Authors: Patrick Kendrick
Acoustic Shadows (29 page)
He used the time to close the distance between them, his long legs functioning better with each step, his old gridiron pace coming back, an imaginary goal line just ahead.
Millie had disappeared over the sea oat-covered dune and, within seconds, Moral did, too.
Thiery got to A1A and could hear sirens coming, saw blue flashing lights at a distance down the road. But, they weren’t going to make it in time. He heard a shot ahead and prayed he wasn’t too late. Mounting the dunes, he hurled himself quickly over the side so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the road, and forced his eyes to adjust to the dark shoreline. The bright light of the stars helped, and he could see Millie running north along the surf, her feet kicking up foam as she splashed forward. Moral had stopped and was carefully aiming; his arms locked-out tight as he slowly squeezed off one round, watched where it hit in relation to Millie, then adjusted, and fired again.
Millie went down and, at first, Thiery thought she might have been hit, but she must’ve only stumbled, because she got back up and moved into the ocean at a diagonal. She was going to make a swim for it, he thought, or duck under water. Neither strategy would work for very long. Moral’s aim was getting closer, kicking up little geysers of water each time he pulled the trigger.
‘Drop it, Moral!’ he ordered, levelling the shotgun at him, panting, his head reeling from the effort of the run and his wounds.
Moral twirled like a Peeping Tom that just got caught looking into a window. His arms were lowered, but the gun was still there.
Thiery fought off the bees that reformed in front of his eyes and the nausea that was returning and tried to steady the shotgun that seemed to be growing heavier by the second. He walked slowly toward Moral. ‘Said … put … it … down.’
Light reflected off the ocean, perhaps it was an illusion brought on by loss of blood, but to Thiery, it looked like stage lighting. For a brief moment, he could see Moral’s face as clearly as if the sun were coming up over the horizon. He saw his expression change from worried concentration to a benign, almost goofy smile.
‘Do you remember a woman named, Adrienne?’ asked Thiery, his tongue still thick and occluding his speech.
‘Who?’ said Moral, almost grinning, his grip tightening on his pistol.
‘In a restaurant, about ten years ago. New York. She was with a man named Gazmend.’
Moral’s brow was furrowed, but smoothed as the memory came back.
Yeah, he thought, that was the beginning. The start of the downhill run, the fear of being financially underwater, the relief that there was a way out, if only he didn’t mind giving up everything that mattered.
Moral shrugged. He couldn’t muster any more sympathy for the man in front of him than he could muster for himself.
They could both hear sirens growing closer, now, and a helicopter was looming over the street where people lay dead in the previously quiet community.
‘That was
my wife
,’ continued Thiery. ‘Now, put that fucking gun down.’
Moral nodded his head, but didn’t release the gun. ‘She was screwing around on you,’ he told Thiery.
‘That didn’t give you … the right to kill her,’ he mumbled, weakly. A blood vessel behind his eye began to make his vision look like a pulsing, red light.
‘You got it all wrong, Thiery,’ Moral said, stalling, weighing out one last gamble, one last throw of the dice, wondering if,
maybe
, there was a way he could win
one last time
. ‘You need to know the truth. If you’ll let me explain … ’
Thiery knew Moral was trying to distract him until he could make his move, talking shit until Thiery passed out, or fell over dead.
How much longer am I gonna last, anyway, with a knife wound in the back and a gunshot wound to the head?
He saw Moral draw a deep breath, his elbow start to bend, but didn’t wait for him to move. He tightened the shotgun against his shoulder so it wouldn’t kick too hard, and pulled the trigger.
Moral took the blast midsection, and it seemed to cut him in half as he was kicked back into the surf.
Thiery could see his eyes, wide with the recognition of death, dim out, like the lights of a boozy, sweat-scented, casino, blinking out as the gamblers shuffled off at closing, their pockets and hopes empty.
Crumpling to his knees, Thiery dropped the shotgun and rolled onto his back on the sand, allowing its cool, granular embrace to comfort him. He could see the star formation of Orion, ever the hunter, ever the fighter, behind the kind and pretty face of Millie Adkins as she stroked his face, gently, with her nurse’s touch. He closed his eyes and felt his body float up and into the stars.
Four Weeks Later
Thiery’s doctor began to decrease the thiopentone that had kept him in a drug-induced coma for a month while his brain healed and the swelling subsided.
He awoke several times over the next few days. Initially, he opened his eyes to see a lovely woman who seemed recognizable, but whose name he could not remember. Her hair was its natural colour now, with a few incongruent streaks of grey poking through on one side, where that childhood swing injury had healed. She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and gave him, with the doctor’s permission, a tiny sip of water. Then he was off to that foggy state, again, that allowed neither comprehension nor creative dream sequences, just a mental limbo.
The next time he woke up, his hand was curled in what he initially thought was a bird’s nest, then the ‘nest’ moved and below it was the face of his oldest son, Owen, his curly hair grown out and a ragged beard outlining his jaw. Leif, the younger, was standing behind him with his usual gum-showing grin. The woman was there again.
‘Wha … ’ Thiery croaked, his throat dry. The lady gave him another sip of water. ‘Why are you guys here?’
‘We thought you might check out,’ replied Leif, ever the smart-ass. ‘We were hanging around, waiting for that big inheritance.’
Owen nudged his brother in the ribs. ‘Just checking on you, Dad,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Ha,’ he chuckled, not without discomfort. ‘I feel like someone kicked a field goal with my head.’ He noticed one of those stainless steel trapeze bars hanging from a chain above his chest. He reached up, noticing how pale and small his arms looked, grasped the bar, and pulled himself up a few inches with his good arm. The woman practically flew to his side and assisted.
‘Th … thanks,’ he said. Trying to focus his eyes, he looked at her and added, ‘I know you, right?’
She smiled. ‘Enough to almost get yourself killed for it.’
He smiled lopsidedly at her, ‘Millie, right?’ Then added, ‘you look like you were worth it.’
Her face blushed, and she looked at his sons. ‘Some people come out of anaesthesia crying. Some people wake up making jokes.’
‘I don’t think he was joking, Millie,’ said Leif.
They kept it light that day. Getting caught up, filling him in. A nurse came in and brought horrible hospital food. The boys promised him a pizza with meatballs if he could ‘keep that crap down’. Later that night, they smuggled one in.
His surgeon stopped by the next day and told him he was healing as he should. He went over the injuries: a small crack in his skull where the bullet had ‘bounced off’ (‘hard head,’ Leif had added), and his scapula was cracked from the knife wound. He’d had some swelling in his brain, but it was under control. He would probably need balance therapy when he walked again, which the doctor encouraged him to do as soon as he felt up to it. ‘Might experience some double vision, initially,’ he’d said, along with a ringing in his ears, but that should pass. His shoulder would actually take longer to heal and require physical therapy to regain motion and overcome the muscular atrophy.
‘Maybe you can actually beat him arm-wrestling, now,’ said Owen to Leif.
They all had a chuckle.
The boys stayed around a few more days to assure themselves he was on the mend, but Leif had to get back to the Navy base in San Diego and Owen back to the fire department in San Francisco. Owen needed to save vacation time so that he could go on a honeymoon in a few months. He expected his father to be there to see him off.
When Millie excused herself to visit the ladies’ room, the boys both grew serious and each took up a place on either side of his bed.
‘That one is a keeper, Pops,’ said Leif, raising his eyebrows up and down comically.
‘You think?’ said Thiery, remembering those blue eyes as the first thing he saw when he woke up.
‘Don’t know how much you remember, Dad, but you got him,’ said Owen stoically, his jaw muscles flexing.
Thiery looked quizzically at his sons. ‘Who?’
Owen glanced at Leif, who said, ‘The bastard who killed Mom.’
‘I did?’
‘Yeah, Dad,’ said Owen. ‘Commissioner Bullock was here when they first brought you in. He stayed a few days after we got here and kinda filled us in.’
‘Yeah?’ Thiery said. ‘I don’t remember everything. Can you fill
me
in?’
‘The Commissioner said he was coming back in,’ said Leif. ‘Maybe he should do that. He’s got more details than we do. But, we, both of us, just wanted to say … ’ He got choked up and couldn’t finish.
Owen did it for him. ‘We wanted to say you’re the best father we could’ve hoped for. And that we never doubted you. We love you, Dad.’
Thiery tried to lighten it up. ‘Hey,’ he addressed Owen, ‘don’t they have grooming standards at the fire department?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, stroking his beard. He bent over and hugged his father, as did Leif.
As if on cue, Bullock walked into the room, carrying a Tupperware container that barely concealed the scent of home-fried chicken.
‘Unhand that man, you trolls,’ said Bullock. ‘And don’t you dare make a pass at this chicken. I’m armed.’
‘Hey, Chief,’ said Owen. ‘You’re just in time, we gotta catch a plane.’
‘Okay boys,’ Bullock said. ‘It sure was good seeing you. I’ll try to keep this guy entertained.’
‘Good luck,’ joked Leif. ‘See you at the wedding.’
All said their good-byes, and the boys left, Thiery looking after them fondly, but with tears in his eyes.
‘God, they’re almost as big as you, man,’ Bullock commented. ‘You must be proud of them.’ Getting to the matter at hand, he added, ‘How are you feeling?’
Thiery dabbed at his eyes with the corner of his bed sheet. ‘Like I lost the game.’
Bullock laughed. ‘No, you didn’t. Fact is, you put down a real piece of shit.’
‘Moral? How much trouble am I in for that?’
‘You’re clear. Millie Adkins was the witness and Moral had a gun. We already had an administrative hearing; interviewed residents in Ormond Beach, and our forensic people were all over the scene. The FBI’s report ties it all together.’
‘Can you help
me
tie it together? I feel like one of those new kids in school who’s missed a semester.’
‘How much do you recall?’
‘Most of it, now,’ Thiery answered, ‘but that last day, when we went to the beach house, is like a dream with parts missing. It gets all jumbled.’
Bullock spelled out the events of the beach house shoot-out: who got who, how, where, and why.
Thiery closed his eyes and tried to remember. Bits and pieces flashed into his head, but it made him dizzy, so he let it go for the time being.
‘The boys said I got the man who killed their mother.’
‘You don’t remember our conversation that night you called me?’
‘Not that much. I remember something about the Albanian mob … ’
‘That’s right. I don’t know how much you want to hear right now … ’
‘Fill me in, Jim, or I won’t get any rest.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but I think you knew, already. Adrienne had that old boyfriend in New York – the guy she went to school with – Gazmend?’
‘I remember the name.’
‘He was an accountant, like her. When she left you, she hooked back up with him. Eric Gazmend was already assigned to the US Marshal’s WITSEC programme. Adrienne wasn’t a witness, but she had ties to one, so they allowed her in, even though they weren’t married, just so he’d cooperate with them. They gave her one of their contrived Hollywood starlet names, Eva Monroe, and she legally changed it. She was trying to hide from her husband – you – a cop. She knew if she kept her name, you’d find her in no time and, if you could find her, the mob probably could, too. Unfortunately, the guy who was supposed to protect Gazmend was Moral. Adrienne just happened to have the bad luck to be out with him when the hit went down.’
‘Jesus. How did you put that together?’
Bullock smiled. ‘I didn’t.
You
did. I remembered you had told me about your theory, that the marshals were using code names of famous magicians and old Hollywood stars to rename their protected witnesses. Seemed pretty silly at the time, but you know the Feds. I mean, they named that fiasco down in Mexico “Fast & Furious”, so they are not beyond some drama, you know?’
‘Hmm,’ said Thiery, confused, but curious. ‘So, now what? Does Millie have to go back into hiding?’
Bullock shook his head. ‘We don’t think so. The Esperanzas’ organization is falling apart. The old man ran it, and the son might have tried to keep it going, but he’s gone, too.’
‘What about the shooting at the school? That community?’
‘They’re recovering. The Feds owned up about Moral being a dirty marshal, but they’re keeping the details vague. They sure as hell don’t want the public to know the school shooting was any more than a random school shooting, and that, not only did Moral secure the weapons, he spent several months on an anarchist chat line talking a crazy kid into doing the deed. Moral arranged the purchase of the gun cache from the Kentucky State PD through a licensed pawn shop in Vegas, owned by a guy named Tito Viveros. Viveros bought the cache for the Esperanzas, who then hired Shadtz, a man dying from cancer, to bring them to Coody. Logan’s FBI buddy, Miko Tran, got Viveros to sing like a bitch; that was the ribbon on the gift. Oh, yeah, one last thing.’ Bullock handed him a newspaper. Thiery read:
CALUSA COUNTY SHERIFF RESIGNS UNDER INVESTIGATION
In the wake of the Travis Hanks Elementary School shooting, an investigation into the delayed response of the Calusa County Sheriff’s Office has revealed that officers had been ordered, according to several deputies questioned, to delay their responses to certain calls. Sheriff Alton Conroy allegedly had been trying to manipulate response times in order to get more funding for his department. Conroy’s attorney has stated the allegations are false, but a number of officers within the department have already given statements to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement … ’
The story continued for several pages, but Thiery put the paper down and rubbed his eyes. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I hate this business.’
‘I do know,’ Bullock responded, ‘but you’re good at it, Justin. And, you’re
honest
. We, the state of Florida, need you. Hell, I’ll say it, even the US government needs you. Now, you’ve got a lot of time to recover, and you need to think about coming back when you do.’
‘Not likely, sir.’
Bullock had his hands over his ears. ‘Sorry, man, I can’t hear you. You should know, I’ve slowed my retirement, just a bit, until you can get better and maybe reconsider your future. I know the governor would like you to take over— ’
‘Oh, I’m sure about that.’
‘No, really. You missed the President meeting with Millie Adkins. He said he was going to nominate her for the President’s Citizen Medal for saving those kids at the school. Said he was considering you for an award, too.’
‘The President of the United States?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bullock, laughing. ‘That’s the one. I told him you didn’t need an award ’cause you already have the Heisman.’
Thiery shook his head and laughed weakly. ‘You’re too much, man.’
‘That’s what my wife says,’ Bullock joked. ‘Hey, I have to go. Tallahassee calling. You get better and come see us, okay?’
After Bullock left, Thiery closed his eyes for a moment to digest it all. He finally settled down, drifted off, and never heard Millie Adkins come back into the room and take up her station next to him, where she’d been for the past several weeks. She was, after all, still a registered nurse.
When Thiery’s doctor released him about a month later, Millie was there. She’d offered to help look after him while he recuperated. She had nowhere to go and nothing she had to do. Thiery didn’t mind; he needed the help and enjoyed her company. She was easy to talk to and quick with a smile or a laugh. Her injuries were well on their way to being healed, but he still felt that, in some way, she needed him as much as he needed her.
Bullock had driven Thiery’s truck down before his friend was released. The fabulously restored 1958 Chevy Apache, with its beefy rounded fenders, massive grille, and dual headlights, appeared to have a gruff face, not unlike its owner’s. Thiery gave Millie the keys and asked her to pull it around as he waited in a wheelchair at the hospital’s entrance.
The eggplant-coloured truck rolled up in front of him, and he smiled hearing its familiar and comforting,
glub, glub, glub.
Millie got out shaking her head. ‘You couldn’t possibly drive anything from this century, could you?’
‘Nah,’ he grinned, ‘too much plastic. But, hey, it is an automatic with aftermarket air-conditioning.’
‘Wow,’ she feigned adoration, ‘you sure know how to spoil a girl.’ She helped him into the truck, then got into the driver’s seat.
‘Which way is the best way to go, sir?’ she asked.
‘We could go straight up I-75,’ he suggested, ‘then over on I-10 to Tallahassee. But, would you mind taking a drive down to Sebring, first? It’s only about an hour, and I want to check on a friend.’
Millie smiled. She knew which friend and she needed to see him, too, to say thanks. She pushed the gas down and was surprised at how responsive the old truck was.
‘Like music?’ Thiery asked.
‘Anything but country,’ she replied.
‘I hear that.’ He found an alternative rock station and they cruised south to George Dunham’s house, stopping to buy a six-pack of cold beer at a convenience store, before pulling into his driveway.
Dunham was sitting on the porte cochère outside a bone-coloured clapboard house with Kelly green shutters, in the shade of a giant oak tree. His leg was in a straight cast. He shook Thiery’s hand with what was left of his: the pinkie and ring finger were gone. He made a joke of it, holding up his remaining fingers as he greeted, ‘Peace, brother.’
Thiery and Millie sat down on a swinging love seat and rocked slowly back and forth. When Dunham’s wife, Sherry, joined them, introductions went around. No one was averse to drinking a beer, even though it was barely after twelve noon.
Millie thanked Dunham for saving her life and risking his own. Had he not hobbled over to the car window when he did, Emilio Esperanza would’ve shot her, driven away with Moral, and they would’ve won.