Cross Fire, page 35
Marx kicked the gun away from his friend’s hand and crouched down to press two fingers to his neck. His face was a mask of pain as he closed his eyes. He had killed his friend of twenty years to save my life.
I parted my lips to say something, but there was nothing to say. I wouldn’t thank him for killing his friend to save me, and saying I was sorry fell so short in this moment.
He stood and walked to the wall. He stared at it for a long time, seeming petrified by his pain; then he clenched his fingers into a fist and hit the wall, denting the plaster. He hit it again before dropping back against it and sliding to the floor.
He covered his tear-stained face with a bloody hand, and his shoulders shook as he cried silently.
Seeing this man, who was always brave and strong, crumple under the weight of grief was heartbreaking.
I crossed the kitchen and sank to the floor beside him. There were no words to soothe this wound, so I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and rested my head against his, holding him while he cried as he had once held me.
28
We sat on the edge of the ambulance as forensic specialists crawled over the scene with what looked like half the police force.
I picked at the temporary bandage the EMT had placed over the gash on my forehead, and glanced over at Marx.
His expression was numb as he handed his gun off to one of the forensic specialists. The woman bagged it and muttered her thanks before departing.
“Why did they take your gun?” I asked.
His eyes tracked the black body bag that was carried down the porch steps and loaded into the back of a coroner’s van. “Because I . . . discharged my weapon.”
Because he had shot someone.
A man I didn’t recognize strode toward us, and Marx straightened his shoulders. “Lieutenant,” he greeted somberly.
The man’s expression was grim. He glanced at me and then said to Marx, “Let’s talk privately.” He nodded to the left, and Marx stood and followed him across the yard.
As I watched the police through the window of the house, I couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the woman who would come home to find her husband dead and her family broken.
“Holly,” a deep voice said, and I looked over to see Sam standing a few feet from me. Even in the darkness, I could see the pain in his eyes.
I slid down from the ambulance. “Hey.”
“You should sit back down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have a head injury.” I could hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice. Apparently someone had filled him in that his partner was the reason for my head injury.
“Danny?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I just came from the safe house. He died on the way to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave me a small, tight smile. “Me too. The Danny I knew would never have done something like that. And he would never have . . .” He gestured to my head and grimaced. “I guess I didn’t really know him at all.”
“People make mistakes.”
His expression hardened. “That wasn’t a mistake, Holly. It was a conscious decision. It wasn’t like he just forgot to make note of something in a report. He didn’t accidentally murder people and cover it up. And he definitely didn’t accidentally try to stuff you in his trunk before putting a gun to your head.”
I pulled my lips between my teeth and looked away. There was no arguing with that.
“I knew he fixated on you from the moment he saw you. I just thought he was interested in you. I didn’t realize he was targeting you.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“He was my partner.”
“That doesn’t make you responsible for his decisions.”
“I should’ve known something was off.”
I had a feeling that nothing I said would lift the mantle of misplaced guilt from his shoulders, so I decided to change the subject.
“Were there any survivors besides Jordan?”
“Two of the marshals survived. The guy, Jefferson, was in critical condition, and Kristen was unconscious from blood loss. But she should be fine. Jordan’s still there answering questions.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down on the back of the ambulance. Too many people had died over me today, and it left a heavy stone of guilt and sorrow in my chest somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.
“How’s Marx doing?” Sam asked.
I glanced over at the spot in the yard where the lieutenant and Marx spoke. “He just killed his best friend.”
Sam’s gaze followed mine. “Yeah.” He drew in a deep breath that seemed to fortify him, and said, “I’m gonna get back to work. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I was pretty sure that my bump on the head was the least of the wounds sustained tonight. There was a faint sheen of tears in Sam’s eyes, but knowing him, he would never let them fall. “Do you, um . . . need a hug?”
He cocked his head. “That’s quite an offer coming from you. But no, I’m fine. I’ll see you later.” He walked away to confer with another officer.
Marx returned a few minutes later and sat back down beside me.
“What now?” I asked.
“I have to go to the hospital to have a few blood tests done to prove that I wasn’t under the influence of anythin’ that might have impaired my judgment. And I’m officially on administrative leave until they sort everythin’ out. Then I have a mandatory meetin’ with the department shrink to decide whether or not I can return to duty.” He stared down at his badge as if he were suddenly questioning everything. “If I even wanna return to duty.”
I stretched out a hand and touched the badge. He looked at me questioningly, but let me take it from him. I tucked it into his jacket pocket. “You’re an amazing detective.”
He gave me a fragile smile and wrapped a gentle arm around me. It took me a moment to relax, but then I let him pull me into a side hug.
“Thank you, Holly.”
“For what?”
“Just for bein’ you.” He pressed a startling but gentle kiss into my hair, and my heart twisted a little at the memory of my dad doing that same thing when he tucked me into bed every night. “How’s your head?”
“Dented. How’s your heart?”
He paused before admitting, “Broken.”
“I have duct tape somewhere. I’ll fix it.”
I could hear the faint smile in his voice as he said, “Of that I have no doubt.” He rested his head on top of mine, and we sat together in silence as the night passed away in a sea of flashing lights.
Epilogue
Black lights ignited the pale colors in the bowling alley, and I lifted my camera to capture Jace leaning her head on Sam’s shoulder with a contented smile on her face. Her smile was even brighter under the black lights, and it warmed me to see my friend so happy.
I moved on to capture Sam’s sister, Evey, who had joined us for the evening. She was tall and willowy with raven-black hair and eyes as black as inkwells.
It took me a while to detect the subtle notes of anxiety beneath her poise. Every now and then she tugged at the hem of her shirt as she glanced around the room, presumably searching the faces for someone.
My camera landed on Marx next, and a twinge of pain cut through my heart. It had been two weeks since he killed his best friend, and I could see the anguish of that moment in every line of his body.
He had been cleared of any wrongdoing for shooting Sam’s partner, Danny, and the captain, but he was still struggling to come to terms with it. There was an ongoing investigation into the officers under Captain McNera’s leadership, but I had overheard that at least one had been arrested.
The drug ring was in a state of collapse, but the success had come at too great a cost.
Marx noticed my attention and offered me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I smiled back and gave him a little finger-wave.
I let my camera rest around my neck on the strap and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I typed out a quick text to someone I thought might be able to help Marx through his grief better than I could.
“Funny thing about black lights . . . really pale things glow,” Jordan commented, startling me as I hit the send button. “You’re practically bioluminescent.”
I smirked. “I’m not that pale.” Though I was a bit brighter than anyone else in our group. My gaze skipped back to Marx as I tucked my phone back into my pocket. “Do you think he blames me?”
“Blames you for what?”
I looked up at him. “Because he had to kill Captain McNera to save my life.”
“No. If he blames anyone other than McNera, it’s himself for being so blind to what was happening. He’ll be okay. He just needs some time.”
I sighed. It hurt watching him in so much pain and not being able to comfort him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“You pick out a ball yet?”
I surveyed the long rows of various bowling balls and shook my head.
“You kinda need a ball to bowl.”
I lifted my chin. “Yes, I know. Just because I haven’t been bowling in . . .”—I mentally calculated the length of time—“nineteen years doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that I can’t just chuck random things down the aisle to knock out the pins.”
He grinned. “It’s called a lane, not an aisle.”
I rolled my eyes at him, and he laughed. I walked away to find a ball. I spotted a pretty purple one and plucked it from the shelf. I carried it over to the table where Marx was seated.
“I found my ball,” I declared, thumping it onto the table.
Marx crawled out of the quiet place in his mind where he’d been hiding and blinked at the ball. “Why am I not surprised that you chose purple?”
I rotated the ball to slip my fingers into the large holes. They were a little big, but I could manage it. “Are your ribs feeling any better?”
He had been shot while pursuing a suspect in the case a couple of weeks ago, and while the bulletproof vest had saved his life, the impact had bruised and cracked a few of his ribs. Bowling wouldn’t exactly help matters.
“My ribs are fine,” he sighed. “Quit worryin’.”
“I’ll worry if I wanna worry,” I teased. If he could fuss over a gash on my head, then I could worry over his cracked ribs. And there was nothing he could do about it.
A faint smile touched his lips as he shook his head. He reached up and tugged on the rim of my sparkly hat. “You keepin’ that on all night?”
The gash on my head was healing fine, and the doctors said it shouldn’t leave a noticeable scar, but at the moment it was very noticeable, and it made me self-conscious. “Yep.”
“You might get hot,” he pointed out, and I shrugged.
Jordan came up beside me and frowned. “Uh, Holly, that ball is sixteen pounds.”
“Yeah,” I said, casting him an uncertain look. “Is that an unlucky number or something?”
Jordan and Marx exchanged a look, and Marx sat up straighter in his chair as he pointed out, “It’s a fairly heavy ball for somebody your size.”
I hugged the ball to me. “Sixteen pounds isn’t that heavy.”
“It is when you’re throwing it repeatedly,” Jordan explained. He lifted his own ball—a blue one with shiny flecks that reminded me of his eyes. “Mine is sixteen pounds.”
Sam thumped his ball on the table behind Marx. “Given your height, weight, and limited upper-body strength, you should consider an eight-pound ball.”
Jordan arched a blond eyebrow. “Now you’re just asking to be put in a headlock.”
“Obviously, I meant Holly,” Sam said with a disgruntled look toward Jordan.
“Wait, why obviously me?” I demanded indignantly. Was I the only person in the room he considered to have limited upper-body strength?
“Tread carefully, Sam,” Marx advised. “That ball’s gonna hurt if she chucks it at your head.”
“I’m just stating facts. It’s not like she’s unaware of her dimensions.” He said that like I had some sort of impairment.
Jordan gave him a look that I couldn’t quite interpret, and asked, “Why are you so attuned to Holly’s dimensions?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go there.”
“Go where?” I asked in confusion. “What am I missing?”
“Just let them work it out,” Marx suggested.
“Work what out?”
Jordan and Sam muttered to each other as they walked away, and the tension between them abruptly diffused as Jordan gave Sam a light, playful shove, and Sam shoved him back, nearly knocking him over a table.
“Did that situation make sense to you?” I asked with a glance at Marx.
“Mmm hmm,” he replied with a small smile, and his tone implied that he had no intention of sharing more than that.
“I’m not that short,” I informed him, my tone daring him to disagree. “There’s nothing wrong with my dimensions.”
His smile widened, almost touching his eyes, but he didn’t disagree.
Good.
I turned my attention to Jace. She popped her wheelchair up onto the platform and rolled forward with her ball in her lap. One of the bowling attendants approached her and asked, “Would you like me to put up the bumpers, Miss?”
Oh boy.
Sam just stared at the man, seeming uncertain whether or not his girlfriend had just been insulted. Jace straightened her spine and asked in a saccharine voice, “Why would I need bumpers?”
The attendant hesitated at her tone of voice, probably sensing dangerous waters ahead. “Because you’re . . . I mean . . . you know.” He gestured to her wheelchair.
I covered my face with a hand. I didn’t want to watch him die.
“Totally fantastic?” Jace suggested.
“Um . . . because you’re . . . in a wheelchair. I just thought . . .”
“Out of curiosity, what do my legs have to do with me rolling a ball with my hand?” She wiggled her very functional fingers at him. “It’s not like I’m playing kickball.”
I splayed my fingers to sneak a peek at the attendant’s face. He looked as if he had swallowed a wasp and couldn’t spit it out. He turned crimson, ducked his head, and walked quickly away.
Jace rolled her eyes and wheeled up to the lane. She drew her arm back and released the ball. It rolled gracefully down the lane, and the pins exploded in every direction, leaving none standing.
“Ha!” she declared triumphantly. Sam high-fived her as she rolled off the platform. “Bumpers . . .”
“Your turn, Holly,” Marx said.
“Oh, really?” I asked, perking up.
“Ladies first.”
I carried my ball onto the platform and looked down at the colorful shoe-print stickers that laid out the path to the lane. Seriously? Did people actually get lost from point A to point B? Maybe they just accidentally veered at the last second and threw the ball down the wrong lane.
I followed the footprints to the edge of the lane and paused. How hard could this be? I did it when I was little with my family. I hefted the ball up, bracing it with my left hand—okay, it was a little heavy after holding it all this time—and tried to aim it toward the middle pin.
I threw it, and it landed with a shocking thud that sounded like an anvil dropping. I flinched and stood there to watch it roll lazily down the lane and into the gutter.
Hmm. Apparently I did that wrong.
When I spun on my heel to go back to the tables, there was complete silence. Jordan was scratching his head and looking around the room, Marx was making a valiant effort not to laugh, and Sam just looked stunned.
Jace grinned, “That was awesome.”
Marx cleared his throat quietly and said, “You’re supposed to roll the ball, Holly, not chuck it.”
I frowned. “It rolled.”
“Into the gutter,” Sam muttered under his breath.
I shot him a glare.
“You get to go again, Holly,” Jace pointed out.
The machine regurgitated my purple ball, and I picked it up. I cradled it against my stomach as I walked back to the lane. Roll it, don’t chuck it. Roll it . . .
I gripped the ball and swung my arm, trying to figure out how I was supposed to do that without the thunderous thump. My arm was getting tired. I needed to do some strength training or something.
I took a deep breath, braced myself, and let the ball go. I felt the violent impact beneath my feet before the ball rolled lopsidedly into the gutter.
Marx had a hand over his face when I turned around and his shoulders shook with silent laughter. Jordan strolled up to take his turn, and he smiled at me.
“You really struggle with rolling balls into things, and you don’t even have to fight with a pool stick this time.”
I scrunched my nose at him and stepped off the platform. Jace high-fived me anyway as I walked past her.
Sam shook his head. “That was awful. Are you good at anything?”
Jace backhanded him in the stomach, and he grunted in surprise. “She’s my friend. Be nice.”
“I was just joking. Mostly,” he replied.
I went to sit by Marx. I slid onto the tabletop, because I hated their twisty, springy chairs, and sighed. “I suck at this game.”
“You only had one turn.”
Jordan rolled the ball with expert precision, and it practically floated down the lane before cracking into the pins and taking them out. I slid a slightly flustered look Marx’s way and said, “So did he.”
“It takes practice.”
“Are you good at bowling?”
He puckered his lips in thought. “I don’t know. I haven’t gone since Shannon and I went before the divorce. I suppose I did all right.”
My phone vibrated, and I tugged it from my pocket. I read the message on the screen and sent a quick text in reply.
“Who do you keep textin’?” Marx wondered. He lifted his chin to see my phone. In all fairness, anyone I might normally text was less than five feet away.
I angled my phone so he couldn’t read it and squinted at him. “You’re doing that nosy detective thing.”
