Crime & Counterpoint (5 page)

Unrelenting night-life traffic comforted the Carnegie Hill studio suite high-rise. Carter, running on fumes, sat at his kitchen table with the lamp glowing over him, rehearsing his opening statement. Normally, he liked to pace and pretend he was in front of a grand jury, but that ship had sailed at around 11:45. He yawned despite his efforts to caffeinate himself – a coffee pot sat empty in the deep ceramic sink. Nevertheless, the candle would burn until he ran out of wicker.

Pretrial motions for a case of federal larceny were next on his track list, but no way would he get to it tonight with any degree of brainpower. However, he had his plan of attack neatly laid out in organized papers marked with red. At least that was something.

His iPhone burred and he took note of the caller ID. Mildly appreciative of the forced respite, he picked up.

“Hey Rick. You on duty or what?”

“Yeah,” senior Detective Valentino replied, sounding pissed off. “Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Carter scoffed. “You kidding? Hear from the Feds yet? You in?”

“No. True to fucking form, your boy didn’t give the G’s any reference at all.”

Carter gave a disapproving frown, scribbling something on the side of his document. “I’ll talk with him.”

“Don’t bother. But while we’re on the subject, we got a report about an abandoned BMW with Zach’s plates over in the Bronx.”

Carter’s hand stilled, and his gut dipped. “What?”

“I checked the Dashboard and sure enough, his Z4’s sitting outside some shipyard. I tried to contact him, but he’s not answering per usual. Thought I’d ask you first before going after his ass.”

“Oh God.” Carter rubbed a tired hand over his face, feeling his liver start to go. He scraped his chair back and jumped to his feet. “Hang on. I’m coming.”

A bull red Mustang crept slowly down the darkened road to the pier, tires crunching gravel. It stopped, backed up, and parallel parked behind a surly, black BMW Z4 with orange New York plates.

The lights went off and the engine shut down, returning the desolate harbor side street to its quiet slumber. The doors opened. Detective Rick Valentino, a suave Italian in his mid-30’s, emerged with an anxious Carter, flashlights in hand. Rick’s gun was tucked into his belt and concealed by a sleek leather coat. He dialed Zach’s cell again while peering into the BMW’s window. A Samsung Galaxy lit up between the seats.

“Yup,” he said quietly. “He left it in the damn car.”

Carter shook his head. “He could be anywhere.”

“Good job, Zach,” Rick muttered. Shining the beam into the car, he swept the interior and saw the man’s trusty leather jacket. “He’s gotta be around here.”

“I’ll check down by the wharf, you keep looking around here.” Carter didn’t wait for a reply as he started at a jog for the waterfront. There were many piers. Boats bobbing along most of them. He continued to the lit-up shipyard where there were rows of giant metal storage containers.

But his shoe crunched and popped on something which made him stop. He shone his light downward. Shattered glass. Tire tracks from burning rubber.

He looked around at the gopher’s nest of wide containers. Zach could have hid behind any of these, but if he’d been discovered, there wasn’t any chance of him getting out. His radio blipped unobtrusively, and he heard Rick speak.
“I found a Colt in the grass. Think it’s his.”

Carter groaned, sweat beading across his forehead despite the cold. If Zach was going to get into trouble, couldn’t he at least use an approved off-duty weapon? But far worse was the why. Why would he have dropped it?

Following the tire tracks with this sickening thought, Carter came back to the gravel driveway. He swept his flashlight in a wide swath and saw a clear carving where the vehicle tried to turn sharply. The tires had dug into the ground. Here in the gravel, it was painfully obvious that this was a recent occurrence. He could see the path they had taken – straight for the road to his left.

Hunting Zach.

They must’ve gotten him. No blood on the ground, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

A chilling breeze grazed his face, and nerves prickled across his stubbly jaw. Then, the river caught his attention. Dread knifed into him. Suddenly, the air he breathed felt like a noose.

Alright, alright. Think.
If they threw him in, he would’ve come up somewhere downstream. Zach was big and in peak physical condition. He could’ve survived. Unless he was unconscious. Or dead already.

Quickly, he doubled back as a few cars came sailing down the road, passing him by. He ran all the way to the nearest pier, using his flashlight to expose the darkness. Nothing.

There was another pier in the distance, even more dilapidated than the one he’d just checked. Dense cold shrouding him thickly, Carter continued with the flow of the East River tributary, feeling pulled.

He reached the small dock, flashed his light around.

Jogging to the end, he peered over the edge into the face of the tar-colored water. He shuddered.

His loafers clapped he wooden planks as he turned back. But a quiet, almost imperceptible noise stopped him. Could have been his imagination or the currents causing one of the boats to creak. But he wanted to believe it wasn’t.

He beamed the light upon the boardwalk, half expecting to find Zach. But he didn’t. However, his bright torch illuminated a dinghy tied all the way at the end of the next pier. It was long, shallow, and bobbing peacefully. Shrouded in complete darkness, it would have escaped his notice if not for the small knocking noise it made as it hid the beams of the pier. He hustled over, anticipation rising in his chest, and pointed the flashlight in the boat.

A man lay flat on his chest. Eyes closed. Drenched to the skin and dribbling water in a thin pool around him. Two gunshot wounds in his shoulder and chest. He wasn’t breathing.

(“…Having fun yet, Detective…?”)

(((Ripple)))

Opaque black.

An army of wasps stung him all over. He didn’t really feel it. Because it wasn’t really happening. Was it?

Warm fingers combed his hair,
(“Sleep, dear. Growing boys need their rest.”)
which floated like seaweed.

His hands spread wide, arms lounging up and away. Legs stretched out in perfect repose. Face muscles at ease. Relaxing.
(“That’s it. Close your eyes, and I’ll sing you a song.”)

Tender arms carried him. A sweet, low voice crooned a haunting lullaby that soothed him.
(“… It’s not your fault, dear. She just wasn’t strong like you.”)

Then scathing pain. Crept upon him like the dawn.

(((Ripple)))

Cold. Ice. Fire. Burning, bone-numbing cold.

Breathe. Breathe!

Another stronger ebb of pain. It brought him into a measure of coherence, but it seemed like just another nightmare.

Whispers of
(“You killed her”)
moonlight shone down on him.

(“It’s okay. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”)

He was being pulled down
… You don’t deserve to live…
Sucked into a whirlpool.
She’s dead because of me.
A warm cyclone that was just as safe as it was dangerous.

(“That’s right, son. You remember that now…”)

(((Ripple))) (((Ripple)))

(“He’s not moving… Get the medics over here…”)

Rancid, glacial water filled his lungs – a tight mask stretching taut over his face.
Gut-wrenching panic braced him and electrocuted his wiring.

His eyes split wide.

He kicked, struggling against the thick, twisting locks of crosscurrents, against the heavy weight of the river’s gown. He couldn’t push her off him. She had no form. She swirled around, clawing him downward with soft nails that left no mark.

His lungs burned, beyond desperate for oxygen.

His heart thudded with finality – loud pulses that deafened him. Like an internal clock counting down.

Five seconds.

The two halves of himself split with a crack of thunder, multiplying his cascade of horrors. Dividing him. Pitting body against soul. One urged him to the surface. But the other
((…“Shhh. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it? Just close your eyes, and forget…”))

Four seconds.

The agony returned, sapping him of his willpower, his energy. He wanted to scream, but there was no air.

Three
.

Fire and ice intertwined in his core, a contrapuntal terror that he couldn’t process.

Anger numbs the pain
.
((… “That’s right. Just relax. It’ll be over soon.”…))

Two.

(“Come on, you son of a bitch. Hit me!”)

One.

(“HIT ME!!”)

Zero.

((… “Time’s up”…))

Zach jolted awake. Throat tight. Mouth dry. His bleary gaze darted around the hospital room before he remembered, realized he was alive. Evening sun streamed in through the blinds, and he had no idea how long he’d been sleeping. He was pretty sure he’d been in this same room before. Recognized that tacky wall print of the sail boat on frictionless waters. New York Presbyterian, no doubt. Yup. There it was on the menu lying on the adjustable tray next to his bed.

He relaxed a little, but his body shook with the effects of the morphine drip they’d given him.

He couldn’t feel much except a dull, distant ache every time he took a breath and when he tried to lift his left arm. Something was definitely torn there.

He groped for the bed controls and pressed up. The jerky, whirring motion caused him to reconsider adjusting his incline. So he stopped.

A light rap at the door jarred him. He looked over as Dr. Jared Greene, M.D. entered with a brilliant, straight smile that went right along with his $500 haircut and athletic, country club frame. He’d walked straight out of “General Hospital”. At least that’s how cousin Carrie described him after she’d fallen insanely in love. Key word: insanely.

“Hey,” Jared greeted. “You’re finally awake. You slept for three days straight, man.”

Zach wanted to say something to reflect his shock. But as he took a breath, he started coughing. Like a 200-year-old chain-smoker.

“Whoah! Hold on.” Jared rushed over, leaving his clipboard on the end of the bed, and went to help Zach take some pressure off his chest. He grabbed the man’s muscle-tight bicep and helped him up to sitting while he pressed and held a button to get the upper part of the bed to elevate.

“Thanks,” Zach replied with a pathetic grimace, sounding hoarse. He leaned back and found the adjustment was almost right. Chest aching but less so now, he heaved some shallow breaths, clavicle rising and falling with the action. “How long do I have to be here?”

Jared grinned. “Always your first question. You’re a fast healer, but it’s gonna take a few more days.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Okay,” Jared said with a slow nod. “But FYI, we had to patch up your left lung. Dr. Ramesh – you know him right, from the last time you got shot? He says you’re probably gonna die anyway. So. Up to you.”

Zach groaned again. “Fine.”

“Great.” Jared grinned. He clicked his pen and tucked it back into his white coat pocket. He did a thorough check on Zach’s wounds next. “Do you remember anything? What happened that night?”

Zach winced. “No. Not much.”

“Well, you’re lucky Carter and Rick found you when they did. You were barely breathing. And by the time you got here…” Jared shook his head, subtly aggrieved. “Anyway, whoever tried to kill you actually saved your life by throwing you in the river. The salt sterilized everything. And the water was so damn cold, it effectively cauterized the bullet holes. Kept you from bleeding out.”

Zach exhaled painfully as Jared redressed the wound on his chest.

“Shoulder?” Jared asked.

Feeling it out, Zach replied, “Can’t really move it.”

“Hm. Might’ve torn your rotator cuff. I’ll schedule some X-rays,” Jared said, taking out his pen and making a note in Zach’s chart. Expending a breath, he checked the time, turning around to look at the clock above the door. “I have a personal favor to ask. I know this might be an odd request, but chalk it up to that time in third grade when I saved your dog and ended up with my arm in a cast.”

Zach’s mouth quirked. “Okay.”

“Think you can avoid getting shot again until
after
my wedding? You know, cause then I’ll have four groomsmen instead of five and it’s just not a good number.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No. I’m serious.” Replacing his pen, he eyed Zach solemnly. “I don’t know how many more of these incidents you have left in you. I mean” – he shook his head at Zach’s chart – “you’re still holding out, but at some point, the camel’s back is gonna break.”

“Spare me the lecture, Jared.”

“Alright.” Jared pointed to a container Zach hadn’t noticed before. Looked like soup. “When you get the strength, you should have some of that. Your grandmother came by with it earlier.”

“What’d you tell her?”

Jared toyed with the chart. “The usual spiel.” He adjusted the water jug for no apparent reason. “We’re, uh, moving her to her new place this weekend.”

“Who’s we?”

“I’m doing some. But mostly the Mitchel brothers. I hear, it’s their side gig now,” he joked. “Mitchel, Weston and Sons. Get a free consultation and moving quote.” He chuckled.  You still talk to those guys?”

Zach exhaled carefully and shook his head.

“Maybe you should.” Jared glanced at the chart in his hand like he had more to say. But – “I’ll let her know you’re okay. If you need anything, call. Carter said he’d be by later.” He started towards the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Oh, and Rick wanted me to tell you you’re a fucking idiot, although I’m sure he’ll be by to convey those sentiments to you himself.” He smiled thinly.

Zach suppressed his displeasure and stared at the ceiling. As he lay there slipping into a tidepool of depression, it occurred to him that he’d almost died on his thirtieth birthday. But fortunately, he thought of a welcome distraction. Who the hell had sent him that text and did it have anything to do with the Red Fisher?