The Rookie Club: Dead Center Part 13

"I'll call you when I've got an update," Goldman said and rang off.

For a moment, she just stood there, let the sun warm her face.

What else could go wrong?

Chapter 14.

Tony Galen pressed his forehead against the scarred table in the interview room. The plastic surface was cool against the heat in his face, and he let his eyes fall closed again, trying to shut out the pain in his head and throat.

The room reeked of bad coffee and stale cigarettes, and under that was the sharp odor of liquor oozing out of pores-his. It had been whiskey going in, but it all smelled like gin coming out. Like rotting limes. He opened his lips, tried not to swallow. He held an arm against the rumbling in his stomach, fought the urge to throw up.

They'd tried to get him to eat something, but he couldn't. Eating would guarantee he vomit and he'd rather not. When he first arrived, the police interview room had been spinning. Now that it had stopped, he wished it would start again. At least then his head hadn't been pounding.

He drank five-or was it six-cups of burned coffee in the hopes that it would start to mix with the alcohol in his blood and bring him down enough to stop the nausea. Again, no luck. That was the story of his life-no f.u.c.king luck.

He turned his head sideways and felt the burn of the wound on his neck. The lacerations had scabbed over and healed, but with each turn of his head came little pangs in the old wounds. The collar of his s.h.i.+rt was carefully closed over the scars. He had enough to answer for; he didn't want to have to go into that, too. He had spent four months locked up for it already.

Before that, he'd been in twelve states in the eight months since Deborah had kicked him out. He hadn't known anyone along the way. Worked his way from state to state, if you could call it working. He'd b.u.mmed rides and cigarettes and worked a day here and a day there. Over seven f.u.c.king years since Mick had died. No. Since he'd killed Mick.

Almost that long since his father had died of a broken heart. "I can't believe my Mick's gone," he'd said, sitting in that sterile room, looking like warm death. The room was pungent with the smells of bleach and urine. Mixed in was the chalky scent of Maalox.

His dad had died a week and a half later, before Tony had made it back to see him again.

He heard the door open and a.s.sumed it was another cop with more coffee. It was because of Jamie. If Jamie weren't on her way right now, he'd be behind bars and no one would give a s.h.i.+t that his head was ready to explode. There would be no coffee, no niceties. That's what knowing a local cop did for you.

"You want to tell me what the f.u.c.k I'm doing here?"

Tony raised his head and looked at Jamie Vail. He blinked, which felt like hammering his head with his fist. Bluish circles shadowed her eyes. Tired. How long since he'd seen her? They'd been like siblings growing up-Jamie, Tony, his brother, Mick. Now, Jamie was all the family he had left.

"You hear about Mick?"

She nodded.

"And Dad?"

She nodded again. Something in her expression softened, the old Jamie still in there. At least there was that. "I'm sorry," she said.

"s.h.i.+t happens," he responded.

She frowned. "Is that your excuse for my window?"

Their eyes met and she shook her head. She never could stay angry for long. Her shoulders dropped. "I didn't mean it like that. The window doesn't matter. s.h.i.+t, none of it matters."

He lifted his head. "I knew what you meant."

She looked around, seemed anxious to be released from the discussion of the dead people in their lives.

"You got your hair cut," he commented. "It was longer before."

She looked back and touched her hair. "I haven't seen you in nearly a decade," she reminded him. "It's about the same. I haven't had it done in forever."

"If it was recent, I was going to suggest you ask for a refund."

"a.s.shole," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked foreign on her face.

More awkward silence followed.

She glanced around the room, pulled out a chair, and sat. "Why did I come here again?"

"To pick me up?"

She nodded. "You ever think of calling first?"

"Breaking the window was so much easier. Plus, I didn't think you had a phone."

She stood, motioned to him. "Let's go."

He pressed his palms flat into the cool laminate surface of the table and rose. Followed. Without comment, Jamie filled out the paperwork, retrieved what was left of his worldly possessions from the police and handed the manila envelope to him, raising an eyebrow at the scar on his hand. Still, she never asked. That was Jamie. Don't ask, don't tell. It was the way they were raised.

When they got to the car, she unlocked it and they both got in. "Where to?"

He leaned back. "Home?"

"And where is that?"

"I thought you'd know how to get there. The cops drove me here and I was kind of drunk when the cabbie dropped me off."

Jamie pulled a cigarette out and lit it. He took one, too. They smoked in silence, the car unmoving until she finally said, "Can I ask what you're doing here?"

It was the question that burned in his mind, too. Why had he come? Because there was no one else. Because he needed a job, a life, and he could no longer have one in New York.

Just then, her phone rang. "Vail."

On the other end of the phone, he heard a male voice. Gruff, short. Another police officer. Jamie nodded and smoked. She glanced over at him and he knew exactly what was going on-she was checking on him, his past. When she hung up, she turned to him.

"America's KESWICK?" she asked.

He looked out the window, blew smoke and watched it curl up against the gla.s.s and roll back at him like a gray wave. Instead of talking, she ran records. How the h.e.l.l had they gotten so f.u.c.ked up?

"It's a residential addiction recovery center in Whiting, New Jersey."

She nodded. "Yeah, I got the little commercial on KESWICK. One hundred and twenty days for men eighteen and older. Also a Christian conference and retreat center."

"I didn't find Christ, if that's what you're asking."

"No, Tony. I want to know why you're drinking again."

s.h.i.+t, he wanted to know why, too. And not just that. He had so many questions he wanted answered. Why was Mick dead? Why was he alive? Why had he come? Why had he lost his job in the first place? Why had he failed to quit the bottle? Why wasn't he the one to take the South Tower? Why, why, why. He blew out his breath. "I don't know."

"So you came here? I'm the backup to KESWICK?" She shook her head. "I don't think that's a good plan."

"I need a place to stay for a while."

She reached over and touched his collar.

He grabbed her hand.

"I want to see," she said without letting go.

He tightened his grip on her hand. "No."

"Let me see."

He finished his cigarette and looked over at her. Their eyes never quite met. There was too much to say if they finally had to confess it all. Tony gave in, unb.u.t.toned his top b.u.t.ton. His hands shook. He needed a drink. The spinning and pounding had finally stopped and now he was shaking. s.h.i.+t, the spinning was so much better.

He pulled the collar open and let her look.

She leaned forward but didn't touch. They never touched, never had, like it might be contagious. And no one needed to catch what he had.

"What happened?" she asked.

He said nothing, feeling the warmth of their bodies and the cigarettes fill the car. He touched the back of his hand to the window, wis.h.i.+ng he were out there instead.

"You can't do that in my house," she said. "I'll take you there if you promise."

Promise. How many promises had he made and broken?

He nodded.

"No. Look at me and swear it. Swear on something that matters. Swear on Lana's grave."

Lana. Beautiful Lana. Why did the one person who had mattered most leave first? He'd never even known his mother. Not as a person, not really. What child really paid attention to his mother? She was there. Her smile, the little shake of her head when he and Mick got up to trouble, and then she was gone. She'd been like a beautiful spirit. Only tiny pieces of her were left-her laugh and the smell of her hair. He remembered the Irish prayer she used to say before putting him to bed. He could still hear her whispery voice.

May the raindrops fall lightly on your brow May the soft winds freshen your spirit May the suns.h.i.+ne brighten your heart May the burdens of the day rest lightly upon you And may G.o.d enfold you in the mantle of His love.

Jesus, may the burdens of the day rest lightly. May they rest lightly. They'd stopped resting lightly after Lana. Or maybe they never had. There'd been no mantle of love for Tony. G.o.d had taken Lana and forgotten the rest of them.

He told himself that she was watching. All these years, watching. What did she think of him now? She must have been so disappointed.

"Swear," Jamie repeated.

He pulled his collar from Jamie's grip. "I swear on Lana's grave. And on Mick's. And Dad's. Your mom's." He looked over at her. "I miss anyone?"

"s.h.i.+t." Jamie stubbed out her cigarette.

"Can we go now?"

"Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Why does anyone do it?"

"How did you stop it?"

He ran a finger over the scar on his hand, took the last drag of his cigarette, and then put it out in the overflowing ashtray. He couldn't do anything right. That was the real reason-not school, not be a kid, a son, a brother, fireman, husband-not even at the end.

Jamie gave up on an answer and started the car, revved the engine, and drove out of the police station lot.

He'd had the rope, the stool, but he'd had to hold that knife just in case. He'd been almost gone. The pressure in his eyes had been so strong, he couldn't see. But the rope hadn't been quite strong enough. And he'd been weak.

And at the last moment, he'd chickened out and cut it. The rope had split and the knife had sliced right into his hand.

There it was. He couldn't even kill himself right.

Chapter 15.

Jamie couldn't believe Tony Galen had chosen today to show up at her house, drunk then break in. No call, no notice, he couldn't even sit quietly at the front door and wait for her. Christ. With everything else she had going on. Devlin's murder, the charges against Tim, and worst of all, Marchek. What else could possibly go wrong? She had barely pulled into her garage when her cell phone rang. "Vail."

"I've got something you'll want to see."

It took her a minute to place the caller. She finally recognized the crime tech's voice. "Roger?"

"Yeah, it's me. Can you come into the lab?"

She glanced at Tony. "Uh-"

"It's big."

"Can you tell me?"

"You've got to see it."

"Okay. I'll be there in an hour." She ended the call and looked at Tony. Then, without hesitating, she backed the car out of the driveway.

"Where are we going?"

"Station. Something's come up."