From a Dead Sleep (49 page)

I’ve always hated that fucking picture. Sure, no one’s mug shot is ever worth a frame, but it makes me look like a fucking degenerate. Some homeless guy who they dragged in off a park bench. Vincenzo Moretti ain’t no degenerate. With my hair long and stringy and all mopped to the side, though, I ain’t surprised that security gropers didn’t give me two looks. They’re looking for Ron Jeremy, not Telly Savalas.

So, according to
The Denver Post
, the cops pinned me for offing Valentino. Give me a fucking break. I didn’t even get a chance to lay a mitt on the prick. Hell, I didn’t jack with any of these people. Zed Hansen? Harold Bailey? They were Alvar’s baggage. The stupid ape stuck around to wait for that idiot security guard and half the town showed up on his doorstep.

Nothing in this article about Arianna. I wouldn’t expect there to be. They’ll never nail me for her. They’ll never even find her body. Alvar promised me that. He even blindfolded Tony before taking him to the spot where they dug her grave. Alvar never quite trusted the kid but liked to make him get his hands dirty. Alvar may have been a fucking nutcase but at least he was thorough. And unlike Kimble, he was loyal.

One less lying whore in the world, and the only mope who gave two shits about her is gone too. She begged me to spare his life before she died. I didn’t see that coming. Good riddance to both of ’em. They can have each other now.

Kimble fucked me good before he died. He saved himself a far nastier death by taking himself out. If I had gotten ahold of him, I would have peeled his skin off his bones and made him watch me wear it as a scarf. He got my ledger to the Feds somehow, but they didn’t start freezing my bank accounts until it was too late. By then, most everything had been wired to Switzerland and the Caymans.

I’m gonna miss Vegas. The king may have been forced into early retirement, but he’s leaving with his ransom.

What a week. Who would have thought I would have spotted a clean-cut Valentino Greco from across a crowded intersection, two states away, after the son of a bitch stole from me and disappeared? I should have known the idiot was too dumb to have done it on his own. I never thought Kimble would cross me. He not only crossed me, but he swept away my doll—my compensation. Still, no broad is worth dying over. What a weak and pathetic little punk he was.

There’s a security guard waddling his old ass over this way. Some schmuck probably six months away from starting his pension. Pure window dressing. An empty uniform to make travelers feel at ease. No sense giving him a good look at this mug, though. I’ll lift up my newspaper and let him pass on by.

I hear the tune of a song, blaring for just a second or two before it’s cut short. It came from somewhere across the terminal’s lobby. I know that song. It’s familiarity steals my breath. I lower my newspaper and look for its source. I don’t remember the name of the song, as it was only told to me once. Something by that blind black guy, Ray Charles. I just know that it played on Kimble’s phone whenever his clueless wife was trying to reach him.

My eyes shoot back and forth across the hall, looking for anyone holding a phone. They stop when they find a cute, blonde woman with long hair, wearing jeans and a tan jacket. Her head is lowered as she speaks intently into her phone. There’s a sober look of worry on her face. I hear a gasp slip from my mouth when I realize who she is. It’s Kimble’s wife. What in the holy hell is she doing here? She was in Michigan two days ago, or so Tony said before he was nabbed.

When she lifts her eyes to meet mine, I turn away. We’re far enough apart that she shouldn’t recognize me at a mere glance, not with how I look now. I find out quickly that I’m wrong.

“He’s a fugitive!” I hear her scream. “Him in the suit! He’s wanted by the police!”

I spin to see the old security guard’s head swinging back and forth in confusion, like he just woke up from a nap. He hasn’t a clue who she’s ratting out, but he fumbles for his holster anyway. The rest of the travelers around us are every bit as mystified, but I know the fog won’t last long. I rush the guard and make him eat the corner of my suitcase with a roundhouse swing that nearly takes me off of my feet. He goes down hard, and I pry his pistol from his holster.

Screams and shouting spread through the corridor, and people scatter in every direction. Parents are picking up their children and running. A threesome of flight attendants disappears around a corner with the heels of their scampering shoes sending echoes off the floor. A businessman holds his briefcase in front of his face while he cowers behind a bench. I lose track of Kimble’s wife in the chaos. She has to have fled with the rest. I release the pistol’s safety and hold it out in front of me while I put a death grip on the handle of my suitcase. In it is enough cash to get me out of the country—large bills shoved inside my rolled socks—but I won’t be leaving from here anymore.

A gray door with no handle flies open across the concourse from me where another security guard suddenly appears. This one’s much younger and he’s armed. He probably watched the bedlam unfold from a television monitor somewhere. I fire a couple of shots at him and break for the escalator behind me. It leads down to the tram. More screams fill the area, and I nearly level an old man with his wife and an oxygen tank before I grab onto the escalator’s moving railing. I scramble down the steel steps. My chest is tight and my breath is thin by the time I falter back onto stationary flooring.

The train has just pulled up to its last stop, and there are droves of people exiting out on the side opposite from me. They’re clueless to the panic upstairs.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” I snarl at a group of grungy teenagers who are playing hacky sack in front of the train doors, which I expect to open at any moment.

After catching sight of my gun, they scatter like a school of fish that spotted an incoming sea predator. I leap over one of their bags that they left behind on the floor. Sweat is draining from every pore in my skin, and I fight to breathe. I hope to God I ain’t having another heart attack. I try my best to control my breathing.

I know security will be informed and waiting for me at Terminal B. It doesn’t matter. I plan on getting off before then. The tram tunnel’s concrete walls are lined with emergency exits. I saw two or three doors outside the train window on my way over. I’ll pop the emergency brake. If I can get outside before the airport is locked down, I shouldn’t have much trouble finding a cab. Maybe I’ll need to fly out from Mexico. I’ll figure that out later.

The train is still emptying on the other side. Any second now and I’ll be allowed in. I twist my neck back toward the escalator and see Kimble’s wife poke her head up above the railing near the top of the steps. She’s still blabbing into the phone, probably talking to the police. The stupid bitch. If I could pick her off from here, I would. I know better than anyone, though, that I can’t shoot for shit, and I don’t know how many bullets I’ve got.

“The train doors are about to open,” I hear a computerized voice announce. “Please watch your step upon entering.”

When the thick steel cab invites me in, I hear a second voice—a woman’s voice. It sounds somewhat digitized and it’s unnaturally loud, as if it’s being broadcast over a P.A. system.

“Fat guy in a cream suit!” shouts the voice. “Bald! Sweaty!”

The moment I step inside, I catch the mere glimpse of a hulking man with untamed eyes and a face filled with intensity swing forward at me with a fist the size of a football. A locomotive of knuckles collides wickedly with the bridge of my nose and my head is snapped backwards like the recoil of a mortar round. For a second I feel as if I’m floating outside of my body and watching myself cartwheeling through the air before collapsing to the floor in a pain-wrenched clump of my own limbs.

The overhead lights of the train are a blur through my flickering eyes. I’m barely able to move and the back of my head feels like it’s welded to the floor. The man who leveled me is silhouetted in front of the glare like a mammoth eclipse. He leans his head forward above me and examines my mug with a wince stretched across his face. He then lifts his head toward the door and places his arm along the doorway to keep the portal open.

He leans his head outside of the train and he holds a black cellphone up to his mouth before taking notice of something or someone across the train’s boarding platform. The phone drops to his side and he points a finger down at me.

I hear him shout with grim uncertainty through the open doorway: “This is the guy, right?”

Chapter 52

“W
hy hadn’t you left the airport?” Lisa asked with her thin hand caressing the side of his adherently smooth face, her deep blue eyes penetrating his.

He pretended not to know what she was talking about as the police officer who’d just finished questioning them paced back and forth among the medley of uniformed officers and paramedics. One spoke to someone on his radio.

“Come on,” she pressed. “You know what I’m asking. I left you back there at the gate a good thirty minutes before I called you and you were still here in the terminals. I figured you’d be long gone. Not even in the building.”

Sean nodded and let a hesitant smirk escape from his lips. He was lost in her eyes and feared his tongue would twist into knots if he tried to answer with anything other than the truth. “I guess, uh . . . I just stood there at the gate for a while . . . I thought you might come back.”

Her dainty eyebrows raised and the hint of a grin formed along her glossed lips. “You thought I might come back?”

He let some air escape his lungs as he looked away. His eyes fell in the direction of the floor. He shook his head and then his eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “I think I’ve just watched too many movies. Too many TV shows.”

She tugged his chin back in her direction and gazed into his eyes with such intimacy that his stomach felt hollow.

“You want to hear something funny?” she asked.

“Sure,” he answered with a shrug. “Why not?”

“I used to have a dog,” she began, which invited instant befuddlement from Sean. His face contorted in response. “His name was Cletus. God, he was a great dog. He died about a year ago. I brought him up to the cottage a few times, up in Traverse City.”

He nodded.

“I loved Cletus. He was loyal, and he was reliable. Those were two things I really needed in my marriage to Kyle, because with him, they just weren’t there. That’s even more apparent now that I know the truth. So, it was good to have that in my life.” She chuckled, then continued. “Even if it was from a German Shepherd.”

“So . . . do you want another dog then?” he asked, which brought a broad grin to her face.

“No. Listen. Cletus also made me feel safe. He protected me. I never worried about someone breaking into our house and hurting me because I had him. After he died, I guess I stopped feeling that. I stopped feeling like I had a constant in my life that would protect me.”

She read the bewilderment in his face and watched the reflection of her slightly teary-eyed face in his eyes.

“When the man with the gun, back at the cottage, came chasing after me . . . When I tried to get out through the backdoor, I saw that dog-flap flip up and I thought just for a second that Cletus was going to dash right through it, like I knew he would have if he was still alive, and come to my rescue. But it was you. It was you who saved me. It was you who came to my rescue. You were there for me when I needed it the most.”

Sean’s mouth opened but nothing came out. He, for the life of him, couldn’t make out whatever point she was trying to convey.

“Ever since that moment, I’ve been thinking of you as a human abstract of Cletus,” she continued with a lighthearted smile.

Now he fought back the urge to grimace.

“Rough-looking and diligent, with a loud bark, but also with a kind heart that just a few people saw. Most importantly, an inherent instinct to protect those people, whether it be the guy you told me about on the plane who you thought was a terrorist, or the lady you thought was dealing drugs . . . It’s all done in the interest of protecting others. And that’s a very admirable and attractive quality to have, Mr. Coleman.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he finally asked.

Her smile slowly widened until she was gleaming from ear to ear.

“I’m telling you this because the fact that I’ve been thinking of you as a reincarnation of my dead dog is a far more embarrassing admission than you thinking you’d get the lady at the end of the movie, and that she’d do this.”

She cupped his face between her hands and guided his jaw down to hers, standing on tiptoe to meet him with her lips.

He was taken back by her directness and the tenderness of her touch, but willingly bent to her face. In her kiss he felt a deep desire for the same, honest affection that agonizingly reflected his own. He thought she could feel it too. He didn’t care if she tasted the pain and loneliness of a man who had all but given up on ever finding someone whose time and patience was so desperately needed to understand who he was and accept him.

The way her body molded to his and the contact of her lips on his, he felt no reservations from her; no judgment, no intolerance, no fear.

Whatever else life had in store for him, Sean knew he could look it square in the eye.

She approved of him, and that’s all that seemed to matter at that very moment.

He’d been needed and had been there to fill the need, just as he was. Yet, in her touch he also felt the promise of something new— something profound and worth striving for that couldn’t be found inside a beer bottle or hiding behind an armory of bitterness. He felt free of the hardened binds of a broken man, and for the first time in his life, saw his future as a blank canvas primed for the masterstroke of an exciting creation.