota might be here. The stretcher reached the ground and one medic patted him on the arm. Two nurses and an intern waited in the bay.
“Vitals?” the intern asked.
The medic rattled off some numbers. “...and some loss of consciousness, a few minutes, maybe,” he finished.
“Can you feel this?” The intern felt up and down his leg, probing from knee to ankle as the stretcher wheeled into the hospital and through a curtained area. She bent over him, unsmiling but professional in her touch.
Ethan nodded. Unfortunately, he wanted to say. I can feel everything. He must have nailed his leg good upon impact. More memories returned: his leg bearing down on the accelerator, then switching over to the brake at the last possible moment before impact. He saw the dashboard buckle at the same moment as the airbag whooshed out and hit him in the face. He lifted his hands. Cuts covered both of them. He winced and remembered the shot to the nose he’d taken from Sean. At that moment, he was damn glad he couldn’t see his reflection.
“Sounds like you took a pretty hard hit.”
“I guess.” He wondered how much she knew. Ironic. Fifteen hours earlier, he’d been the one holding up Mike as they hobbled their way into this very ER. Now he’d returned by himself. What were the odds?
Yet even as the intern examined him, Ethan’s anxiety subsided. Despite his injury and the fact he lay there alone, he didn’t feel the claustrophobia and anguish that he had only a day before. This place held memories, yes, heart-breaking ones, but so did a thousand places in every city in the world for someone. Death came and went, broke hearts, stole lovers away from each other and yet the sun still rose. The stars still came out and piano players still tore up the keys and people still reached out to find new lovers in the dark.
“A concussion is likely,” the intern was saying. “And some possible tendon damage to your right leg. Doesn’t look like anything’s broken, though. Hang on while we transfer you to the bed.”
“Okay.” Glad for the cushioning of the mattress, Ethan sank back and rested his head on the pillow. Suddenly, his eyelids weighed a hundred pounds each, and all he wanted to do was sleep for about a week.
“I’m going to have the attending come in and look at that leg,” the intern said. “He might want to take some x-rays just to be sure. And a scan to check for concussion.” She checked his pulse, his temperature, his blood pressure. “We’re going to have to cut your jeans off to check the wound.”
Ethan flushed. Being stripped down to his skivvies under fluorescent lights at dawn? Not exactly the way he’d pictured this night ending up. “If you give me a minute, I think I can get ‘em off myself.” The last thing he wanted was some strange female pulling off his pants. He almost grinned, but the movement hurt his head. He imagined that Mike would tease him for weeks at resisting such an opportunity.
“Sorry. It’s procedure. With your injuries, you shouldn’t be moving around too much.” She paused. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Again the question. He moved his head back and forth on the pillow. “No. But thanks.” A male nurse joined them, and Ethan cleared his throat and stared at the fluorescent lights above him as they sliced off his jeans, dirty and stiff with blood. To his relief, he got to keep his boxer shorts. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know...did three people come in here together a little while ago? A tall black guy and two women? In their twenties?”
The intern rested a hand on the door handle. “Sorry. I can‘t release any kind of personal information about other patients.” She stopped. “Are they friends of yours?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that. ER’s been quiet this morning, I can tell you that much. The doctor’ll be in shortly.” She backed through the door and was gone.
Frustrated, Ethan reached up and felt dried blood along his hairline. He examined his palms, banged up and scraped by pavement. The pressure of resting one inside the other sent pain up both wrists. And yet they’d touched Dakota just hours earlier, held the small of her back and the side of her cheek when he kissed her. They’d turned into fists while he stood his ground against a lunatic. They’d spun the wheel of a car as he saved his own life. He held them up to the light, marveling. He looked at his chest, his arms, his feet.
I’m alive. I didn’t break into a thousand pieces, like I thought I would if I fell for another woman. Sometimes the world still amazed him.
“Well, hello there.” The doctor checked his chart. “Mr. Meriweather? I’m Doctor Cortez. How’re we feeling this morning?”
“We? You look a hundred percent healthy,” Ethan said. “I, on the other hand, just watched my life flash before my eyes. Thought I’d try out for the NASCAR circuit, do a little drag racing down the interstate.”
Countdown: Ethan Page 16
