A Living Grave (28 page)

“I can get you out of here,” I told him.

“There's no gettin' out of what's coming. You think about it, you'll know I'm right.”

Something creaked in the dining area.

“Come on,” I said. “There are still lots of ways this can play. Help me get the bastards, then laugh in their face. Don't do that honor-among-scumbags crap.”

Figorelli laughed at that despite the pain it caused him. “I like you,” he said. “You got some brass balls, lady. Bigger than I ever had.” He laughed again; this time it was pointed inward. After that he drained the last of the whiskey from his glass.

“This isn't the time to talk anatomy, Figgs. I think we should get out of here.”

“You think I'm a son of a bitch, don't you? You think I'm just another fucking goombah. Maybe I am. But you think I'm like all the rest of 'em. I ain't.”

There was another movement in the shadows. It could have been a rat, but I knew it wasn't. I squeezed my grip tighter, comforted by the feel of my weapon in my hand. As soon as I thought it I realized that the weapon was my baton, not my gun. Was I being watched? If I went for the automatic at the small of my back, would I make it? I took a deep breath and held still. There was a chance that the lack of a gun in my hand was the only thing keeping things quiet so far.

“You know why I'm in this fix?” Figorelli asked. “Because I'm not a complete son of a bitch. Because I'm soft. I didn't kill your boyfriend because I felt sorry for him.”

In my chest my heart beat hard and something cold bloomed outward with it.

“What do you mean?”

“We had a deal, him and me. He wanted to die and I wanted his share. Like some kind of schmuck I wouldn't do it. Who knew I had a conscience?” Figorelli laughed again. This time it was more spitting in the face of life than introspection. “Hell, he was dying anyway. I thought that just once things would go easy.”

“Then why'd you send the bikers after him?”

“That was all on Johnny. He wanted the painter's share too. He'd already fucked up and got desperate to keep Joey D's people away. He let the bikers sell meth for a cut then used them to cut out the locals cooking booze. It didn't matter. It never mattered. The Marciano family wanted this place, they were gettin' it.” He was looking at me then, really looking. The light of confession or maybe the light of death was in his one good eye as he stared. In his hand was the empty drink and his cigarette smoldered, untouched in an ashtray. “You got any idea what it could be worth? Owning a still that's legal but pumping out gallons of extra booze that no one looks for. That's just the tip of the thing. No middlemen, no markup, no taxes.”

He started shifting his left eye, casting his fractured gaze over my right shoulder. When I began to turn, Figorelli shook his head. It was a small movement, barely a tic, but combined with the fear in his eye it stopped me. I adjusted my grip on the baton and put my thumb on the button.

“Can you believe this fucking world? I did the right thing, maybe the one time in my life, and it goes to shit. But there's no figuring some people out. First your guy wants to die but he won't just lay down and let it happen. He don't give a good goddamn about this place but he won't let it go. Some people gotta go hard. Then he tells Dauterive about this trust thing. He coulda just spit in the guy's face and dared him to do something about it. If he ain't got a death wish now he's just fucking stupid. If he'd just died like he was supposed to, none of this would have happened. Now Dauterive is going to make sure it happens before things get in your hands. This thing can't stand up to probate court and audits.”

“Wait,” I said. “Dauterive is going to make sure what happens?”

“What the hell you think?” he asked me. At the same time he opened his good eye wide and nodded his head. I imagine my eyes widened too, both in alarm at what he had said and in anticipation of the blows to come.

From behind me, stealthy motion became a lunge. Someone was coming out of the shadows making a reach for the baton in my hand. Trying to disarm me was their mistake. A blow to the head or a shot in the back and everything would have been over.

I felt hands touch my arm and I turned with it, rolling my shoulder forward and pivoting. As my body came around I pressed the button, dropping the weighted end of the baton into full extension. The body behind me kept moving forward as I came around my pivot point, swinging my arm and baton. When I came full circle I added extra energy by snapping my wrist. The baton slammed into the back of a thick skull with a satisfying
crunch
. The attacker went down sprawling onto Figorelli, then rolling to the floor like a spilled drink.

“Fuckin' A,” Figgs said, then poured himself another highball.

“Who's that?” I asked.

“It
was
Sal Rubio. I wouldn't lay odds it's anything more than a body after that crack. They call you Hurricane for a good reason, don't they?”

“What did you mean, Dauterive was going to make sure things happen?”

“I told you. He ain't the go-to-court kind of lawyer. He's more hands on, know what I mean?”

“They're going after Nelson for his share of this place?”

“Dauterive said, if the painter dies before the trust thing is all set up he can beat it.”

“When?” I almost shouted at him.

Figorelli held up his mangled left hand and counted off on his twisted fingers as he spoke. “Tonight was about the bikers, me, and the painter. In that order.”

T
he further that night went the further I strayed from being a cop. Who I was or who I thought I was didn't matter placed up against the lives of people I cared about. Nelson was in danger so I left Byron Figorelli sitting in a dark bar with a man—possibly critically injured, possibly dead—at his feet. They were my responsibility and I walked—make that
ran
—away with barely a thought. Once in the truck and speeding down the road, I did call in to report and request medical care. Our entire department was involved with the scene at the Nightriders meth lab and clubhouse. I tried to reach the sheriff directly but he wasn't picking up. In the end I left messages telling who was at Moonshines and why. I also outlined as best I could who was responsible for the violence and where I expected to find them. Finally, I asked for help to meet me at Nelson's place. It was a faint hope, since anyone who could help was on the other side of the county.

My ass was hanging out in the wind every bit as much as when I had left Figorelli. I believed him when he said there was no getting away for him. I'd gotten Sal Rubio but someone else would be coming for Figorelli: if not tonight, sometime soon. I didn't care about either one of us.

From Moonshines to Nelson's place is, at a normal pace, a fifteen-minute drive. It takes that long only because of the little bit of Branson traffic and the dark, twisted Ozarks roads. That night I was flying wildly over blacktop intended for meandering. Still, in the way that time has of dilating in crisis, the trip seemed to take hours.

Within my little bubble of time I had a chance to think. Not feel, but actually think about my choices and life. It sounds strange to say after so many years of almost obsessively considering and reconsidering every moment of my life. But that obsession, I had been learning over the last couple of weeks, covered more than it revealed. All thoughts in times of crisis are prayers, silent wishes, bargains, or gifts of forgiveness to those we love. In my truck, running headlong toward violence—
hoping for violence
—I realized that I had never left the dirt of Iraq. My blood and life were still dripping from me and I was still praying silent thoughts of love to the people in my life.

There was no God in my prayers. That kind of faith had long ago withered from my heart. It didn't matter. Like humanity everywhere I offered bargains for the ones I loved. Since I didn't have God to call on I grabbed onto someone equally perfect and distant. My therapist. I offered the one thing I had that she kept trying to get me to give up: anger. I promised, if my father was safe, if Billy would live and be well, if I could save Nelson for no matter how long, I would turn away from the dun-colored dust of Iraq. I would never again look on the muddy blots of my blood or watch the wisps of brown grit crawl across the sky. I would forgive Rice and Ahrens—even Reach.

If
.

With my mind so deep into itself I almost missed the turn into Nelson's drive. If I had, it would have changed everything. As it was, I turned headlong into the lights of an oncoming car, both of us stopping barely in time to keep from colliding. The quiet of relief lasted only a moment then, from the passenger side of the car, came a muzzle flash and the instant inward crashing of my windshield.

I didn't wait for a second shot. I slammed the gas pedal down, ramming the car, then forcing it back down the drive. The car fought back but my truck had both weight and torque on its side. I pushed it back through the smoke of its burning tires all the way back until it hit Nelson's truck by the garage door. In the glare of my headlights I saw tiny glitter flashes coming from the backseat.

Dauterive
.

Cutting my wheel to the left I opened the angle and let the car shoot off into the shrubs while my truck blocked the entire drive. That also allowed me to come out my door with the truck between me and the car.

This time I came out with my 9-mil ready.

They were ready as well. Two more shots finished off my windshield and passenger-side window. I dropped to the ground and into the gap between asphalt and the truck body. The driver had come out of the car. He was standing half-covered by the open door and turned toward the front of my truck. He was probably thinking I would come around that way because of the greater cover offered by the engine. It would have been smart, but I never claimed to be smarter than the bad guys, only meaner. I fired two rounds at his exposed leg. One hit the tibia just inches below the knee joint. He went down screaming.

I didn't linger to gloat. I rolled back and onto my feet, then crouched behind the rear tire. As soon as I stopped, the screaming guy started firing blindly under the truck. He was carrying a revolver—six and out. As soon as the hammer hit an empty chamber I darted for the bushes at the back of the truck.

From where I was hidden I could see that both of the passenger-side doors of the car were open. I could hear the scraping of feet but could see no one. I had to stand.

As soon as I did I caught the glint of sequins from Dauterive's suit. The sparkle was moving. I took aim forward of the motion, at the gap between house, cars, and shrubs. It was the same spot from which I had been ambushed by the biker.

Nelson, duct-taped hand and mouth, was shoved into that gap. Right behind him was Dauterive. Before I could fire there was a shot and a whining slug passing so close to my face I felt the heat of it. The screaming guy—I saw then it was Charlie Castellano—had reloaded and almost taken my head off. He was unsteady on one foot and leaning against the car, but I couldn't let him have another chance. I double-tapped, two rounds, center mass and he was down for good.

As soon as I fired, I moved. Half-a-dozen rounds sliced through the bushes behind me. Dean Morelli was not as old-school as his buddy. No revolver for him; he had an automatic. And I was betting from the way he was shooting he had an extended magazine. We were obviously two different kinds of shooters. He went for volume. I was more of a careful-aim kind of girl. The thing about volume shooters, they tend to be more easily distracted.

Between the asphalt parking area and the shrubs were a line of ornamental stones. I picked one up. When I'd last moved, it was to my right, away from Castellano. Morelli would expect me to keep going that way so I tossed the stone into a big bush to my right while I kept low and went left back around the still-running car.

Another flurry of rounds tore into the bush where the stone had landed. Morelli figured it out by the time I got around the car and Nelson's truck. When I popped my head up he had turned and was almost ready.
Almost
wasn't enough. I killed my second man that night with another two-round tap to the heart.

That left me with one round in the chamber and four rounds left of my ten-round magazine. They were all reserved for Dauterive's sparkling shirt. He was armed as well. His pistol was aimed not at me but at Nelson, who was leaning against the corner of the house.

There was just enough light that I could see Nelson's eyes, but not enough to read them. There wasn't fear—I was sure of that—but neither was I getting relief. All I felt from him was sadness and I didn't understand.

“Perhaps we should talk, young lady,” Dauterive said without a trace of his peckerwood accent.

“What's to talk about?” I asked him.

“The life of your fiancé,” he answered slowly and carefully.

“There's no discussion. If you harm him any further, I'll kill you.”

“That's a fine way for an officer of the law to speak.”

“That's the wrong hope to hang your hat on,” I told him. “The law and I have kind of been letting each other down lately.”

“I see,” he said and he looked to be thinking things over. “My situation here might seem a mite”—he thought about it for a second—“untenable. But I don't believe that you will allow any harm to come to this fine and talented man.”

“Try me,” I said. “If I let you take Nelson away, you'll kill him anyway. So that's not going to happen. If you shoot him, you die. If you put your weapon down, I'll arrest you, for what it's worth. You're a lawyer with money and connections: arrest sounds like your best bet.”

“I've never been one to play the best bet.” He smiled like he was the most charming man at a party full of pretty people.

I shrugged slightly and said, “Untenable.”

The smile slithered off Dauterive's face, leaving only a cold void of a face. He said, “The man is dying already. Time ticking away. Let me be on out of here and you can have what time is left with no more pain. Just let me walk away. Tell me you will and I'll take your word. I'll put my weapon away and be gone.”

Nelson pushed himself up from where he was leaning to stand fully on his feet. Even from where I was I could hear the wet grunting of his effort. The change in posture brought him more into the light. I could see the blood on the front of his shirt and smearing out from under the tape over his mouth. He looked at me. His eyes, I could see then, had the tired weight of ages and loss. Standing straighter, almost to attention, he then turned to stare down Bodie Dauterive.

“If I gave my word,” I said, “I'd be lying. I'm not sure how many lies I have left in me.”

“What's he doing?” Dauterive asked me, ignoring what I'd told him.

“I think he's telling you to go to hell, Mr. Dauterive,” I said.

“No. He's doing something.”

I took a quick look again and saw that Nelson had indeed taken a step toward the gun. My first thought was to egg him on, to use it to put more pressure on Dauterive until I began to understand the look in Nelson's eyes. He wasn't looking at me. He wasn't really looking at Dauterive. His gaze was straight ahead but he was looking at something no one else could see.

It took a moment, but right then I put everything together. Nelson wanted to die fighting. So much of everything that had happened was just him trying to find a fight that would take his life. It took another moment to realize that the only way I could stop what was happening was to shoot Dauterive. Another moment of hesitation and Nelson was moving, rushing right at the gun pointed into his throat.

Dauterive could have dropped his weapon. He understood that at the same time I knew I could shoot him. In the last fraction of a second he looked at Nelson and back to me. His choice was as cold as his face.

We fired at almost the same instant. Bodie Dauterive put one bullet into Nelson and I put five into Dauterive.

* * *

It was a terrible wound but just a wound. Dauterive's shot went into Nelson's shoulder but like so many things, that is not like we imagine. From close range the slug all but tunneled through the muscle and bone, leaving a wide, bloody hole. An ambulance and Branson police sent by the sheriff's department arrived quickly after that, while I was still cursing Nelson for what he'd done.

Suicide
.

So much of what we'd gone through was about Nelson trying to die without pulling the trigger himself. I wanted to be angry but I couldn't. What had I been doing with my life but killing myself slowly for the last ten years? Even sitting in the driveway, with Nelson bleeding onto me, I thought of Carrie Owens and the depth of her despair. I couldn't be angry. Anger doesn't fix anything. I'd learned that much.

So I decided to drop the anger and to make a commitment to life. Nelson's and mine.

Three days later, as soon as I could arrange things, we married in the hospital chapel. Clare officiated. It was a noisy affair. Daddy was there to give me away. He'd reappeared to show me a file marked
secret
. It was only a few pages from a much larger file, but it told an interesting story. It had begun with a coincidence. Just as Reach had charged, I had indeed been connected to Sala Bayoumi. I had bribed him all those years ago to keep an eye on Rice. That wasn't why he'd killed him. There was no clear reason for that. Rice just made himself an easy guy to hate. Maybe it caught up with him. The coincidence happened when my father met Bayoumi while he was working with the DoD, investigating how weapons intended for our tribal allies were being diverted to insurgents. Sala Bayoumi was playing both sides of the field. When he tried to get out by feeding information to Homeland while seeking asylum, he gave up my name and it caused an alert on my father's involvement. Reach had never reopened an investigation on me. My father was the target and Reach was using what he knew about me to apply pressure. A dozen intelligence agencies working in our longest-running wars and not a one shared information. Typical.

My father told me he had fixed his problems and that I now had a clean record with the Army. I don't get justice, but I'm no longer the punch line in a horrible joke. Sometimes you take what you can get. I didn't ask about the things Reach had said. Isn't that what they say: Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to? It was telling, though, that Reach retired from the Army right after that. My father was indeed the dangerous one in the family.

Nelson asked Uncle Orson to be his best man. They both wore their uniforms and looked amazing. Friends were there too. Sheriff Benson and his wife Emily attended and so did Billy. It was a wonderful day. You never know when the last one of those comes until it's past. Of course the flip side is true. You never know when the next day will be amazing.

I insisted that Nelson begin chemo again. Then radiation. That's to say, I pushed, I nagged, and I fought for the life he seemed too willing to give up. One night, sitting beside him, I got the courage to ask, “Why? Why did you want to die?”

I didn't expect an answer. He was weak and so tired but he told me, “I didn't want to die. I just didn't want this.”