Just a Memory (9 page)

"Hell. My taking pizza up there was no big deal. We ate the pizza and I helped a little in the store so she could go home. End of story." Mac watched the TV in silence a few moments and then added, "But I did learn something else about her that wasn't in your report either."

"Like what?"

"She's got a kid."

"A kid? I didn't know she had a
kid,
" Hines responded with surprise.

"Yeah, and I don't know a thing about kids."

"Get outta here, man! I've seen you with Sam's kids. You're great with them. They treat you like their favorite uncle."

Mac shrugged and then rubbed his shoulder when a pain shot through it. The mention of his late partner's family halted the conversation. They watched as play on TV resumed.

"I probably don't have to ask, but has any more of your memory come back?" Hines asked during the next commercial.

"You're right. You don't have to ask 'cause you'll know when it does."

Hines nodded and pulled on his beer.

The four musketeers…where were they all now? Mac and Hines were still cops, but in Lakehaven, not
Albany
or
New York City
. Hines's partner was home on disability retirement after his leg was shot up too bad to ever work right again. And Mac's partner–the man he had known so well and had trusted with his life? Dead.

Three months had passed and it still felt as if the shooting was yesterday. It shouldn't still bother Mac like this, he knew, but it did. He knew it would continue to affect him until the whole thing was settled. Mac was impatient for that time to come.

And scared that it never would.

With his thumb Mac rubbed along the beer can label to clear a stripe in the condensation. He rotated the can slightly and drew his thumb down another stripe. Water collected in large drops on the bottom of the can and then dropped to his thigh where they darkened his jeans.

"It should have been ended before we came here," Mac said softly. "Hell, maybe I left too soon. If I'd stayed there, near where it happened, this all might have been over by now because I would have remembered what I saw."

"The judge said he'd hand down the sentence by the end of the month. We got the guilty verdict for the one collar we did manage to make that night. There's nothing more you can do to trigger your memory about the rest of what happened. You just have to wait. It'll all come back. Doc said there was no way to rush it that you haven't tried already."

"
Hmph
."

"Hey man, enjoy the time you have. Hell, you can live a
normal
life here for a change."

"Yeah. Yeah. A normal life, huh? That'll take some getting used to. Like going to bed at fairly decent hours instead of staying up all night, parked in a dingy car somewhere on a stakeout."

"Oh, I see. You miss that life, huh? The cold coffee and greasy burgers."

"And Sam."

At the mention of Mac's dead partner, both men lost the smiles on their faces. Mac drained his beer can and leaned his head back against the couch.

"You can't bring him back, Mac. Worrying about it won't help his wife or kids, and it isn't going to solve your problem. You're here to relax and recuperate. With me to keep you company," Hines said with a short-lived grin. Serious again, he added, "It'll all come back to you, man. Just give it more time."

Mac ran his hand through his hair and slapped it down on his thigh. He'd heard that too often and he didn't need to hear it again. If only he could remember what happened after the first few minutes of that night on the dock.

Partial amnesia brought on by shock or from the fall he took after he was shot, the doc had said. Or it could be from the anesthetic during the surgery to put his shoulder back together. Any number of reasons. Mac had learned enough to know that that kind of lost memory usually came back within two or three weeks–or not at all.

Mac flatly refused to accept the 'not at all' verdict.

He rose from the couch and stretched. "I'm going to turn in. Night." He'd said it that way on purpose. There were few 'good' nights anymore. The shooting that left Mac with enough metal in his shoulder to set off an airport metal detector would not leave him in peace.

He thought about that night over and over, always frustrated that there might have been something he could have done differently. Something that would have helped Sam. After seeing Sam shot and feeling his shoulder explode, he could remember nothing. Nothing at all.

He stood under a hot shower, but couldn't rinse away the pain of that night. Nothing would ever take away the long scars where they'd opened him up to put his shoulder back together. His fingers ran along one of the ugly, raised pink ridges.

What would Carolyn say when she saw them?

He toweled dry, pushed back the top sheet and blanket, and sat on the narrow bed, his elbows on his knees. How did Carolyn get into his head? Again.

The towel sailed across the bedroom into the bathroom, and Mac pulled on his pajama bottoms. Here was one more reason to find a house on the lake in a hurry. He wouldn't have to wear pajamas anymore. He lay down on his good shoulder and pulled the sheet and blanket to his bare chest.

An image of Carolyn standing at her door with her hand around her daughter's shoulders floated into his mind. For the first time since that terrible night, Mac fell asleep thinking about something other than the bloody scene at the docks and the cop killer he was trying so hard to remember. His body relaxed in sleep but not for long.

His thoughts about the evening with Carolyn couldn't stop the inevitable. His pleasant visions of her soon turned into the nightmare that returned him, as it did almost nightly to that dock.

Mac's nightmare skimmed past the fact the special force had been working on this case for almost a year. Deep undercover, Mac and Sam had worked their way up in the crime organization from different entry points to positions of trust. They relayed the information concerning when the merchandise was to come in and when it was to be exchanged for the case of bills.

Using a prearranged signal, the message was to be sent to Bob Morris, who was hidden within radio range and would have the dock surrounded in seconds. When the money changed hands, the police would enter the warehouse and cut off the exits so the arrests could be made. Hines and his partner would lead in the pack. Mac felt good about the plan, confident it would work.

It should have worked. But it didn't.

The late spring night had felt cold. Clouds had covered the moon and the ever-present nighttime fog blurred the few lights on the dock. The intermittent mournful drone of a foghorn somewhere put nerves of steel on edge.

Mac stood outside the warehouse where he'd been dispatched as one of the lookouts. As he left to take up his position, he glanced at Sam to see a stern but confident look on his face.

In position in the darkness, Mac crouched on top of a stack of crates beyond the cones of light shining from the broad-shaded fixtures high on the side of the building. He checked the gun in his shoulder holster and adjusted his jacket so he would have an easy draw if he needed it. He slid his hand over the outside of his calf to be sure his second one was in place, too. Inhaling the damp fishy air, he listened to the muted sounds of the night.

He wished Sam was outside so they would be better able to protect each other's backs, but he'd been ordered to stay inside as a backup bodyguard for the seller. Mac hadn't dared object without arousing suspicion.

The low guttural growl of an inboard motor grew louder as it approached. From his position on the dock, he watched the launch stop and tie up next to the ladder to the dock. The running lights were cut and then two men strode into the warehouse. Two others took places where they could see the door and the launch and a fifth stayed at the wheel with the motor idling.

After a short time the door opened, one of the buyers stepped out and signaled to the boat with a wave of his hand. One of the lookouts climbed onto the dock and went in the warehouse with the boxes of merchandise.

Mac wiped his palms on his jeans-clad thighs. His fingers touched the butt of his shoulder arm for a final check. The time had come. The goods and the payment, the buyers and the sellers were all in one place.

Mac pressed the button on the cigarette lighter in his pocket that would transmit the signal for the police cars to move in. He allowed himself a tiny smile, but it disappeared in seconds when he heard nothing. No police cars. Nothing.

He scoured the road approaching the dock. There should have been police cars racing down, but he saw nothing. Where the hell were those guys? He held the lighter up over his head to increase the likelihood of a distant transmission and pushed the signal button again. And again.
Come on. Come on
. The deal wouldn't take much longer.

A ship's horn blared a signal in the distance. Risking being seen by the men from the launch, Mac rose on his knees to get a better look at the road. Still nothing.

The second lookout on the dock by the launch dropped a cigarette. His foot grinding it out on the cement echoed in the dark silence.

Suddenly the door to the warehouse squeaked open on rusty hinges and men appeared with the suitcase of money. They jogged quickly toward the launch. Sam followed them out through the door, but Mac saw his hands were up over his head as if someone with a gun was pointing it at him.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Mac pressed the lighter again. The damp silence exploded with gunfire. He ducked down and pulled out his automatic. The safety flipped off, he raised his head far enough over the top crate to get a better view of who was doing the shooting. Just as Mac looked down at the front of the warehouse, Sam twisted in what seemed like a slow motion ballet, his arms flying out. He ended the dance by falling prostrate on the cement.

A captive audience, Mac was almost surprised when a sharp pain pierced his shoulder. The impact threw him backwards against the wooden crates with a clatter. Another pain burned into his side. His body jackknifed just before a third bullet whizzed by his head.

"Backup," he mumbled. "Where's the
backup?
"

Mac began falling, not only from the crates on which he lay, but into darkness that seemed to wrap around him like a fog rising from the black water below. He fought to stay awake to identify the shooter. He yelled, "No-o-o!" at the darkness as much as at the shooter. He tried to reach out and fought for purchase from his precariously balanced position. He knew he had to hang on and fight the coming darkness.

The deal was going down all wrong. He should have gotten help by now, but it wasn't help he saw over him. It was only spots in the darkness. His fingers, ripped and bloody from clutching the rough-cut wood, slid from their hold and he tumbled to the cement below.

Sirens wailed in the distance. "No-o-o!" he groaned as cold fog enveloped him and the spots above him disappeared into the darkness.

Each night since then, Mac reached out again for help. If he just could have reached far enough, Sam would not have died. The men on the launch would not have escaped.

All they had was the punk who'd bought the goods–a small part of the whole operation. All those months of work led only to one cop dead and one wounded. They did get a conviction, but it wasn't for murder. The bullets in the dealer's gun didn't match the ones in Sam or Mac.

Now after falling asleep with such sweet thoughts of Carolyn, Mac reached out in the darkness of his unconsciousness. Swirling red and blue lights flashed through the darkness. He yelled in an effort to stop the black fog overcoming him.

"No-o-o!" His voice shot through the silence of the small shared apartment. Mac awoke tangled in sheets he'd thoroughly soaked with sweat from his struggle with his memory.