Three Weeks to Say Goodbye (15 page)

I drove the length of the block again and turned around, nestling the tires of the Jeep against the curb and killing the lights and the engine. Garrett’s Hummer was fifty yards up the street. Luis was motionless, looking like a dark sooty smudge against the snow. As my eyes adjusted with the headlights off, I could make out tracks in the snow from the driver’s side of the vehicle leading up the street, into the shadows. Where Garrett had run.

“What if he’s still alive?” Brian asked, nodding toward Luis, his voice high-pitched.

I wished I could drum up some sympathy, but all I knew of Luis was what he did in the bathroom of my home and
the paintball attack. Plus, he was associated with the kid who wanted to take my daughter away from us. The very idea of him made me angry. In a prosperous city like Denver, which was booming economically and offering opportunities to anyone who sought them, Luis had opted to belong to a violent street gang that sold drugs. It wasn’t like he didn’t have choices. And I didn’t mind right then if he went away. I didn’t really mind if he died. But could I sit there and watch him die?

Yes.

But I didn’t want Cody to be implicated.

As I reached down for my door handle I noticed a glow in the snowfall down the street. I paused. The falling snow started to light up yellow like shooting sparks. Headlights. A car coming.

“Slump down,” I said, and we both slid forward in our seats.

“Man oh man,” Brian whispered. “What do we say if it’s the cops?”

“If they don’t see us, we don’t have to say anything,” I said.

“I’m well-known in this town, Jack,” Brian said. “I’ve got a lot of friends and a lot of enemies. If I get caught out here, there’s no way it doesn’t make the papers.”

“I know. Don’t forget who
I
work for.”

“Yes, but…”

“But
what?
” I barked at Brian. “You’re more important? You’ve got more money?”

“Honestly, yes on both counts,” Brian said. “But I also won’t be in a position to help you and Melissa.”

Nice save,
I thought.

I kept my head high enough that I could see through a slot beneath the top of the steering wheel and the dashboard.
It suddenly occurred to me that the Jeep might be the only vehicle on the street not blanketed by snow, that we would be obvious. It was snowing harder. Flakes were sticking to the glass and beginning to cover the hood. Still, my Jeep was at least an inch behind in snow covering.

The approaching car appeared and swung behind the Hummer, keeping its headlights on. It was an older model low-rider four-door sedan, definitely not a police car. It was the kind of tricked-up American classic some Hispanics preferred. Three doors opened at the same time, and the dome light lit up. Garrett was in the passenger seat. The driver and occupant in the backseat were Hispanic, wearing oversized coats, trousers, big, tan, unlaced boots.

“Garrett and the gangsters,” I whispered to Brian. “They’ve come back for Luis.”

“Do they see us?”

“Not yet.”

The .45 was on the seat next to my thigh, and I spider-crawled my hand across the upholstery until I found the smooth wooden grip. I cracked my window so I could hear them out there.

The driver and Garrett ran to where Luis lay and shouted at him to get up.

“Fucking get up, man…” the driver said, nudging Luis with his boot. “Get the fuck up, Bro…”

The gangster from the backseat stood next to the car, acting as lookout. He kept his hands in his pockets, and I instinctively thought he had a gun or two. He looked up the block and down, eyes brushing over my Jeep. His face was dead, impassive, a round pie tin with a soul patch and heavily lidded eyes.

Garrett and the driver tugged on Luis, eventually pulling him to his feet. They draped his arms around their shoulders
and guided him toward the car. I thought I saw Luis’s legs move under their own power, helping them, but I couldn’t be sure. His head slumped on his coat as they got him to the car. When they lowered him into the backseat I could see blood on his face and clothes from the dome light. My impression was Luis was alive—barely.

I did see Garrett’s face, though, and it was hideous, contorted with rage. He said something about a paint gun, and the lookout left the car and found it on the lawn and brought it back. It had been them, all right.

“Okay,” Garrett said, slamming the back door and stepping away.

The driver swung into his car and the lookout jumped in next to him. Garrett started for his Hummer, keys in his hand.

As he reached for his door handle he suddenly froze and turned toward me, squinting.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“What?”

“I think he sees us.” I lifted the .45 and put it on my lap. Suddenly, stupidly, I couldn’t remember if the revolver was single-action or double-action. Did I have to cock it, or could I just pull the trigger? Christ…

The sedan made a slow turn in the snow and started down the street from the direction it had come. Its taillights looked pink in the falling snow.

Garrett still stood near the door of his H3. I could see his mind work, looking over his shoulder at his friends departing and again at my Jeep. His backup was gone, and he wasn’t sure. I thought again of my car sitting there at the curb looking sleek and dark without nearly the amount of snow on it as the other vehicles up and down the street, sticking out like a sore thumb. Had Garrett paid any attention to
what I drove? Had he seen the Jeep in my driveway?

He walked toward us in the dark down the middle of the street like a gunfighter. Twenty yards away. Reaching behind him for something tucked into his belt with one hand. With his other he flipped open his cell phone and raised it. I could see the glow of it shadow the handsome features of his face. Probably calling the sedan back, I thought.

I cocked the revolver, the cylinder turning, a fat bullet poised in the chamber. Aim for the thickest part of him, I remembered from deer and elk hunting in Montana, and if you need to, fire again and again.

Garrett was ten yards away but had slowed and was bending forward, trying to see into our car.

At that moment, the power was restored and the streetlights crackled and lit up. Porch lights blinked on up and down the block. Interior lamps lit up.

“It’s Christmas,” Brian whispered. Because we’d grown used to total darkness, the lights seemed more intense than they should have.

“For us it is,” I said, as Garrett wheeled, jogged to his Hummer, and roared away.

Brian sat up and took a deep breath. I could feel my heart pounding, whumping in my chest.

“Would you have used that?” Brian asked, gesturing toward the .45.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Brian said.

I wasn’t so sure.

THE SNOW WAS STILL FALLING
outside our bedroom window when I slipped into bed. I was tired, exhausted, and had taken three Advils to blunt the effects of an oncoming
headache. Brian left as soon as we got back to the house, saying he hoped his hands would stop shaking so he could drive. Cody was downstairs snoring on the couch. Melissa had gotten his shoes and jacket off and covered him with a quilt.

I tried not to wake her, but of course she was not asleep. “What happened out there?” she asked. I told her, leaving nothing out.

“I hate him,” she said, referring to Luis, “but I wouldn’t want anyone to freeze to death although I’ve read it’s just like going to sleep. It isn’t painful.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Will Garrett connect Cody to us?” she asked. “Does he know Cody is our friend? Will he blame us for what happened?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it depends on whether Cody said anything to them or just started pounding on Luis.”

“I’d bet he said something.”

“We can ask him tomorrow—if he even remembers.”

“Oh, Jack, it’s gone from bad to worse.”

I nodded even though she couldn’t see me in the dark. She sidled over under the covers and put her warm palm on my chest.

“You showered again,” she said. “Why?”

“I felt dirty, I guess.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“Are you going to work tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to.”

She put her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled nice. “I wish you could just stay home. We could have a snow day— just our family.”

“And Cody,” I reminded her.

“And Cody.” She laughed gently.

I glanced out the window. The snow had lightened considerably.

“We could just stay home and be a family,” she said, repeating herself.

I kissed her on the mouth. She kissed back, but broke it off.

“Not that,” she said, “not now. I just want to be held, that’s all.”

I held her.

We could hear Angelina stir and cry out over the baby monitor. Melissa was instantly alert, and she ducked under my arm and swung her bare legs out of bed.

“What?”

“She’s having a bad dream,” Melissa said, standing and pulling on her robe. “She’s been having them since the Morelands showed up on Sunday. I don’t know whether she’s sensing something from me or what. I’m going to get her.”

Melissa left, and I heard Angelina whimper and the sound broke my heart. Over the monitor, I could hear the springs of the crib mattress squeak as Melissa picked her up and cooed at her.

“I think I’ll let her sleep with us for a while,” Melissa whispered as she came back in the bedroom. I made room, and Melissa lowered Angelina between us. The baby was still sleeping. In the ambient light from the window she looked peaceful and content. Her long lashes were exquisite, and her little rosebud mouth formed a pleasant smile. Her breath was slight, little puffs of sweet air. I brushed her round warm cheek lightly with the backs of my fingers. So soft. She was just so
small.

“Don’t roll over and crush her,” Melissa said.

I was always scared about that, and I edged farther away.

“We’ve got three weeks,” she said. “And you’ll be gone one of them.”

“I’ll be back sooner than that,” I said. “I’ll be back as soon as I have that meeting with Malcolm Harris.”

“Still…”

“I’m more optimistic,” I said, “after what you and Brian found out to night. The judge and his son aren’t so all-perfect and all-powerful after all.”

“I was talking with Cody about that while you and Brian were out,” Melissa said. “He might have just been out of it, but he wasn’t very encouraging.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed.

“I told him what we’d found out, and he just shook his head, and said, ‘
Third-party gossip shit. None of it would work in court.
’ ” She tried to imitate his particular sarcastic cadence of speech.

“But we’re just getting started,” I said. “We still need to prove everything.”

“What if we can’t?” she said. “Rumors are cheap. It’s different when we try to
prove
these things.”

“We don’t have to prove that Moreland’s parents and wife died mysteriously,” I said.

“But it’s nothing, really, when you think about it. The judge was never charged or even suspected of anything as far as we know. And Garrett just comes across as a moody teenager. What’s so strange about that?”

“Cody said this?” I asked, getting angry.

“No,” she said. “I was thinking about it. He’s right. We don’t have anything but a bunch of rumors. We can’t go up against a powerful judge and his son with just a pack of stories. Somehow, we have to prove something—anything.”

The minutes ticked by. The more I thought about it, the
more I realized she was right. The last vestiges of the hope I’d had earlier skulked out of the room as if ashamed.

“Honey,” I said, “there is no point getting a lawyer and going to court. We may find out something about them, but now Garrett has an attempted murder on
us
.”

She sighed. “Maybe Brian can find out something more solid. He said he’d dig deeper.”

It was as if she didn’t hear what I’d just said.

She said, “And I can follow up on the school incidents, but all we’ve got right now is what a counselor says she heard from another counselor. If I were a judge I wouldn’t even listen to us.”

“I should have shot the son of a bitch,” I said.

“Jack, don’t say that. If you did, you’d get put into prison. This baby needs a father, and I need a husband.”

Still…

“I HAD A STRANGE THOUGHT
,” Melissa said after a while. “Luis was somebody’s baby. And Garrett was a baby once, too.”

“It is a strange thought,” I said.

“Jack, I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

“What’s going to happen now?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve got to protect this child,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You were brave to night.”

I liked hearing that because I never thought of myself as particularly brave. I wanted her to think of me as a man of courage, and I vowed not to give her a reason to think otherwise. I had never before that moment thought in those
terms, although every man, I think, wonders what he’d do when it comes down to a fight-or-flight decision.