An Eye for Danger
AN EYE FOR DANGER
by Christine M. Fairchild
Published by Fairchild Press
Kindle Edition
ASIN: B008QPZ8O4
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2012 by Christine M. Fairchild
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art designed by Fairchild Press
Photography: 1) Male model photo, HOT DAMN! Designs;
2) Brooklyn Bridge, New York City, Jeremy Edwards (c) 11-05-11, iStockphoto LP
For more information about Christine M. Fairchild, visit
http://EditorDevil.blogspot.com
DEDICATION
To my husband, Robert Fairchild, love of my life and my best friend.
Thank you for supporting our family and believing in my inner artist.
CHAPTER 1
We marched into Central Park at dawn. My yellow mutt, Max, trotted at my side while Johnny Cash pounded "Get Rhythm" over my iPod and my heart threatened to burst through my chest. Only three more blocks till I crossed into no-man's land. If I could hold down breakfast that far. In college a five-mile run didn't break a sweat on me, but now a stroll beyond Great Hill could drop me to my knees. So I'd pumped myself with enough caffeine to power Manhattan and rolled out the door before food vendors hit the sidewalks. Now all I needed was courage to exceed my five-block safety zone without another damn panic attack.
I stared at my hands. Shaking. "Just the caffeine," I said to Max.
Yeah, right, Jules
.
October fog blanched the sky, the mist dampening my skin when I'd otherwise be sweating fiercely. An early frost had iced over North Meadow's ball fields, so the grass snapped underfoot as I pushed through the thick air. Even mighty New York could be conquered, at least by the weather.
Max dropped into a stalk position. Probably just another squirrel he wanted to torture. They were racking up these days.
Instinct kicked in and I caught Max's leather collar. "Don't you desert me, buddy. Not today." Today was the day I broke free. "You're my wingman, so no squirrels, no distractions." I tugged, and Max gently head-butted my thigh before resuming his post jogging at my side. Just proof that God made dogs first.
We moved into denser woods, where blazing red and amber leaves of the park's giant trees drifted to the ground. Max growled, a low rumble that cut through my music, which I turned down when I saw a pair of large boots jutting into our path. Military boots the color of ash, their plastic heels cracked and peeling. To these were attached narrow legs in desert camouflage pants with threadbare knees.
"Shhh," I whispered to Max as I signaled him to sit and stay: index finger up, palm out. "He's one of ours."
The rest of the man's body lay half-wrapped in a black sleeping bag under a bush. With these temperatures, he should be fully engulfed in a heating blanket to survive.
At a lean I could see his eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling. Alive. Barely, from the look of him. His face reminded me of a diseased tomato left in the sun: bright red blotches for cheeks, crinkled skin stained black with dirt at the edges, and deeply cracked lips. A mat of dreadlocks served as his beard. At least his coat looked new, like he'd picked it up at one of those Army supply stores, but the chevrons he'd safety-pinned to his shoulder caps told me this guy wasn't just dressing the part. The insignia for a master sergeant's ranking, if memory served me right.
My heart skipped a beat when I noted the baby-blue baseball cap from a Brooklyn Little League covering his balding head. Maybe he'd known the kid who'd owned the hat, or had fathered him. Somewhere, sometime, somebody had loved this guy. And maybe still did. Life just stank sometimes.
From my sports bra I pulled the twenty-dollar bill allocated for my cab fare home after my anticipated nuclear meltdown and my all-too-familiar inability to walk thereafter. I could always crawl home. Cement could be the new skin exfoliant.
With my fingers still trembling, I shook the bill in the air like a damned flag, an irony not lost on a woman who'd spent her share of time buried in Middle East bunkers, hiding from Taliban grenade rocket launchers and AK-7 gunfire. Shaking under fire had been shameful enough, but shaking every time the toaster popped fell into the nuthouse category.
I folded the bill in fourths to fit it into the man's boot. That's when I saw he was still military at heart. He'd tucked his desert-duty trousers inside his boots and tied the laces so tight not even hot sand would seep in, let alone cold hard cash.
So I crab-walked under the branches to tuck the money into the man's coat. Enough for a solid meal. Or a bottle of his choice. The cloud of liquor over his head hadn't escaped my notice, but who was I to judge. Lord only knew the nightmares that drove him to drink. They'd driven me to worse.
"God help us both," I whispered, feeling petty for the sentiment. If he awoke, he'd probably be more angry than grateful.
So I scrambled out of there, taking to the track with new heart, though the old one was still threatening a coronary rupture. I spat the sourness from my mouth and aimed for the base of Great Hill at a clip. My stomach still mixed a nasty cocktail of adrenaline and anticipation, but at least my motives had clarified. My mission remained: take the hill, get my life back, or at least my sanity.
Max galloped beside me like a rocking horse, tongue spilling sideways for all the thrills we were having. I could take lessons from Max; despite his temper, he was loyal to the core and never missed a chance to brave adventure. Years ago, people would have said the same of me.
My knees quivered beneath me. "Not today, damn you."
I'd reclaim that fearless woman today of all days. Another anniversary of Luke's death, another doctor's misdiagnosis and prescription for pills I refused to swallow because I knew I wouldn't stop at one, another attempt to rejoin the rest of humanity. PTSD was for soldiers, like that vet sleeping in the bushes, not trust-fund photographers from the Upper West Side. He'd probably volunteered for multiple tours of eating bullets for breakfast, and then returned to the shock of a quiet stateside life, a shitty paycheck, and little or no emotional connectivity. Smiling neighbors, laughing families; happiness he couldn't relate to let alone endorse. While I'd escaped a mere six weeks filled with the staccato of distant assault rifles to come home to my plush life and plan a wedding, only to watch Luke burn to death on the streets of New York.
Difference was, the vet's suffering was called valor; mine was called first-degree manslaughter.
He'd be alive if you hadn't been so careless.
"Enough." I blinked, jumping back into my body. Max looked up, ears flat, like I'd scolded him. "Not you, buddy." I rubbed his velvety ear. Who needed meds when I had Max. "Never you."
Lengthening my strides, I took the incline to Great Hill.
An accident, that's all it was. An accident.
My chest felt on fire, and still I ran. Harder. Feet pumping, pulse quickening. October's chill burned my lungs, so I breathed in through flared nose, out through pursed lips. Controlled.
Focus, Jules, you can make it this time.
Yet the air was already thinner. Like I was climbing the damned Himalayas. At least I wasn't wheezing, and I wasn't passed out. Upright was a good sign.
Max's growl sounded a new alarm.
"Not another squirrel." My voice sounded as strained as my nerves. My gaze shot to the top of the hill and my feet halted. Not a squirrel.
Rusty leaves scattered on the air as a man bent and raked debris into a pile with his bare hands, like a dog covering his bone. Even from my distance I recognized his military-style boots, but his orange Carhartt pants conveyed he was no soldier, not even the homeless kind. His peacoat, wool cap pulled low, and the lack of gardening tools told me he was no groundskeeper either. At least groundskeepers wore uniforms that didn't scream Unabomber.
His task complete, the man rose onto trunk legs, expanded his tank-sized chest and shook out his black shaggy beard of debris. Tall, scowling, bearish—no man outside a battlefield should look so menacing. And I'd photographed the worst of them.
A shiver twisted down my spine. Max and I were yet unseen but standing in the open. At 100 yards, we still had time to U-turn, retreat to my apartment, hide inside my safe shell. Or we could go off-trail, cut north through the trees, circumvent the man, and still take the hill. Hell, we could just jog past, ignoring him. He was well off our path, skirting the edge of the woods, and probably as slow as sludge with all that weight on his bones.
Max pulled against my grip, wanting a piece of the action, but I held tight, deciphering my intentions, if not my courage. Which obstacle was I really avoiding here, the thug or the hill, and where the hell could I run and not see monsters in every shadow? Besides my usual gutful of guilt, the only real obstacle standing between me and that tree was one ugly bastard. Ugly, I could handle.
My target atop the hill stood within view: our tree, Luke had called it. The place where he'd asked me to marry him a week before the accident. Now just my tree, a twisting elm with a three-story canopy and deeply-grooved bark that I could still feel under my palms. A symbol of love and life.
Military training kicked in: feel the fear, and move your ass anyway.
But I hadn't taken two steps when a second man stumbled through the brush, clutching his belly. Though a half-foot shorter and a good 50 pounds lighter, he looked no better dressed, no better shaven. Same peacoat, same dark cap and long beard, same designer-thug look.
Shouts flew, arms thrashed the air between the men. I hit stop on my MP3 player to catch details of their fight.
"You can try, brother," said Bear Man, "but I'll still plow you under. Just like Tony."
Shit, there were three of them?
Max crouched, ready to charge—just enough Lab to be curious, just enough German shepherd to brave trouble. And these thugs reeked of trouble.
My cold fingers couldn't hold Max back much longer, and we couldn't stand here all morning without being noticed eventually. I wasn't so neurotic I couldn't calculate bad odds, and though I'd had more defensive training than most women, at 5'6" and 138 pounds I wasn't going to win any heavyweight titles against these big boys. Not even with Max as wingman.
Clinging to Max's collar, I swallowed hard, forcing down the bile crawling up my throat, and watched the new guy get a running start, only for Bear Man to arm-block him to the ground so hard the guy flattened on his back and his cap flew off. A shock of long, brassy hair spilled out as he rolled to his side, shaking stars from his head. He struggled to a crouch and then onto one knee. Barely.
By now, Bear Man stood over him, smiling like a steak breakfast had just been served, laughter bursting from his belly, a thunder that seemed to shake leaves from the trees. "Should've finished you at the river, Sam," he said. "What a waste of training."
"Like I said, can't teach a new dog old tricks. Your training sucked." Fists clenched, this 'Sam' guy dug in his position, forced himself to stand—posture that bragged of audacity when he looked clearly outclassed, courage when he faced certain defeat. Or he was just drunk.
Bear Man took one step and threw a roundhouse to Sam's head. A sickening crack of bone on bone. And down the sucker went again.
Poor sap's asking to get his brains beat out.
My teeth were grinding so hard I could hear the enamel wear away. I'd seen worse fights. Marine on Marine could prove brutal. Still, this looked like less of a fight than a would-be slaughter.
Seconds ticked till Sam stirred, rolling in slow motion onto his side and rubbing his eyes like he couldn't justify the world swirling. He got as far as sitting on his heels, and then he dropped his chin to his chest, his shoulders sagging, exhausted of fight. Maybe he hadn't the strength to stand. Or the motivation.