Crime & Counterpoint (25 page)

An hour later, Shelley was settled in his bed, head on his pillow, covered with his comforter, deeply asleep. Zach, showered as well, sat on the couch, ice pack on his knee, spare blanket half-draping him, and the whiskey bottle in his hand. The glow of the LED TV illuminated his drawn features as he stared dully. The ESPN program gave the highlights and reviews of the NCAAF games played that day, announcing college rankings for the week.

He watched and drank until his muscles began to relax, and his mind began to slip into wakeful slumber. The monster inside quieted – docile to the point of innocuous. Touch it, and it wouldn’t even move.

Now, he could reflect rationally, passively even, on the events of the day. As if he was on the outside watching it all happen to some other guy. None of it was real. Therefore, none of it could affect him.

He took another swig, barely tasting the liquid as it swished around his mouth and glided down his throat. The TV flickered. The images of a football team running on a green field filled his drowning vision. The stats of the LSU Tigers, poised to head to the championship game, appeared. He stared, mind taking him away.

[Flicker]

“Your boy’s got skills, David. Tackles like a beast.”

“Gonna let him go out for the team next year? We’re thinking you’ve got a starting QB on your hands.”

[Flicker]

“Grandpa? Do I have faulty wiring?”

“False start…”

“You? No, son. Your wiring’s rubber-insulated and just fine. Just fine.”

“…on the offense.”

[Flicker]

“I’m sure you did what you had to do…”

[Flicker]

Zach’s head jerked like he’d been slapped. Breathing hard, he rubbed a hand over his face as he brought himself under control. Faces bled together in his mind’s eye.

There was moisture on his forehead, upper lip, and neck. The beginning. 

His watering eyes landed on the glowing screen, pupils
adjusting to the brightness. The ESPN commentator’s voice seeped into his consciousness. “
… So really it all comes down to how LSU performs against the Crimson Tide next Saturday…”

Purple and gold uniforms. Tigers. Right.

His lids drooped again, hand relaxing around the nearly-empty bottle, the TV melding into his waking nightmares.

[Flicker]

“Ericson’s breaks out from the pocket. Crimson Tide defense is right on top of him. Oh my! What a move! He’s off! To the twenty-five… the twenty. They can’t catch him. Ten… five… TOUCHDOWN! TOUCHDOWN TEXAS! What a clutch play by Ericson to take the lead…”

[Flicker]

“So Zach, I’ve been getting a lot of offers for you… Have you given any thought to where you wanna go?”

As far from here as possible.

[Flicker]

Zach fell forward and slammed his head on the beveled edge of the wooden coffee table. The bottles he’d gone through fell on top of him. “Shit!” He spewed several more incoherent curses, brain soaked with sleep and alcohol.

Struggling off the floor, he hefted his large frame, which felt brick-laden, into a horizontal position on the couch. Somehow, his swimming head hit the pillow, and the pain drifted in and out of his consciousness.

“
The all-new Dodge Ram…
”

Zach groaned miserably.

“…Grab life by the Horns.”

Finding the remote, he hit the power button. Off.

The apartment darkened, but the afterglow burned into his retinas; he could still make out that big red 4x4 grounding out the dirt, mountains in the backdrop.

Silence deafened. The buzzing grew louder in his ears.

His eyes closed, dreading the remaining hours of sleep. But he couldn’t stop it from coming. Night traffic lulled him, white noise for his red-stained affliction. He could’ve sworn he heard a stadium full of fans screaming. For him.

His pulse slowed to a crawl.

[Flicker]

“Would you listen to that crowd roar? They’re thundering tonight. Texas is crushing on that field. Quarterback Zach Ericson has proved he’s got what it takes to make a lasting name for himself.”

“Well, he’s got the fan base, for sure. We’re expecting great things from him…”

[Flicker]

“Final drive of the game here for the Longhorns. Score’s tied at 24. Thirty seconds on the clock. This crowd is on their feet.”

“Hut… Hut...”

“Trojan’s blitzing. Nobody’s open. Oh, my God! McNamara comes out of nowhere. And… Ericson is down! But hold on, we’ve gotta flag on the play.”

“And it’s a fifteen-yard penalty on the Trojans! What a mistake. Texas now in field goal position. The kicker’s coming out. But Ericson still hasn’t moved…”

[Flicker]

If there was one thing life had taught him–

(“In an unfortunate turn of events, Texas quarterback and this year’s Heisman Trophy winner, is out of the running for the NFL draft…”)

– Nothing. Good. Lasts
.

Sunday morning rays seeped through the window blinds and dappled the beige carpet with cheerful slivers.

Eyes closed, Zach braced himself for the day habitually. No joy. No desire to get up except to escape the prison of his dreams. Ivan Kazanov was his first welcome distraction. Cervenka his second. The realization he’d have to face the FBI and Special Agent Bennet, however, made him reconsider facing the music altogether.

But gradually he became aware of how he felt. Really felt in this moment. Behind the usual layers of grit, an ineffable warmth burgeoned. He quickly traced the events of last night and remembered only that he was supposed to be on the couch. However–

Zach’s lids sprang open. The first thing he saw was long dark hair. Lots of it. Not only that, but his head was atop the wavy chocolate strands. And where was his arm? Draped over a slender, evocative body, protectively.

He was in his bed!

Shit!

He all but bolted, chest pounding him into delirium. Despite the way the world tipped as he sat up, he was careful not to wake her. She was out solid thankfully. He eased out of bed, grabbed some gym shorts and his keys, and left the apartment, deciding he needed a workout.
Now
.

“You’ve been off-grid, what the hell?” Carter yelled the moment he found Zach breaking the back of his demons at the gym down at headquarters.

Zach pushed two hundred pounds of metal straight up, concentrating, straining veins in his temples. Sweat dripped down like tears.

“FBI’s digging their heels in and you’re probably going to be arrested for yesterday,” Carter bit off. “Bennet’s sure to request you get a randomly-assigned special prosecutor.”

Zach didn’t even react. Bearing down, he lowered the bar onto its cradle and exhaled roughly, gut contracting.

“What is this? Are you deaf now?”

“I hear you.”

“Then hear this: when I call you, answer me!”

Zach winced, flexing his hands.

Carter sighed, aggravated, and ran a hand over his tie. “Anyway, one of Hightower’s leads exposed a little side gig that’s been running for a couple decades. The Brother’s Circle has been selling naturalization which got me to thinking. I checked into Cervenka’s personal history. Do you know he went from a Green Card holder to a citizen, completely bypassing PR status?”

Grabbing the bar again, Zach got ready to push up. “Are you sure?”

“I called in a few favors over at Immigration and managed to obtain his citizenship number. It’s a duplicate. Belonged to a Jonah Wheeler who died of a heart attack in ‘92.”

Frowning, Zach strained as he said, “Cervenka’s illegal?”

“As long as the court accepts my evidence.” Carter smirked mirthlessly.

“But so what? Without proof of his criminal activities, the most he’ll get is a fine and deportation.”

Carter shook his head. “I started looking into death records from the same time frame in the tristate area. People like Wheeler with no living relatives. I found a number of cases where the citizenship and social numbers of the deceased individual were still active under a different name. And get this: they’re all known associates of the Brother’s Circle.” Carter grinned, gratified. “You and your crazy ass ideas. Can’t believe you’d pegged Cervenka from the start.”

But Zach didn’t even exhibit an inch of satisfaction. “You came all the way down here on a Sunday to tell me this? Don’t you think should be focusing on other things. Like, maybe your fiancée?”

“Why? Because she embarrassed herself in front of daddy?” Carter returned with annoyance.

Zach set the metal bar down and pulled himself up to sitting, breathing hard. He slanted his blue eyes to Carter for a split second and then dropped them to the ground. “Do you even know where she is?”

Carter’s eyes changed shades. “What do you mean
where
?”

“You’re welcome to get her anytime,” Zach said bitterly. “The sooner the better. And she needs clothes.”

“Clothes? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on. Didn’t Rick tell you? Vienna showed up at the club with Kazanov. They marked Shelley from the reception and went after her. Chased her down into the subway.”

Carter’s face paled, thoughts dancing across the lenses of his eyes.

“She fell into the tracks. Ruined her dress.” Zach looked away, reliving her pain. “You know what? I’m sick of all this. Just marry her and get her the hell away from me. I can’t protect her anymore.”

Carter’s chest swelled. “Who asked you to in the first place?”

Zach shook his head ruefully. “You should have a talk with your future father-in-law.”

Carter was sullen and speechless for a moment. “Wait a minute. That subway shooter? That wasn’t you, was it?”

Zach wouldn’t meet Carter’s gaze. “I just need you to get her out of my apartment.”

Carter looked at him closely, suspicious. “Anything else I should know?”

Zach stilled and turned cold eyes to the attorney. “Isn’t that enough?”

Full of swirling postulation, Zach returned to his apartment later that morning. But he stopped halfway into the bright living room – someone had drawn the blinds – as the unmistakable aroma of French toast infiltrated his senses. His stomach cramped, remembering he hadn’t eaten today.

He backtracked, curiosity and ravenous hunger eclipsing all else, and came upon Shelley in his kitchen.

She was still here. Zach ground his teeth.
Carter.

She looked his way, and a sweet, sunkissed smile shone on her lips, reaching all the way to her large brown eyes.

He stopped breathing for a split second.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “I didn’t know if you were coming back, but I thought I’d make you something.”

Briefly, he frowned.
She cooked breakfast
?

“And I don’t know if I thanked you for yesterday.”

“I was only doing my job,” he said coldly.

Her smile faded, a wounded look shadowing her limpid orbs. “I know that.” She turned back to the stove. “But I want you to know I’m very… grateful.” She swallowed. “For everything.” Without looking at him, she continued, regaining some strength in her voice. “And you’re right. Today, I do feel better.” She scooped out the last of the French toast from the pan and dropped it onto a steaming heap.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something halfway congenial, but he didn’t.

She prepared him a plate, every movement as natural as when she performed on stage. She set four pieces of toast, all the scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes on the ceramic plate and then asked, “Where do you eat?”

“On the couch,” he replied. “When I’m here.”

She came around the kitchen counter, and that’s when he saw she was only wearing his T-shirt. No pants. Though her thighs were almost half-covered, the way she looked made his core tighten and burn.

She walked the plate and a fork over to the coffee table. Whirling around, she said, “Would you like coffee?”

“No, I’ll get it,” he was quick to dismiss, taking a sudden interest in the parquet and finding kinks in the back of his neck that needed immediate attention. “Carter will be over soon with clothes for you. He’ll take you back.”

Her quiet acquiescence was all he heard before she disappeared into his room. He exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. He skipped the coffee and went straight for a beer, trying not to think about her copper-toned legs, her naked in his shower, or the smile she’d just given him. Instead, he focused on the food, which started out delicious and then turned to sawdust in his mouth as a wealth of other emotions began to erode the iron walls around his conscience.

Making up his mind, he took out his wallet and dug through it for the tiny SD card. The key to his precarious freedom.

He dialed Special Agent Joe Bennet – his one-speed, fast track to certain damnation. And indirect liberation. He didn’t want this responsibility anymore. He didn’t want to be anywhere but–

“Ericson, what a surprise,” Joe said, ostentatious despite his Jersey speech. “Thought I’d have to hunt down your–”

“Meet me in half an hour at Ramone’s Steakhouse.” Zach studied the little demon in his palm. “I’ve got something to show you.”

If he went to jail, so be it.