Redemption
Redemption
Eden Winters
Warning: this book contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts that some may find offensive.It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, events, and locations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.
Redemption © Eden Winters 2015
Cover art by LC Chase
Interior layout and design by P.D. Singer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by:
Rocky Ridge Books
PO Box 6922
Broomfield, CO 80021
Many thanks to P.D. Singer, John A., John R., Lynda B., D.H. Starr, Feliz Faber, Z. Allora, Becky Condit, and Will Parkinson, for handholding and critique. Thanks also to David Sullivan for his police expertise. Big hugs and lots of love to Nurse Sarah, for her medical details.
I’d also like to thank the instructors at the Writer’s Police Academy for helping me “get it right”, especially when it comes to questions like “What does a dead body in a morgue look like?”
Chapter One
Bam! The shot missed Lucky’s head by inches. Stephan’s henchman loomed in the doorway, chambering another round. On pure instinct Lucky aimed and fired. The man’s evil smirk turned to wide-eyed disbelief. He grabbed his chest, lifted his bloody hand. Mouth open, he stared at Lucky—and crumpled to the floor.
Bo lay nearby, an empty hypodermic sticking from his neck. “Lucky?” He grabbed at the needle. Lucky crawled over and took his lover’s hand. Bo’s fingernails were blue.
Lucky tuned out the footsteps and banter of coworkers passing by in the hallway outside his cube and stared at the report on his laptop he’d taken four hours to hunt and peck his way through. Surrounded by people, yet in explaining the Mexico cluster fuck, he was alone.
No matter how many times he reread his notes, a lump still formed in his throat when he got to the part where a syringe full of pain killers got jabbed into his partner’s neck.
Everyone in the department considered Lucky a diehard son of a bitch—no conscience, no remorse. Why couldn’t they be right?
Closing his eyes helped him revisit that night. This time in his memories his shot went wide. Someone else took the guard out. Had he or hadn’t he? Fucking nightmares messed with his head until he even imagined himself shoving the needle into Bo’s neck.
He highlighted the passage about pulling the trigger and a man falling to the floor and hit “delete”. Killing a man meant a full Southeastern Narcotics Bureau inquiry, and at the very least, a psych evaluation with a department shrink. Lots of bullets flew. No telling whose took a man out, not without a full investigation in Mexico. He’d bet a week’s pay the local big kahuna destroyed any damning evidence. Nestor Sauceda didn’t leave anything to chance. He sure as hell wouldn’t allow the SNB to play in his sandbox… at least not without making sure they only found what
he
wanted them to find.
“Discharged a firearm,” worked better. That much he remembered. Maybe. Rubbing his eyes didn’t make them feel less gritty.
He typed “Lucky Lucklighter” at the bottom of the report, backspaced and changed the name to Simon Harrison. He really must be tired. Too tired to remember today’s name.
Once more he checked his e-mail. No sign of Victor Mangiardi’s coroner’s report. Whoever promised the damned file didn’t work for Walter—he’d have their ass for dragging their heels. “
You’ll have it Monday.
” Like hell!
The world tilted. What the fuck? Lucky grabbed his desk with both hands and scowled at the smirking woman standing with one hand on the back of his chair. The Hell Bitch chair didn’t need any help throwing him. One wrong move or sneeze and…whee! A quick trip to the floor. Only one person had the brass balls to try to dump him.
Loretta Johnson crossed her arms over her chest and scowled back. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes. Least you could do is nod or grunt or something and pretend to listen. Hell, I’d settle for a fart at this point.”
Lucky’s coffee cup sat by his elbow—refilled. Spilled droplets soaked into his desk blotter. Fuck. She’d brought coffee and he hadn’t even noticed. “I’m busy—working.” Time to get a grip before he let the wrong person sneak up on him.
Johnson grabbed the chair from the next desk and plopped down onto the seat. Bo’s chair. But no Bo. Her scowl softened. “What’s going on, dude? You haven’t bitten a rookie’s head off in days. They’re starting to think you don’t care.”
Lucky picked up the coffee cup, but couldn’t disguise the trembling in his hand. Coffee wound up on his shirt.
In a flash Johnson went from die-hard agent into “Mom” mode, scanning his face with too observant eyes, like his own mother’s, while blotting the droplets with a tissue from the box on Bo’s desk. Next she’d slap a palm against his forehead and ask him to stick out his tongue. “Are you feeling okay? You’re not yourself.”
None of her business. But if he didn’t answer, she’d go digging on her own. Stubborn woman. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Johnson lowered her chin and frowned. “Then go home.”
Why? Nobody there but a cat. He could try to see Bo again at the rehab center, but each time the attendant turned him away hurt more and more. “
I’m sorry, but Mr. Schollenberger doesn’t want visitors.”
The words might as well be a knife.
Ah, for six weeks to fly by so Bo would be home again. “I’ve only got a few more hours. I’ll stick it out.”
Something akin to worry flashed across Johnson’s face. “Lucky, it’s six. Everyone else left an hour ago. I came back from the gym, saw you here, and asked if you wanted to go to Bucky’s for barbeque. What ya doing working late on a Friday night?”
Pork? Rolled in greasy sauce. His stomach lurched. “No, thanks,” rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. Since when had he turned down greasy, fatty food? Or grown polite?
Shorts, tennis shoes, and the sweaty T-shirt clinging to the woman’s chest filled his vision. Oh, since a sweaty behemoth entered his personal space.
“Well, you need to eat something. You’re looking puny.” Everybody looked puny next to a woman six feet tall and muscled like The Rock. She didn’t have to point out Lucky’s being a runt. “You gotta look after yourself. I’d say go see a doctor, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Nope.”
“Then go home and rest. You look like you ain’t slept in a week.”
“I’ll try, but I ain’t promising nothing.” Fuck, his exhausted brain couldn’t even cough up a worthy smart-assed comeback. Technically, he was on leave to look after a partner no one but his boss knew he played house with. The partner was currently in rehab and not accepting calls, so Lucky dragged his ass back to work. Not because he liked his job—‘cause he didn’t. Much. But too many back episodes of South Bend Springs and he’d be talking to the cat and expecting the critter to answer. Besides, they’d replaced the ballsy actress who’d played Lila with a lightweight. Took all the fun out of his soap opera addiction.
“Good night,” Johnson drawled in her Texas accent. She tromped off down the hall, glancing back over her shoulder every few feet until she disappeared around a corner.
After six? He’d been in a fog. Lucky stared at Bo’s empty desk. Right now Bo was probably sitting down to supper. Were they feeding him well? They’d better not be trying to make the man eat meat. If he wouldn’t accept calls or visits, how about a vegetarian care package?
***
The attendant’s sigh fluttered the papers on her desk. “You again. I’m sorry, Mr. Harrison, but he doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“I stopped by to give him something. He can get stuff, right?” At the lowest point in Lucky’s life, after his arrest, he hadn’t wanted to see anyone either, too embarrassed and ashamed. Wound-licking called for privacy. But they were partners, damn it, and he could help the man. If only Bo wasn’t so stubborn.
“Yes, as long as it’s not drugs, alcohol, or other items on our prohibited list. This isn’t a prison, you know.” The woman popped her chewing gum and couldn’t have appeared more bored if Lucky’d asked her to. She drummed acid-green fingernails on the counter.
Sure seemed like a prison to Lucky, what with its “gotta be buzzed in” doorways and lists of rules plastered on the walls. Even had that musty prison smell, lurking beneath forest-scented spray. He put a recycled copy paper box on her desk. The scent of tomato sauce and spices wafted from the cardboard, driving back too hideously familiar pine-cleaner aroma.
“What’s this?”
“He’s vegetarian. I want to make sure he’s eating right.” Without another word Lucky turned and trudged out the door, hands rammed into his blue jeans pockets. If a family-sized eggplant parmesan, a basket of fruit, box of stevia, and seven kinds of herbal tea didn’t say “I’m thinking about you,” nothing would.
***
Lucky grabbed the counter to keep himself upright. Why was everybody hell bent on seeing him sprawled face down? “Yeah, yeah. You’re starving, I’m late, and how dare I not have your bowl full already? But if I break bones getting into the kitchen you don’t get fed.”
The black and white tomcat that’d tripped him stropped Lucky’s ankles and yowled. Bossy little thing, but the can opener only worked so fast—and only if Lucky got there without winding up on the floor.
Tired. Bone weary, gotta-sleep-now tired. He didn’t need a
bang, bang, bang,
on the front door, or the stern face of Loretta Johnson when he opened the screen.
“How the hell did you find out where I live?” Work following him home was never a good thing.
Johnson pushed her way past Lucky into the house and straight into the kitchen like she’d been there a million times, toting an industrial-sized thermos in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. “Man, please. I work for the SNB. Is there anything I don’t know? If you don’t like it, blame my trainer. Oh. That’d be you.”
Lucky double-timed to keep up with her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
She dropped her burdens on the counter and leaned down to scratch Cat Lucky behind the ear. The furry traitor rubbed against her hand. “I’m saving your sorry ass is what I’m doing.”
“Saving my ass? How’s barging into my house uninvited saving my ass?”
All six foot of her straightened up and glared down at Lucky. “I don’t know the full story, but you’ve been in Mexico for months and your partner went into rehab the moment you got back. You’re in the office a few days later with the shakes so bad I’m surprised no one else has noticed, and if your eyes were any redder you’d bleed to death.”
And he’d been so careful to use eye drops. “Now wait a minute…”
Johnson turned her back and opened the nearest cabinet. She closed the door on mismatched plastic bowls and tried two more doors. “A-ha!” She yanked out a coffee cup and filled the mug from the flip-top thermos. “Here, drink this.”
Lucky eyed the greenish liquid. Looked and smelled, familiar. “What’s in it?”
“Grandma’s secret recipe. I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you. Pot liquor, mostly.”
“Pot liquor?”
“The juice of cooked down collard greens…”
“I know what pot liquor is!” Wasn’t a country kid alive who didn’t get dosed with the shit every time they sniffled. “What I want to know is why.”
The hand on her jutted-out hip didn’t bode well for him winning this fight. “You haven’t gotten drug tested since you’ve been back, and the randoms happened last week. That means we’ve got about three weeks to get whatever’s in your system out of there.”
Lucky opened his mouth and shut it again. She knew. No telling how, but she did. And she wasn’t judging. Yet. He lowered his voice. “Are you gonna tell Walter?”
“Depends on what we’re talking about here.”
No need arguing. “Chloral hydrate, to help me sleep.” While his former drug of choice wasn’t the most addictive or dangerous, it was habit-forming, and listed as a controlled substance. If he tested positive for a controlled substance without handing over a valid prescription, he’d soon be joining Bo in rehab. And while the prospect of seeing Bo was a good thing, Lucky didn’t need a bunch of medical types poking and prodding him. He’d do just fine on his own.
“Last dose?”
“Before I left Mexico. About a week ago.”
She nodded, rubbing her chin. “And that’s it? Nothing else?”
“I swear.” His fucked-up life didn’t need any fuel for the fire.
Johnson shoved the cup at him again. “Then this ought to do the trick. Drink a cupful twice a day for three days, then I’ll make more. This batch has cayenne and yellow root, but we can’t do much yellow root.”