Hazard and Somerset Off Duty Page 9

  This, though, this was different even from that, because now Somers was walking into a condo where he was going to put a scare into a kidnapper. And he knew that it might be more than a scare. He expected it would be more than a scare. He knew he should call the police. If Maggie didn’t want that, then he should walk away. But his steps didn’t change, and the pepper spray was light in his hand.

  It wasn’t even really about the books. That was the damnedest part of it. Hazard liked the books, sure. And if Hazard hadn’t been in PT, Somers didn’t have any doubt that he would have gone to WRB and stood in line to have his copies signed. But the books were just one more scrambling effort on Somers’s part, just like the last few weeks of manic cleaning, just like the daily loads of laundry. Just like the shopping and cooking and running to the library to pick up a new stack of books and DVDs. And at night, in bed together, the new things he’d been trying. Was it any wonder his jaw hurt so damn much in the morning? And all of it, the folded socks and the borrowed documentaries and the blowjobs, was just a smokescreen for the truth: that Hazard had saved his daughter, that it had cost Hazard the use of his arm, and that there wasn’t a thing in the world Somers could do that would ever pay him back. Jesus, nothing Somers could do would even scratch the surface.

  The guilt, that was like a monkey on his back. A rabid monkey biting hard at the base of Somers’s neck. So he was going to wash Hazard’s dirty underwear and scrub the bathroom tile and he was going to get these motherfucking books signed if it killed him.

  As he crossed the Savoy Garden’s inner courtyard, the only sound was his soles slapping cement, and the heat billowed up like the invisible blast of a rocket carrying everything into the sky. The key let him into the cool, shadowed marble lobby, but the cool and shadows didn’t do anything for the silence. It was still just his footsteps, still just a man and the lonely sounds of his feet, and the sound was like a clock ticking down towards something. Maybe an explosion. Maybe that rocket, just about ready to launch.

  Instead of the elevator, he climbed the service stairs to the third floor, and he eased the door shut behind him so that it shut with a click. Up here, the silence was even thicker, like Hazard’s thick wool socks turned inside out and packed into Somers’s ears. There was carpet. Plush carpet. It soaked up his steps so he didn’t even have that countdown anymore. Somers turned the can of pepper spray once. Turned it again. Then he settled it in his hand because there wasn’t time for nerves anymore, and he rapped on the door to 307.

  Footsteps came from within the condo, but they weren’t the measured, countdown tread that had carried Somers through the shimmering heat and into this place. These steps staggered, and they had a frantic, herky-jerky quality. Weight slammed against the door, and Somers tensed. The pale ring of light within the judas-hole vanished and then reappeared. Someone inside had come to the door and looked out. Someone had seen Somers. And then the steps herky-jerked deeper into the condo.

  Somers hammered on the door again. He really put his shoulder into it, laying down heavy blows that rattled the door in its frame. The building was just about empty; if somebody didn’t like the noise, let them file a complaint. The cops could come out here and talk to Jared Weeks. If Maggie didn’t like all the attention, well, she could damn well deal with it.

  The thump and rattle of the door, though, concealed the approaching footsteps, and Somers glimpsed the man coming down the hall out of the corner of his eye a moment before the blow landed. Then a steel baton cracked across Somers’s back, and the force of the impact knocked him into the door. The baton landed again, lower, a hard whip of pain on Somers’s thighs. He rocked to one side, still reacting by instinct as his brain tried to catch up.

  Lashing towards him, the baton fell in a third blow, but this time Somers saw it coming. He twisted. The steel still caught him along the face, lacerating skin, but it didn’t break his jaw like it might have.

  For an instant, Somers took in his attacker: a burly man with a mat of curly brown hair and a mustache like an old comb. The eyes were like something done in acrylics: flat, no life, just an afterthought to the rest. This was a guy who’d break every bone in Somers’s body and just keep hitting until somebody tugged on his leash.

  Training overcame instinct. Instead of hanging back, trying to cover himself, Somers charged. Adrenaline roared like high-test fuel hitting a bonfire and masked the pain in his back and legs. Somers crashed into the man, forcing him backward and making the baton useless. The man cracked his head forward, trying to head-butt Somers, but Somers was too close, and it was just a nod, barely more than a bump, because Somers was still carrying him backward. They pedaled like that for another two feet before they hit the wall, and the guy grunted, a soft little woof as he hit the drywall. Then he shoved Somers away. But Somers threw himself into the direction of the shove, gaining more distance than expected. The baton whistled, but this time caught only air.

  Somers brought up his hand. Thick, jellied pepper concentrate sprayed. It caught dead-eyes on the cheek, wobbled down, foamed his comb-mustache, jerked up, and bingo. The eyes. Those eyes didn’t look quite as dead when the curly-haired man started to howl.

  Somers took a step back and then another. Blood whooshed through his ears. It was like sticking his head behind a jet plane. He wanted to rush in, to close with this curly-haired piece of shit and take him apart. Instead, he lifted a shaking hand, found the cut on his jaw, and traced it. He needed a mirror, but it didn’t feel bad. Probably not much worse than if he cut himself shaving. His back, though, and his thighs—those were going to be bruised for a month.

  His phone buzzed.

  “I’m not doing this. I’m not staying here.”

  “Do you want surgery?”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. Do you want them to cut your arm open?”

  “You’re breathing heavily. And your voice is tight. Are you hurt?”

  “That’s what they’re going to do if you keep skipping rehab. Is that what you want?”

  The only sound in the Savoy Garden was dead-eye’s muffled howling.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “I asked you a question: is that what you want? Surgery?”

  “I’ve got shit to do.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No, goddamn it.”

  “Then stay there and be a good boy.”

  Judging from how fast Hazard disconnected the call, he wasn’t happy about that last bit.

  Turning, Somers fumbled the key into the lock of 307, trying to steady his shaking hands. He turned the handle, let the door fall open, and grunted when it stopped short. Jared Weeks had drawn the security chain, and Somers would need a bolt cutter to get through it. Wincing, he limped down the hall. On his way, he kicked dead-eyes right in the forehead, and the bastard went quiet.

  V

  MAY 18

  FRIDAY

  2:57 PM

  SOMERS DUG OUT his phone and placed a call. He spoke with the woman for a few minutes. Then he took up position at the stairs and watched the man with the dead eyes and the door to 307. Neither moved.

  He dialed again. A different number.

  Hazard didn’t answer.

  He dialed a third number.

  “Southern Dore County Physical Therapy, this is Marsha, how may I help you?”

  “Marsha, I’m calling to tell you you’ve got trouble.”

  “Excuse me? What are you—”

  “Emery Hazard is trying to sneak out of the building. He probably won’t use the front door. I’d check the back door and any emergency exits.”

  “I can see the emergency exit from my desk, and nobody has gone near it. We don’t have a back door.”

  Somers thought for a moment. “Do any of the therapy rooms have windows?”

  “Yes, but they’re all locked.”

  “From the inside?”

  “Oh. Oh, I’ll have to check.” The phone rattled when she put it down, and over the open connection Somers listened to her huffing breaths, then silence, and then, “Mr. Hazard, you can’t—I absolutely will not—don’t you dare—no, sir. No. Shame on you!” And then another rattle, and breathlessly, “He was halfway out but got stuck.”

  “You should have spanked his ass.”

  “I don’t—I wouldn’t—”

  With a weary grin plastered on his face, Somers said, “Never mind. Just make sure you tell him I called.” And then he disconnected.

  He went back to watching, but dead-eyes was out, and the door to 307 stayed closed. When the digital numbers above the elevator changed, Somers climbed the stairs and counted the doors to 407.

  The girl who got out of the elevator couldn’t have been more than twenty, but she wore heels and makeup and a skirt like she was twenty-five, and she wore a smile like she was fifty.

  “Mr. Somerset? Oh my God, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. You have no idea—”

  “Nice to meet you too. Sorry to be rude, but I’m in a rush.” He jerked his head at the door. “Got a lot to do still.”

  “Well, let me assure you,” she fumbled through a ring of keys, found one, and worked the deadbolt and the latch. The door swung open, and she ushered Somers ahead of her. “This is a very welcoming community. I’ve read all about you and your—” She giggled, and the giggle put her back at twenty all over again. “Oh God, what do you call him?”

  “When I’m angry, I call him Hazard.” Somers limped past her.

  “Well, you two will be very happy here. This side of Wahredua is practically a different town. Very, very accepting. And you’re a local celebrity, so you’d better get used to having people stop you and thank you for all the good
work you’ve done for us.”

  She kept going, but Somers ignored her, moving past the kitchen with its granite and stainless steel, across the living room with its immaculate high-pile carpet, past the built-in cabinetry around the gas fireplace. He slid open the glass door that led onto the balcony.

  “I was wondering why you were interested in buying this unit. I should have guessed: the view. This is probably the best view in the entire complex. In fact, if you look over there—oh my God. Mr. Somerset, you can’t—”

  Can or can’t, Somers swung a leg over the wrought-iron rail, wincing at the flash of pain. Then he was all the way over, and the girl was screaming, her eyes full of panic as she yanked the phone from her purse.

  “Police business,” Somers said. “Be quiet.”

  She was smart, which was good because she did what he said. But the hand holding the phone trembled. “Police business?”

  “Close enough,” he said, and then he lowered himself. It wasn’t particularly hard, but the pain across his back doubled at the sudden pressure, and he had to grit his teeth. The iron was hot, and his hands sweaty, and Somers had to focus every movement to keep his hands from sliding. An inch, and then another, as the balcony’s brick facade came into view and the terrified girl’s face slid up and out of sight. When his hands reached the bottom of the rail, Somers had a flash of panic. His toes scraped the empty air. He craned his neck, eyed the remaining six inches, and swallowed the swears.

  He was going to get those damn books signed, but this sure felt like a bad idea.

  When he dropped, those six inches were the longest of his life, and then his soles hit the iron, and the metal frame reverberated under him, the vibrations traveling up, shaking his whole body, and he had the single, vivid impression that he was going to topple backward and fall three more stories and then splat.

  But he corrected his balance, adjusted his weight, and landed lightly on the balcony proper. That jet plane was shrieking in his ears again, and he had to take a deep breath, and then another, before he trusted himself to do anything else.

  Someone—Maggie, most likely—had drawn the vertical louvered blinds. In the glass of the balcony door, Somers saw a watery image of himself: his color was high, his hair was shit, and there was something in his posture that made him think of an animal that’s just scraped past death. He forced himself to stand taller, in spite of the pain, and then he picked up a planter and tossed it through the door.

  Glass broke across the balcony, spilling down and sliding around Somers’s feet. A single, terrified shout came from inside. Shouldering through the louvered blinds, Somers drew the second can of pepper spray.

  Jared Weeks still looked like a TV dad, but now he looked like a TV dad in one of those zombie survival shows: sweaty, cowardly, hunkered in the kitchen. Anybody watching TV would have known he was a goner. He shrieked something, and he slashed at the air with a nine-inch chef’s knife

  From twenty feet away, Somers pegged him with the pepper gel, and Jared went down clawing at his eyes.

  One of the bedroom doors was shut, and Somers opened it. Roseland Weeks wore high-waisted trousers and a frilly white blouse, and her eyes were wide and worried and glued on the door.

  “Who are you? What do you want? Who are you? Maggie? Where’s Maggie? Maggie, who is this?”

  “Mrs. Weeks,” Somers said, and in spite of the pain and fatigue and the general shittiness of the day so far, he scrounged deep and found one of his better smiles. “Maggie’s waiting just outside. Let me take you to her.”

  VI

  MAY 18

  FRIDAY

  6:07 PM

  THE BAG OF BOOKS wasn’t particularly heavy, but Somers had a hard time carrying it. His back had begun to stiffen, and the ache in his thighs was deep. He took stiff steps, Frankenstein’s-monster steps, and those damn steps echoed all the way down the hall of the fourth floor of the Crofter’s Mark. By the time he reached the apartment he shared with Hazard, all he wanted was a soak in the tub, some Tylenol, and sleep. Maybe not even in that order.

  When he opened the door, Hazard was sprawled on the sofa, watching a documentary about hummingbirds. He’d already watched it once, and Somers remembered enough to note that Hazard was only a few minutes into the film.

  “Sorry,” Somers said. “Ree, I’m so goddamn sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “I got caught up. I had to help this girl, and things took longer than I thought.” That was the truth: getting Maggie Weeks-Gray and her mother settled in a discreet hotel had taken much longer than Somers would have liked, and getting Roseland Weeks to sign the books had taken another eternity. “I really screwed up.”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  “I’ll get started on dinner right now. I defrosted some chicken, and I can—”

  “No. I want those burgers we talked about.”

  “Right. Right. Ok, that’ll take a little longer because I have to thaw the hamburger, but—”

  “Good, because while you’re waiting, you can take care of some laundry. I had to walk home from PT, and I got my jeans all sweaty, and I want to wear them tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—”

  “And then you can clean the bathroom. I noticed you didn’t mop last time, and it really needs it.”

  Exhaustion washed over Somers; he nodded and let his eyes close.

  He didn’t hear Hazard move. The big man could be surprisingly quiet when he wanted. The next thing he knew was Hazard’s mitt clutching the front of his shirt, walking him backward until his head bounced back from the drywall.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got a cut on your face. What’s going on?”

  “I had a bad run-in with Roseland Weeks. But I did get your books signed. All of them. Look, I know you didn’t ask me to, but I wanted to do something for you. I wanted you to know—”

  Hazard’s eyes were the brittle straw of late summer. “And dinner?”

  “I know, I’m running late.”

  “And laundry?”

  “You already asked me.”

  “And the bathroom?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Ree, I said I’d do it. Can I have five minutes?”

  Emery Hazard leaned in and kissed him. Hard. And when Hazard pulled back, he shook Somers by the shirt. “This is the end, all right?”

  “What? Ree, listen, if it’s about your arm—”

  “No. You are a lot of things, John, but lately you’ve been about as smart as a bag of rocks. You think I haven’t noticed that you’re running yourself ragged a million different ways?”

  “Your arm—”

  “Fuck my arm. I’m fine. You’re doing this because you feel sorry for me. And it stops today.” Then he leaned in and kissed Somers again, tenderly this time, his eyes like amber lightning. “You’re very sweet, but it has to stop, or I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

  “Ree—”

  “It has to stop.”

  “I just wanted to—”

  Hazard kissed him again. “I know. Are you done?”

  Somers nodded.

  “Because I ordered pizza.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  One of those tiny Emery Hazard smiles teased the corners of his mouth. He kissed Somers once more and took the bag from his hand. “Thank you for this. It means a lot.”

  “I almost broke my back getting those books signed.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you.” Somers gave Hazard a gentle push. “After I soak in the tub.”

  Hazard backed up, giving him space, but then he collected something from the counter. It was a present, wrapped in plain brown paper, and he handed it to Somers.

  “What’s this?” Somers peeled back the paper.

  “I told you I had things to do. I walked over to WRB after the physical therapist.”

  It was a book. It wasn’t just any book: it was the very first volume in the Little Stoics series. Marcus Meditates.

  “You could call ahead and ask for her to personalize one in advance,” Hazard was saying. “Then you don’t have to stand in line.”