Not Forgotten Page 14

  I grabbed Sam and pulled him into the shadow of a palm tree beside the trail, keeping the trunk between us and the shooter. He sniffed my bloody arm. Another round hit the tree, showering us with splinters. This time I saw the flicker of light from the muzzle blast. The shooter was in a parking garage across the river, less than a hundred yards away.

  Sam sat next to me, the loose skin around his forehead curled into a question mark. He thought it was a game until he saw the .38 pistol appear in my hand.

  Warm blood dripped down my bare left arm, but there was no pain yet. I still had control of my fingers and was able to move my shoulder. The bullet had missed the bone. Careful not to expose my body outside the tree, I ripped a strip from the bottom of my T-shirt and wrapped it around the wound. The loss of blood was already making me lightheaded. I needed to fight against shock. If I passed out, the shooter would simply come out of his hiding place for an easy kill shot.

  Sam and I waited. He panted heavily and watched my reactions. I kept my .38 ready, but at this range it was useless. Five minutes went by. I checked my watch. Nine thirty. Climbing the retaining wall behind the tree seemed out of the question. I would be exposed for at least several seconds. Beyond that was an empty parking lot. I had no doubt the shooter had a night-vision scope and would be able to see even the slightest movement. He had picked a good location for an ambush.

  I studied the parking garage. The structure provided ideal cover and an easy getaway. It also would be empty tomorrow because Monday was the Labor Day holiday. No one was coming to the rescue. It reminded me of the countless nights I’d spent huddled with my platoon brothers waiting for a dawn attack.

  Sam’s mouth hung open, dripping from the heat. He would last the night, but the lack of water wouldn’t be good for him or me. I checked my makeshift bandage. The blood flow had stopped, but I still felt lightheaded. I needed to move my cramped muscles.

  Another bullet splintered the tree trunk and hit the limestone retaining wall, spraying the grass with white pebbles. The angle was different this time. The shooter had changed positions, trying to gain a better angle. He was on the move, and I wouldn’t be able to wait him out until morning. The plan I was forming was risky, but so was the alternative. If I stayed behind the tree, eventually, the shooter would find a position that gave him a clear shot.

  Sam was anxious to move. He looked at me and whined, waiting for me to make a decision. I stood and examined the space beyond the ten-foot retaining wall. The dirt along the edge was removed in preparation for new landscaping. That was the first bit of luck all night. If I could get over the wall, the depression looked deep enough to provide cover. From there, I could inch my way to the bridge and out of sight. I scratched Sam behind the ears. He seemed to understand something was going on that involved him. I hoped he remembered his training.

  “All right, Sam,” I whispered. “Time to play Rin Tin Tin.” I held up my hand, pointing to the shadow under the bridge. Sam looked into the dark. His muscles tensed, anticipating what was coming next. I didn’t think the shooter had the skills to hit a sprinting Labrador or I wouldn’t have put Sam at risk.

  “Fetch,” I yelled.

  Sam took off like a bat out of hell. Two steps into his run, I heard the first pop. I couldn’t look because I needed to focus on the edge of the ten-foot retaining wall and my dive over the ledge. I heard a bullet strike the limestone. I didn’t hear Sam yelp. The second shot would be the real test. A good marksman will miss the first running shot but compensate for movement in the next round. I was counting on the shooter not being that good.

  I cleared the ledge and squeezed my bulk behind the narrow lip of the wall, crushing my face against the dirt. I couldn’t risk looking to see if I was covered. The only proof would be if I didn’t get shot again.

  I heard the second whoosh of compressed air. The bullet hit the rock wall twenty yards farther away. There was no painful yelp. The plan had worked. The long hours I’d worked with Sam as a puppy training him to follow my point to a downed bird had paid off. I lay still for five long minutes. Nothing. No shot. My muscles began to cramp. A colony of ants explored the sweaty hair on my forearms and discovered the sticky blood farther up. I tried to blow them way, but I could feel them cling harder to my skin. I waited a moment longer, then slowly began to inch forward.

  The sweat on my legs and arms quickly turned the dirt mixed with mulch into mud that stuck to my skin. If it took more than fifteen minutes to cover the distance to the bridge, Sam would realize there was no dead duck and lead the shooter directly back to me.

  I inched forward, using my toes and outstretched fingers. In boot camp, I’d been forced to crawl through mud under barbed wire spaced eighteen inches off the ground wearing a backpack and carrying an M1. Our drill instructor fired live rounds above the wire to simulate combat conditions. The training paid off. I knew how to keep my butt down and keep moving.

  I stopped ten yards short of the bridge. The ever-active city crew had already planted this section with ground-cover, and tiny vines were starting to sprout. Going forward would put me in full view of the shooter. I checked my watch. It had taken fifteen minutes to get to this point. My forearms and calves ached. My bullet wound throbbed. I was dehydrated. The tiny ants continued to feast on my arm.

  My plan had almost worked, but the open ten yards to the bridge might as well have been a hundred. It reminded me of a WWII movie I’d seen where the prisoners had tried to dig out of a German POW camp only to come up short of the tree line.

  Then I heard a splash. Sam was in the river searching for that imaginary duck. I jumped to my feet and sprinted to the bridge, hoping the noise would provide a distraction. I heard a pop. The bullet hit behind me. I reached the bridge and safety. Sam swam to the edge, and I helped him scramble out of the river. He gave me a disappointed look because he couldn’t find the bird. I scratched him behind the ears and reassured him he had done his job well.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Istopped in the shadow of a U-Haul truck parked across the street from Sylvia’s condo and studied the surrounding area. I was already starting to second-guess my judgment. Getting shot at does that. It makes you think about mortality and the dozens of other jobs that didn’t require you to risk your life. The shooter had used the same weapon to take out Sosa, which meant he was shooting at me that night. He had hung around hoping to finish me off. But why? And what had caused him to try again? The only explanation was that whoever hired him had found out about my trip to the oil rig. Other than discovering that Marcus Lopez was the new owner, I hadn’t really gained any information. That transfer had taken place in July. Why would Allison or Marcus want to cover that up?

  When I was certain the coast was clear, I knocked on Sylvia’s door. She gasped when she saw me covered in a mixture of mud, sweat, and my own blood.

  “What happened?” she said, pulling me inside. She wore a pair of my boxer underwear and a pink tank top.

  Sam wasted no time rubbing his wet, muddy self against her bare legs.

  “Sam, you’re filthy,” she said, and led him out the back door. I could hear her fill his bowl with fresh water. “Has he eaten?” she called through the door.

  “Give him some food. He earned it,” I said. I heard her toss a cup of dry dog food in another bowl while I grabbed a beer from her fridge.

  “Out with it,” she demanded.

  “I played lead-ball with a spook between here and the McCullough bridge. Sam saved me from being KIA.”

  “What does that mean? You were attacked? Speak English,” she insisted. “I’m not in the Marine Corps.”

  I realized that I had slipped back into military mode out of habit. The strange part was that I was sitting in my girlfriend’s condo drinking a beer and talking about it, when I felt like I should have been briefing my platoon for a counterassault.

  “Someone shot at me from a parking garage while I jogged down the River Walk. I didn’t see who it w
as.”

  “You’re hurt?” She checked the bloody bandage.

  “Just a flesh wound. I should clean it out.” I was calm on the outside, but angry at the shooter for trying to kill me and forcing me to crawl through the dirt. I was also angry that he had caused me to second-guess myself.

  Sylvia grabbed her cell phone. “I’m calling the cops, right now,” she insisted.

  I put my hand over her phone. “No. Not now.”

  “When?” she asked. “After you get killed?”

  “The shooter used the same weapon that took out Sosa.”

  “Why would he be trying to kill you? You’re not on that case.”

  She watched me take a drink of beer. I pressed the cool bottle to my forehead and clenched my jaw.

  “Damn it, Nick. What’re you doing?”

  “Calm down. I’m a private investigator. I’m doing my job.”

  “The police warned you specifically to stay away from the case.”

  “Then what? Ruin my reputation? Marcus was right. Sosa’s death was not good for my business.” I explained to her about the trip to the oil derrick with Grandpa and what I’d found out.

  “You think Marcus is mixed up in this?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone until I get more evidence. I’ll go to the police when I find out who did it.”

  “What about the other case? What about Marissa Luna?” she asked.

  I told her what I’d found out about the bracelet and about Danny’s track record in Lubbock.

  “Danny Allison?”

  “That’s right. He’s a spoiled member of the privileged class. He thinks the sun rises and sets in his asshole.”

  “You’ve always had a chip on your shoulder against rich people.”

  “Just the ones who didn’t earn it. Danny never had to work a day in his life.”

  “What do you think will happen when Patrick Allison finds out you’re investigating his heir apparent?”

  I clenched my jaw and kept silent. I knew she wouldn’t like my answer.

  She shook her head. “Take a shower,” she commanded. “You’re filthy. I’ll fix you a sandwich.”

  I realized it had been a long time since the food to-go from Lamesa. That and the extreme exertion left me nauseous. She directed me to the shower, ordered me to strip, and watched me step under the warm running water. She took my filthy shorts and T-shirt and tossed them in the sink.

  When I was done, she put a fresh bandage on my arm while I finished my roast beef sandwich and opened another beer.

  “You have enough evidence for them to reopen the case,” she said.

  “No!” I was adamant. “The police tried once and failed. I’m not going to let that happen again.”

  Sylvia studied my expression. “You want me to describe your face right now? You look like the little boy who won’t go to his room.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, you caught me being stubborn.”

  She pushed closer and let out a deep breath, then put her lips on mine. “You’re shaking,” she said.

  I held out my hands and realized she was right. She stripped off her pink tank top and pressed herself against me, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. I held her tightly.

  “At least consider getting help.”

  I pulled her into my lap.

  “Think about it,” she said. The beer mixed with her perfume, after the close encounter with the sniper, made it hard to concentrate. She ran her hands through my short hair and kissed me again.

  “I’m thinking,” I said, but it wasn’t about getting help.

  I pushed the coffee table over with my foot, and we slid to the carpet.

  •••

  I woke to the sound of Sam yipping and scratching on the sliding-glass door. The concrete slab in the unshaded ten-foot-square patio did not meet with his approval, and he was letting me know it was time to go. Sometime during the night, Sylvia and I had moved from the living room carpet to her king-sized bed. I could hear her in the kitchen making coffee. My arm was sore as hell and a constant throbbing reminder that someone was trying to kill me. I didn’t enjoy looking over my shoulder every second wondering if a sniper was waiting to take the next shot. I had lived that life in Afghanistan. It left me jumpy and on edge. Sylvia wanted me to quit, but that wasn’t an option.

  I went outside and took a garden hose to Sam. All the signs said fall was coming. The Longhorns had played and lost their first football game and hunting season had started, but it still felt like summer. Sam was happy to get a bath and some food. High cirrus clouds drifted over the city. Grandpa called them “mares’ tails.” They either signaled rain was on the way or more of the same weather pattern. I couldn’t remember which. I popped open the patio umbrella, so Sam would have shade until I was ready to go, and went back inside to face the music with Sylvia.

  She was showered and in the kitchen by the time I came back inside. She made toast and I poured coffee.

  She smiled and kissed me. “How’s the arm?”

  “Sore, but I’ll live.”

  “Until next time?” It was a loaded question.

  “I’m not going to run and hide.”

  She stood still in the kitchen and watched me while I took a couple of eggs from her fridge and got out her frying pan.

  “You think Danny Allison killed Marissa Luna?” She was in lawyer mode. The soft cuddly sex kitten was safely tucked away. She was switching tactics and had me on the stand, ready to grill a hostile witness. She handed me the pepper shaker.

  “He was with her the night she was killed,” I said, cracking the eggs into the hot pan. “He’s an amateur MMA fighter, easily capable of drowning her. And he was the father of her unborn child. Something I’m sure his family wouldn’t have approved of. Means, opportunity, and motive.”

  Sylvia shook her head like she was scolding an impudent child. “How many males in a Texas bar play amateur sports?”

  I knew where she was going with this. “Ten percent.” I dumped my over-easy eggs onto a paper plate and sat down.

  “More like eighty percent, which was probably two hundred men with means and opportunity.” She had always been better at arguing than I was.

  “I’m not a numbers guy. Anyway, he had a fight with her. I’ve got it on video.”

  “Why didn’t the police see it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t watch all of the tapes.”

  “What about the motive? How do you know he’s the father of Marissa’s unborn child?”

  “He gave her an expensive Mother’s Love bracelet.”

  “Some men buy jewelry for women as a token of affection.” She wasn’t going to let me off the hook easily.

  “I brought you flowers.” I remembered I had bought her a bracelet at the factory store. I decided not to bring it up. She wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  “Dead flowers.” She poured us both more coffee.

  “Now you’re being picky,” I said. She was enjoying shredding my theory. “What about his prior history? Two women accused Danny Allison of sexual harassment. At least one of them benefited financially. You can’t defend him for that, counselor. The guy’s a dirtbag.”

  “Will those women testify in court?”

  “They dropped the charges.”

  “Unfortunately, you have nothing that will overrule the police theory. There’s still a reasonable doubt. Being a dirtbag isn’t a crime.”

  “What about the terms of the trust fund? You work for Marcus. You must have heard something.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Come on. We’re trying to establish a link here. All I want to know is if there were conditions for him to inherit the money. I’m not going to take it to the DA.”

  She sipped her coffee and looked out the window. Her legal mind was searching for an answer. It was at the heart of our disagreement from the time I decided to drop out of law
school. She was thinking of courtroom rules. I was thinking of justice. She was considering what could be proven in court. I was thinking of the truth.

  “I just want to know if a pregnant girl could interfere with his inheritance.”

  Her lips pinched together. I didn’t think she would answer.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That sounds like a motive. The rich bastard.” My blood was starting to boil. “Silver-spoon-sucking frat boy was willing to murder his girlfriend and unborn child so he could maintain his rich and privileged lifestyle. You know in Texas that counts as killing two people. The charge is capital murder, counselor. That means a minimum life in prison.”

  “If convicted. You still don’t know Danny Allison is the father,” she said.

  “All I need is a drop of his blood.”

  “Even people you decide are guilty are allowed a rigorous defense. It’s called due process. You can’t be judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “I’m not a vigilante.”

  “Then let the system work,” she insisted.

  “Marissa Luna is dead, and nobody was held accountable!” I saw disappointment in her eyes. I heard Sam barking and realized I was shouting.

  “Don’t look now, but you’re showing emotion,” she said.

  I took her in my arms, but she felt different. There was a harder edge to her normally soft touch. She studied my face as if searching for some indication that I would reconsider, that I would walk away and let the police and the DA handle everything. They had had their chance.

  “When we were in law school, we both wanted to fight for the little guy—the underdog who couldn’t fend for himself,” I said.

  “I was young and naïve,” she said. She meant I still was.

  I turned to go.

  “Nick,” she said. “Be careful. You still don’t know who’s shooting at you.”

  She didn’t need to remind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ijoined a handful of people waiting at the bus stop on my street corner. I recognized them all. Sam accepted a few compliments while I studied my yard from half a block away. There wasn’t much traffic because of the Labor Day holiday. The neighborhood high school was closed. Kids were sleeping till noon. A flock of white-winged doves dive-bombed a rooftop and reminded me that it was opening weekend for white-winged dove hunting. As if I needed another excuse to finish this case. The doves were always plentiful in the city because they seemed to realize it was a no-hunting zone. In the legal fields outside of town, they were harder to find.