Eight
Chapter One
If the SOB said the Bulls “was robbed” one more time, Jack was going to get his gun and shoot the damn television. He should probably do it, anyway. Before, he’d never really watched it that much. A ball game here, a documentary there. But never sitcoms, and never daytime shows. He was convinced daytime television was a plot to destroy the minds of wastrels who weren’t working days like good soldiers. The only show worth a damn was Jeopardy, but lately he could never seem to get the final question right. Probably a sign of his diminishing mental capacity. His brain was turning to mush, just like his body.
Jack grabbed his long-necked Corona and took a swig of the warm brew. It was late, and he should go to bed. Maybe tonight he’d sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t lie there in the dark, listening to the low vibrations of his downstairs neighbor’s rap music, or the happy couple in 3F who liked to serenade each other with the most vile curses he’d ever heard. And that was saying something for a twelve-year veteran of the Houston PD.
And maybe tonight he wouldn’t think about the way things were now. Or the way things used to be.
He got the remote from the side pocket of the recliner that had become his home and started flipping channels. Once he was away from the sports channel, it was one “infomercial” after another, each selling some contraption he didn’t want or couldn’t use. A potato peeler. An ab cruncher. Richard Simmons weeping in the embrace of one of his acolytes.
He kept pushing the button until he found a show in black and white. He didn’t have to go further. It didn’t matter what the movie was. Sighing, he tried to get comfortable again, which wasn’t so easy. His hip ached, a throb that had become his constant companion. His bum leg lay unnaturally stiff, as if it was made of plastic, instead of flesh and bone.
But then he saw Richard Widmark in a wide-lapeled suit, his hat at a rakish angle and his smile as wicked as the devil’s pet cat. It occurred to Jack that a fresh beer would hit the spot, and maybe a salami sandwich. But that would mean getting up. He wasn’t that thirsty.
THE POUNDING ON HIS DOOR sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body and jump-started his heart. The first thing he noticed was that the television show was in color. He looked at his watch. Four-eighteen. Who the hell would bang on his door at four-eighteen in the morning?
The pounding quickened into the sound of desperation. Jack grabbed his cane, resting all his weight on the sturdy wood as he struggled to stand. The pain in his hip made him grimace, but he did it, taking a second to adjust his balance. “Hold on, dammit,” he said, but not loud enough to be heard over the fist on wood.
He lurched to the table and picked up his weapon, his thumb resting on the safety. Then he made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and saw the distorted face of a man, someone familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He leaned on his good leg, resting the cane against his bad leg, and then opened the door.
“McCabe,” the man said, his voice so high with tension he sounded like a woman. “Thank God!”
Jack’s gaze moved down to the two bundles in the man’s arms. One of them was a child, wrapped up in a quilt. The other was a stuffed pillowcase. He looked once more at his visitor and remembered where he’d seen him before. “Roy.”
“Yeah, Roy. Roy Chandler. From downstairs. Listen, man,” he said, edging his way inside, “I need your help.”
“I’m on medical leave. You’ll have to call the department.”
“No, not that. I…it’s my wife. She’s hurt. Real bad. I need to get to the hospital.”
“You want my car?” Jack asked, confused.
Roy held the kid out, pushing the bundle against Jack’s chest. Jack grabbed hold with his free arm, instinctively, surprised at the weight. His cane fell, bouncing off the door frame. “What the hell?” he said, trying not to bounce off the door frame himself.
“I have to get to the hospital,” Roy said, dropping the pillowcase by Jack’s feet. “Now. I can’t wait and I can’t take her with me. I’ll be back. An hour. Two at the most.” Roy stepped back quickly, moving neatly out of range. He looked behind him, down toward the parking lot. Then he turned again to face Jack, the desperation that had made his voice so high now in his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Take care of her. She’s all…” He didn’t finish, just turned and darted toward the staircase.
“Hey!” Jack started forward, but realized instantly it was a mistake. The pain in his hip almost doubled him over, and it was all he could do not to drop the child. When he was finally able to stand again, Roy was halfway down to the parking lot.
Jack hobbled to the couch and used his free arm to balance himself. He swept last Thursday’s Chronicle to the floor, then put the kid down, moving the quilt aside to make sure the small bundle was in fact a living, breathing child. It was. A girl. Maybe four or five. Blond hair a mess of curls, pale skin with pink lips. Amazingly enough, she was sound asleep. He wondered how she could do that.
He’d think about that later. For now, he had to try to catch Roy Chandler. He turned, and even that small motion had to be timed, weighed carefully, planned and executed with a deliberation that made Jack sure he’d found hell and moved in. A trickle of sweat itched at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone pick up his cane, hold his gun and rub his neck. His focus remained on the cane and he forced himself forward. Step by bloody step until he reached the door.
He put his gun in the waistband of his pants so he could grab hold of the door while he bent for his cane. He felt as if he were using someone else’s body—an old man’s, weak and brittle. The joke was, inside he still felt like the basketball player he’d been in college. The cop who’d aced the obstacle course at the academy. The man he’d been only four short months ago.
He
