Fighters.
I understand fighters. I understand their determination, their passion, their need to press on, to resist the current pressing against them, to refuse to give up. If you’re a fighter, chances are you’re sticking up for something: yourself, your little brother, your country, your family, maybe even something stupid. And, hell, that’s a lot better than all the other pussies out there who won’t fight for anything, who just don’t care enough, those folks with distilled water running through their veins.
Yeah, give me a fighter any day.
This is probably why Rod Stone and I are still friends. Rod is a fighter—literally. And every time he walks into the cage to fight, he pours his heart into it, leaving everything on the mat. He’s still not sure exactly why he fights, and neither am I, but if I had to bet I’d say it’s because when he does fight, it’s him on his own, standing up for himself, just like in childhood, when his dad was long gone and his mom was either at work or passed out drunk on the couch. By exhausting his body and soul to save himself, Rod has created a roundabout way to love himself. Bottom line: Rod cares—cares about something. I like that a lot.
Rod can see the Little Fighter in me. It’s always been there—not like Rod’s Big Fighter, but it’s there. Rod’s Big Fighter is happy to come out for any number of reasons. But there’s really only one thing that gets my Little Fighter going: Someone is fucking with my people.
“Kate?”
“Dan? Where did they take you?”
“Kate, do you have the boys?”
“Where are you, Dan?”
It sounds quiet at the house. I’m not hearing any of the boy noises I’ve grown so accustomed to the past six years—the incessant hollering, the toy trucks slamming into walls, the pounding of little feet on our chapped hardwood floors.
“Kate,” I plead, “where are the boys?”
“They’re here.” She sighs. “They’re passed out.”
I feel sick again. I gulp back a surge of bile.
“Where are you, Danny?”
Damn, she sounds tired.
“Police department.” I’m about to cry. “They might move me to County.”
There’s a long pause, and then, “What the fuck, Dan. I mean, what the fuck is going on with you?”
I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “The guy I attacked?”
She’s silent.
“It was the Safeway guy, Kate. The guy who kneed me at the Safeway. And the same guy Calhoun saw prowling outside the house today.”
Silence.
“Did they tell you that, Kate? Did they tell you he was the same guy?”
Long pause. “All they told me is, you went psycho and Calhoun stopped it all.”
“What?”
“They’re saying Calhoun was like a hero.”
I pull my hair back.
“Something’s wrong, Kate. Things are happening here. The nerds in the van, the bald guy at our house, then at Safeway, then at the park with the boys.”
Kate sounds confused, uncertain what to believe. “You sure?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “I saw this guy with the boys, I just went crazy.”
“Did you tell the cops this?”
“They’re reviewing the Safeway tape now.”
Another pause. “Stacey said she’d never seen you like that. She said it was like you were another person.” A second later she whispered, “Thank God for Calhoun.”
What? Calhoun? Thank God for Calhoun?
I lower my head and rub my brows.
“She said he seemed like a really decent guy.”
“Calhoun? Is she nuts?”
“No, the bald guy.”
“A nice guy with a switchblade?” I sigh.
I let the line go silent, giving Kate time for it all to sink in. In a day, things have gone crazy, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize it’s all related—and most likely centering around my all-powerful employer.
“I want you home, Dan.” Her voice cracks. “I just want you home.”
“Kate, when we hang up I want you to call Rod. I want you to have him spend the night at the house. I don’t want you and the boys alone.”
She’s crying now.
“We’re gonna get through this, Kate. The Menlo Park Police brought the Safeway tapes over. Calhoun gave them his statement. The detectives are gonna verify my story, and we’re gonna be all right.”
“Okay,” she says, and sighs.
“Just call Rod, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Tell him what’s going on.”
We’re silent on the line again, and it’s the closest I’ve felt to her in a long time. Finally, she sniffles and says, more like a prayer, “We’re gonna be okay.”
“Kate, we will be. I promise. I just need you to do one more thing.”
Another sniffle. “Okay.”
For the last several hours, I’ve just realized, I’ve been in deep, deep denial about something. Now I can feel my pulse pounding in my head, my blood racing like an eighteen-wheeler passing on the freeway. “I just need you to go to my car, Kate. On the shotgun seat you’ll find a bottle of Vicodin and my prescription papers. I need you to have someone run it over here to the police station.”
“Vicodin,” she mumbles, as if to herself.
By now I’m gripping the table with my free hand, gritting my teeth.
“Sooner the better.”
They bring me into the interrogation room. Again.
Bryant and Topeka. Two of San Carlos’s finest—or perhaps only—detectives. My sandbox fight is probably the most action they’ve seen this year. In this peninsula town of highly educated technology professionals and pedicured East Coast expats, the cops are lucky to pull a nanny-jaywalking, maybe an extra-loud milk steaming.
Bryant has the face of a grandpa and body of a twenty-five-year-old; he probably logged a few decades in some city like Oakland before landing this cushy gig. Topeka looks like a kid: buzz cut, pink skin, doughy body. If they were real estate agents, I’d take them as a father-and-son team, but right now I can barely look at them. My mind is devoted to two primal thoughts: My crotch needs relief, and I wanna go home.
Bryant is glaring at me. I turn away and grit my teeth as my crotch releases yet another wave of agony; they’re coming every few minutes now. Looking back at his gray eyes, square jaw, and salt-and-pepper mustache somehow intensifies the pain, sends it all the way to my temples and down my neck.
“Okay,” Bryant says, his voice deep and dry, “first things first.” From his front pocket, he pulls out the orange prescription bottle of Vicodin and practically slams it onto the wooden table between us. I grimace and reach for it, grunting, and he swipes it away.
Topeka snorts, smiling.
“Hold on there, partner.” Bryant studies me as he slides the bottle to the far corner of the table, out of my reach. I stare at the bottle. “We have someone double-checking the prescription. Until it’s confirmed, try meditation.”
I lean back and stare at him.
Bryant studies his notes and fingers a red file folder. Topeka is leaning in on his elbows, watching me, still smiling.
I squint in pain. “You guys review the Safeway tape?”
Bryant doesn’t look up from the notes. “We sure did.”
“And?”
“We had Calhoun come over and take a look.”
“And.”
“He says it’s the same guy.”
“Which means I can go home.”
Bryant turns a page, casual, like he’s on the lido deck. “Don’t think so, partner.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t get it.”
Bryant glances at me, then returns to his notes.
“You saw me hobble in there, minding my own business.”
“Yep.”
“You saw me back into this guy, and the guy going ballistic.”
“Yep.”
“Throwing me into the freezer.”
“We did.” Bryant sighs and finally looks up from his notes. “We sure did.”
“You have witnesses who saw him pull a knife on me at the park.”
He nods.
“And you have Calhoun saying the guy was prowling outside my house.”
Nod.
“So you know this guy was the instigator.”
Bryant looks so calm. “That we don’t know.”
What?
“You rushed this guy at the park, Jordan. Unprovoked.” He fans a few pages. “Wasn’t for Calhoun, you might be in an even bigger heap of trouble.”
I open my mouth and catch myself. Count to four. “Sir.” I exhale. “He was playing with my kids. The same guy who’d prowled around my house and later attacked me unprovoked was now playing with my little boys. That’s no coincidence. He pulled a knife on me. My sons were in immediate danger.”
Bryant and Topeka exchange glances. “Tell you the truth, Dan, what we don’t know is whether there’s history here or not.” He pauses. “Do we?”
I feel a wave coming on, and my crotch hardens into a block of pain. I grip the table, lean forward, and glance at the Vicodin bottle. The fuckers. I imagine siccing an overly aggressive, gelatinous attorney on them.
“Say that again?”
Topeka says, “How do we know you guys didn’t know each other? How do we know you guys hadn’t been feuding?”
I push back from the table. “Like I said, guys, go through all my stuff. Go through my house, my phone records, whatever.” I feel like I’m about to cry. “I promise you I’ve never seen that guy before all this.”
Bryant waits, probably hoping I’ll start to cry and confess to something. I take the moment to draw in a few deep breaths.
“Now tell us what the fuck is going on here.”
“I’ve told you.” Shit, Danny. Hold it together. “There’s nothing.”
“Tell me how you know this guy.”
“I don’t.” I gasp. “I have no fucking clue.”
“You’re lying,” he yells, his face flushed. “And you’re wasting my fucking time.”
I look away, shake my head.
Bryant pushes away from the table, releases a low grumble. Topeka moves in. Calm voice. “I think what Detective Bryant is trying to say is, there must be some reason this guy picked you out, found your sons at the park here.”
I look up, can feel my eye twitching. “No shit. That’s what I’ve been saying the past six hours.”
They exchange glances.
“Then tell us,” Topeka says. “Tell us what the hell is going on here.”
I look at him and think about it. I know this must have something to do with the geeks and Stephen Fitzroy, and I realize that small-timers don’t fuck with major CEOs like this, tracking down their speechwriters the way this guy has. I’m dealing with something far more dangerous.
I look back at Bryant, then Topeka. I have no idea what I’m dealing with, and I won’t risk my life with these two assholes. They can’t help me with something like this. They might even make things worse.
Topeka says, “You’re right. We can’t charge you. Assistant D.A. already came in and took a look at the tapes, read the witness testimonies from Calhoun and the moms at the park, looked at the knife. Justifiable force. Self-defense.”
Bryant sighs and turns back, facing me again. He seems to have cooled.
“You think we’re idiots?” He pauses, watching me. “I’ve been doing this a long time.” He waits a second. Maybe he’s handled assaults someplace else. “We all know there’s more to this, and I know you’re withholding something.” He pauses again. “Maybe it’s something someone said to you . . .”
We stare at each other, and suddenly I want to tell him. I want to be taken care of, put to bed like a little kid after a cold, rotten day, knowing that all the bad stuff will be gone when I wake up the next morning.
“. . . or maybe you think this involves someone you know, or something you did a long time ago.”
I look up at him, shake my head.
“Well,” Bryant says, “this won’t be the last time you see me.” Another pause. “Just the beginning. I’m gonna be all over you.”
I look at him.
“And do you know why?”
I wait for more.
“Because I don’t like knife fights in my children’s park.” He glares at me, his eyeballs nearly shaking with rage. “Not here. Not in San Carlos.”
I struggle to stand up. “Give me my bottle, guys.”
Bryant snatches the Vicodin and tosses it to me. So much for that bullshit about checking my prescription. I pop it open, finger two pills, and swallow them dry.
“Now, you guys wanna start actually doing your job?”
Topeka stirs, Bryant jolts.
“What’d you say?”
“You wanna do your job,” I snap, “and get some protection out at my house?”
The first time I saw Kate, I was at Alta Plaza in San Francisco.
Saw her sitting with a girlfriend on the north end of the hilltop park, a six-pack of Tecate and a bag of Las Palmas tortilla chips between them. I was sprawled out on a blanket, trying to return to Bukowski’s Women and failing badly—all on account of her, this bewitching individual sitting nearby, laughing with her girlfriend as they looked out at the breathtaking view of the city. I kept staring and smiling, and she kept glancing back with a grin.
There was a cuteness to her. A freshness. She was barefoot, sandals kicked off, jeans rolled up.
She hollered, “You want one?”
“Huh?”
She yanked a can of Tecate off its plastic ring. “You want one?”
I still have that can.
Two years later, Kate and I sat right where we’d first met. She had her head on my lap, and I was running a finger along her hairline, looking down at her, determined to reassure her. We were getting married in a month, and we’d just had our worst fight ever—about my career as a reporter, its inability to provide stability for a family, and the difference between chasing a dream and being responsible. The conversation—or yelling match, as it turned out—in my Toyota had quickly disintegrated into a nasty attack-defend flurry in which everything from “You always wanted to change me” to “You don’t really love me” came flying out before we could think to stop.
It had been a great two years, except for the past three months. The closer we got to the wedding date, the more things between us had unraveled. Of course, it had taken all that time to realize what was happening here. We were getting married, and Kate was horrified that someday we’d end up just like her parents—divorced, with a child.
Kate spent her childhood alone, with a TV.
She looked up at me, sniffling. “You’re not gonna leave me?”
I stroked her head. “Kate, I’ll never leave you.”
She started to cry. “Even when things get shitty?”
I wiped the tears off her cheeks. “I’m in this for the rest of my life.”
“Even if you get sick of me?”
“Even if I get sick of you.”
She looked up, those blue eyes melting me, the purity drilling into the center of my heart, and I was certain of two things: I loved this woman more than anything, and I would never let her down.
Seven years later:
ANNE: OMG, my face is so flushed right now
DAN: That’s because you know I’m turned on
ANNE: Well that and the fact I can’t stop thinking about you
DAN: God, you are so bad
ANNE: Whatev . . . ;)
DAN: So did you think about me?
ANNE: Okay, now my face is getting like cherry red
DAN: Did you?
[long pause]
ANNE: Yeah
DAN: The big moment
ANNE: Yeah?
DAN: Did you have one?
ANNE: Um . . . yeah
DAN: And were you thinking of me?
ANNE: I can’t believe I’m telling you this
DAN: You were, huh?
ANNE: Uh-huh :)
DAN: And??????
ANNE: IT . . .
ANNE: . . . WAS . . .
ANNE: A
ANNE: M
ANNE: A
ANNE: Z
ANNE: I
ANNE: N
ANNE: G
DAN: Whoa
ANNE: It was like you were inside me last night
DAN: Whoa
ANNE: Uh-huh . . .
DAN: God, I want you
ANNE: Are you still hard, Dan?
DAN: Oh, yeah.
ANNE: Good :)
My worst moment, hands down.
God, I am scum.
Driving home from the police department in the predawn mist, I’m thinking about it all, realizing how close I’ve just come to letting Kate down. Writing that crap with Anne. Soiling the spirit of my marriage. Jeopardizing a million dollars just to leak gossip to a reporter. Not to mention nearly getting locked up for assault and battery. I can’t imagine anything more destructive, anything that would destroy the trust Kate had developed over the past nine years, that would send my boys along the same damaging trajectory their mother experienced as a child.
I need to keep my family intact. I just don’t know where to start.
I open the front door a crack and peer in. The faintest hint of dawn has crept through the blinds, the colors muted. In the corner, in my leather armchair, is Rod’s silhouette, his heavy brow profiled prominently, his posture upright but relaxed, his legs planted open on the floor.
“Hey.” I open the door a little more. “It’s me.”
“No shit.” He doesn’t move. “Could hear your car two blocks away.”
I have to admit, it feels good to see Rod in my front room. Rod is never afraid of anything, and being around that confidence, that strength and courage, is reassuring. These assholes, whoever they are—they’re in for a surprise if they haven’t accounted for Rod.
He nods to the back of the house. “Go.” His voice is cool as granite. “I’ll pour you something.” He rises and strides toward the kitchen. “Coffee or a cold one?”
I limp across the living room. At the hallway entrance I nearly trip on a toy motorcycle. My house is a freaking minefield of boy toys. Coffee sounds pretty damn good, but after everything that’s happened, all that’s racing through my mind, I know what I really want.
“Cold one,” I whisper.
In the boys’ room, I stand between their beds and gaze down at them. Ben is stretched on his side, twisted blankets snaking through his legs, his back arched dramatically, his belly coming through the pajamas, belly button showing, his chin up—just as he slept as a newborn. I squat down, bite my lip from the pain, and run the back of my hand along his cheek—smooth, warm, and perfect. He’s brought to bed a small truck, a plastic lion, and a framed photo of me from the living room. I kiss him lightly on the temple.
My boy Benny.
I turn and look at Harry—at his blond hair, fair skin like his mom’s—and start to tear up. I’ve come so close to scarring him. Daddy attacked a nice man at the sandbox. The thought makes my stomach turn.
I gather myself in the hallway, taking deep breaths. I hear Rod opening beer bottles, the caps bouncing on my counter. I take another deep breath, exhale slowly. I hobble down the hallway to our bedroom, inadvertently kick a Hot Wheel down the hallway, where it slams against the baseboard. I look in; Kate is asleep, surrounded by extra pillows, the phone a foot away from her face.
Loyal Kate. I back out, careful not to wake her.
When I get the kitchen, Rod is sitting at the table, nursing a Modelo. When he sees my eyes, he walks over, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me. Affection, Rod Stone style. “It’s gonna be all right, Danny.” He shakes me harder and brings me in for a hug—an awkward man-hug, chests pushed out to limit the intimacy, big hard thumps on the back. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”
We sit down and take our beers, leave the lights off. A sliver of sunlight streaks through the kitchen blinds and crosses his face, illuminating a gray eye and the scar on his left cheek. I take another deep breath, trying to regain my composure. He takes a swig and studies me, eyes narrowing, neck and head going rigid, as if he’s saying, Who did this to my buddy?
Of the many times I’ve seen Rod fight, one of the few times I’ve seen him get emotional was in high school, more than twenty years ago.
It was actually one of my fights.
Ninth grade. I’m a lowly freshman still getting lost trying to find my locker. Two juniors sneak up behind me, lift me up by the legs, laughing. A longhair with tinted glasses keeps yelling, “Freshman . . . freshman,” like he’s proclaiming me to the school. They’re laughing, I’m laughing, students are laughing. Not a big deal. Easy hazing. Until I lose my balance, grab for leverage, and end up stabbing my No. 2 pencil into the forearm of the longhair. Unintentionally.
“What the fuck?” The longhair looks down at me and pushes me hard, bringing his fists up. “Fucking stabbed me, you little fuck.”
Kids swarm around us. My heart spasms.
Oh fuck.
An English teacher with a surfer cut saunters to his door, leans against the frame, and watches, arms folded. Guys are hollering, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Big circle around us. Pretty girls watching from a distance.
“Dude, it’s cool.” My heart is pounding. “I don’t wanna fight. It was an accident.”
“Like hell it was.” He comes toward me, and I back up. “Fucking stabbed me.”
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
“Little fucking new-wave piece of shit.”
FIGHT . . . FIGHT . . . FIGHT.
“Hit him.”
“Waste him, Mark.”
He charges and takes a swing, and I duck. He misses badly, and I roll behind him on the asphalt, scramble back up. I feel like I’m about to cry, but I can’t.
God, please don’t let me cry.
People are screaming, happy about the excitement. Longhair turns around and comes after me, at which point someone yanks me back. It’s Rod, my best buddy. Goes straight for Longhair, swipes away a punch, lands a right into his glasses, cuts the guy in the eye, sends shards of tinted lens into his brow, grabs and slams him onto the ground. Place goes silent as my freshman buddy Rod puts this junior into an “arm bar,” ready to make his elbow do unnatural things.
Longhair groans and struggles.
Rod’s eyes are wild. I’ve never seen him so angry. “Say you’re sorry, burnout.”
Longhair struggles again.
Rod applies more pressure. “Say you’re sorry.”
Nothing.
Snap.
It took three minutes for the English teacher and two seniors to pull Rod off the screaming Longhair. And when they did, all Rod could say was, “My family.”
I was Rod’s family. No one else. Just me.
I’ve just told Rod the whole story. He’s walking back to the fridge, fingering two more Modelos. “I know a guy at the gym.” He pops the caps. “Does some side work for the suits. You know, security.”
Rod himself used to do that kind of work. He had a nice gig doing weekends for some of the biggest names in technology and venture capital. Easy work. But it wasn’t him. Now he’s a full-time mixed martial artist signed to a six-figure contract with the UFC—a premier athlete training with some of the best MMA fighters in the world.
Rod glances at the clock on my microwave. 6:10. “I’ll call my buddy later this morning.”
I take a sip. The alcohol and the Vicodin seem to be mixing nicely because my crotch feels okay for the first time in nearly a day. “What are you thinking?”
Rod looks out to my backyard. The lawn is littered with toy trucks, balls, and plastic dinosaurs. “I’m thinking, this bald guy? Probably has some connections to the security crowd, and someone in that circle is paying this guy to fuck with you.” Rod pauses, thinks about it. “Doesn’t sound like an amateur.” He glances at me, stoic, and returns his gaze to the yard. “You got lucky, Danny. Real lucky.” He shakes his head, exhales hard. “Never do that again.”
I take a pull off my Modelo. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re lucky your friend Calhoun was there.”
I roll my eyes.
“Screwed things up for you, but probably saved your life.”
It’s hard to accept it, but I’m starting to realize: No Calhoun there, it would have been just me and Baldy, and chances are I would’ve been pounded to jelly.
“Guess I can’t blame you.” He takes a swig, keeps his gaze on the yard. Rod loves my boys—more than anything, maybe. “I’d have killed him.”
“So I’m not crazy.”
“ ’Course not.” He sighs. “Problem is, with a guy like that, if he’s what I think he is—a pro? If you redid that sandbox fight twenty times, he would’ve killed you the other nineteen.”
My stomach sinks.
“I mean, the guy pulled a knife. But, hey.” He lifts his Modelo toward me. Instinctively, I clank my bottle with his. “You took care of your people, and he’s beat up.”
My mind is swimming, but I have to admit it’s satisfying, knowing I got the best of him.
Rod says, “What about the guys at FlowBid?”
“Which guys?”
“The security team for Fitzroy.”
“Yeah?”
“You think you could trust them? Maybe they’d tell you if they’re having problems on their end.” He pauses. “You know, if someone sent a guy like that asshole after you, what are they pulling on the big cheese himself?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Fitzroy’s security team consists of two relentlessly congenial guys with law-enforcement and military backgrounds. I’ve always joked to Kate that they’re the nicest guys you’ll ever meet . . . who are ready to break your neck should you endanger the merchandise, i.e., Fitzroy. I’ve never witnessed one incident that even remotely required their services, but ever since we went public and amassed those billions, the FlowBid board of directors has required the security detail. Unlike other companies with deeper “bench strength,” FlowBid is seen by many analysts as a one-man show. In other words, if Fitzroy bites the dust, so will the company’s market cap, not to mention the investments of all our shareholders, which includes a handful of very heavily invested (and rich) people. Regardless, the fact that the board thinks Fitzroy needs security always gave me a chuckle. Until today.
“Check them out,” Rod says. “See what kind of information they volunteer. Hell, maybe you’ll feel safe telling them about this bald guy.”
I shake my head. “Can’t do that.” I almost laugh, because I don’t think Rod realizes how easily rumors travel in corporate. “I have to last two more days without creating a stir. Those guys hear about Baldy, the fact I attacked a man? . . . No way.”
Rod frowns, and a deep growl rumbles inside his chest. “So that’s what this is about—money. That’s the problem with this place. Everyone is obsessed with money.” He glares at me, looks away. “What the fuck happened to you, Danny? What the fuck happened to the guy who just wanted to chase the truth? The guy who wouldn’t get caught dead in a suit? Now you’re playing games with millionaires and hired security pros.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Taking huge risks with your family.”
I put the Modelo down a little too hard. “Don’t give me that again,” I say. “It’s easy to be idealistic when all you have to worry about is yourself. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve given up, it’s been for Kate and the boys. Even now, it’s for the family.”
“You mean, for the money.” He glares at me again. “You realize how fucked-up that is? One screwup, and Kate and the boys are in serious danger.” He thinks about it. “Must be a lot of coin.”
There’s no way I’ll tell him how much.
“What am I supposed to do, Rod? You think telling those cops would accomplish anything more than getting me fired, maybe even killed, depending on who’s behind this thing?” I take a sip. “You think those IT guys in the van aren’t ready to destroy my life if I don’t play along?” I wait a second. “You understand the pressure I’m under to provide for my family? Mortgage? Medical? Schools? Food? Safe neighborhoods? You understand how much I’ve given up to get here, to be just days away from our cash-out?”
He grumbles and looks away.
“Two more days. Then I change my life.”
He looks disgusted. “Well, then, until this shit blows over, I want Kate and the boys up at my place.” Rod lives twenty-five miles away in an oversized flat in San Francisco, in the gritty, industrial-bohemian neighborhood south of Market. “There’s no way they’re staying here.”
I nod, and I feel better already.
“But first . . . it’s dawn.”
Oh, fuck. That’s right. It’s dawn, and I’m with Rod.
Rod gets up, pours the rest of his beer into the sink, opens the door to our backyard, glances at me, still frowning. “Come on, bub. It’s dawn.”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“You know the routine.”
I do.
It started the summer before our junior year in high school. Rod was already fully obsessed with martial arts, and I just couldn’t say no to my best friend. So every Friday at dawn, Rod would run to my house, crawl through my window, pull me out of bed, and drag me out to the football field a few blocks away, where he’d slap me around till I’d start yelling to “fucking stop it.” Even as I was protesting, though, I knew what it meant to him—hell, Rod was out there solo the other six days of the week. And once I got my blood rushing, I loved it. The fresh air, the surrounding silence, the reminder that we were doing something special.
Every Friday at dawn, until I left for college.
Rod never stopped, but over the years the routine has evolved with him. Physically, it’s become more intense; he continues to push his body and self-discipline to new heights. But it’s also come to reflect his own evolution. Where the Rod I knew back in school couldn’t care less about the harmonic balance of nature and its creatures, Rod the adult integrates his newfound love for all things natural into his routine. He’s also developed an interest in spirituality, with an emphasis on Zen Buddhism. He insists that “the complex duality of the universe” allows him to pursue both spirituality and cage fighting.
My best friend, the Zen Buddhist cage fighter.
Between the beer and the Vicodin, I’ve almost forgotten my vasectomy. “Go easy on me.” I widen my legs and square myself. “I’m not exactly sure this is a good idea.”
Rod squints. “I’ll be gentle.”
“I really don’t think—”
He explodes toward me, flips me over, and sprawls across my body, his armpit covering my face, his upper body weighing me down. The impact knocks the wind out of me.
Rod chuckles. “Trying to stay clear of you down there.”
Finally I get a lungful of air. I struggle to get out from under him, but it’s hopeless. He swings around, his knee brushing against my nose, my eyes suddenly watering. I struggle to my knees, at which point he slides me into a Peruvian Necktie, my neck trapped in a constricting mass of legs and arms. My defense instincts take over, and I flail my arms, trying to hit him.
He laughs. “There we go,” he says. “That’s what we want.” He releases me, and I gasp for air. I stagger to my feet, the anger from yesterday surging like an electric current into my arms and legs, taking control.
“Hit me,” he pants.
This is what he wants. He wants me to take a swing. This is what he had me do all those years on the football field. It’s what they pay his sparring partners to do all day at his gym.
I’m practically wheezing, and suddenly I feel the pain in my crotch. It’s like someone snaked barbed wire through my scrotum and down my legs. God almighty.
He snarls. “Just hit me.”
The anger has my chest heaving. In my mind I hear Dr. Heidi’s voice: Are you acting like a man, Dan? I see Detective Bryant yelling at me in the interrogation room, calling me scum. I hear the laugher of the geeks. I see that look on Baldy’s face just before he knees me in the crotch. I’m ready to explode, and I know Rod won’t let me go until I let it out, so I throw a hard right. He deflects it, slaps me hard across the face, picks me up and body slams me onto the grass. My insides rattle.
He growls. “Faster next time.”
We get back up, and I know what I have to do. He won’t stop until I do it.
“No more half speed,” he snaps. “Faster.”
I go for it. I throw everything I have at him. Rights. Lefts. Kicks. He deflects the punches, steps away from the kicks. Finally, he catches my left foot and spins me off-balance, and doesn’t let go until I’ve crashed to the ground. He comes at me with a cocked fist, stops, opens his fist, and slaps me hard on the face, grinning.
I’m panting so hard, I see stars.
“God, that brings back good memories.” His eyes water as he pulls me back up. Sniffles. “Remember how hard you’d work just to land one punch?”
I don’t think I’ve ever landed a punch on Rod. “I’m too old for this,” I say.
He laughs, slaps me on the back, and brings me in. “I love you, Danny.”
“Love you, too, man.” I swallow hard. “Just glad you’re here.”
He looks away and nods. “Come on,” he says, “we need to meditate.”
We’re sitting cross-legged in a field of toy trucks, plastic T-Rexes, and a dozen Wiffle balls. Rod’s eyes are closed, and it looks like he feels The Light: head cocked, an eyebrow arched, corners of the mouth up, eyelids nearly fluttering.
“Just listen to the nature.”
Rod isn’t someone who’s always loved animals, insects, and plants. I have friends like that, people who’ve been true naturalists since grade school, guys who’ve been camping and fishing all their lives. Rod, on the other hand, is a relative newcomer, which is fine with me because he’s not doing it to be cool. He’s doing it because he really feels it at the core of his heart. And yet something saddens me about Rod’s newfound love for nature, about his determination to find authenticity and meaning.
Rod says, “I want us to think about this bald guy.”
My eyes are closed, and Baldy’s big nose and narrow-set eyes flash before me. I breathe out hard. “I don’t know, man. This is . . .”
“Trust the Zen process,” Rod says. “Find your answers within.”
I try my best to let go, the Zen meditation way. At first I keep getting the same images: Baldy kneeing me in the frozen-food section; playing with my kids; pulling a knife on me.
“Try to imagine him as a little boy, a kid someone loved.”
I try, and all I get is the image of Baldy’s adult head on a child’s body, pushing another boy around. I shake my head and try to let go, and just like that I get an image of a little boy cuddling with his mother. Within seconds, I can actually feel the love coursing through my veins. I feel like I’m about to cry. I see a woman’s hand stroking a boy’s arm. I shudder, and a blast of cold shoots through my body.
I feel Rod’s hand on my foot. “We ask for wisdom in this bald man’s life.”
I know it’s supposed to be a meditation, not a prayer. It’s just that Rod likes to fuse things. He’s Californian; it’s what we do.
It’s hard to pray for Baldy, but I get it.
“We ask for clarity and meaning in our lives.” Rod’s resolute voice gives me comfort. “And we ask for wisdom.”
In front of my house, a van door rolls open.
Rod’s eyes are closed. Mine aren’t.
“Listen to the birds,” Rod whispers. “The scamper of squirrels in your pines.”
I hear the sounds of a van door slamming shut.
“Imagine you’re inhaling the serenity.”
I whisper. “Rod.”
He’s practically humming. “Can you feel the harmony?”
“That car out there?” I pause, listening for more. “I think those are the geeks.”
His eyes fly open, and he jumps to his feet. “Who?” He stretches his neck and listens for more. “The guys who jumped you after the snip job?”
My heart pounds. “This hour, who else could it be?”
And just like that Rod is striding to the side of the house, headed for my driveway. “Geeks?”
I hobble after him, whisper-yelling. “Wait . . . wait.”
Rod opens the side gate, squints, and points at someone. “Hey,” he snaps. “Stay there.” He explodes out of view, and I hear a body slam against the van.
A high-pitched moan, an even higher-pitched shriek.
I limp around the corner, and sure enough, it’s the geeks. Rod has the muscular guy, Little Red, against the van, one hand pinning his neck against the sliding door, the other holding a chrome revolver by the barrel. Little Red is wide-eyed, struggling to breathe. I look for his sidekicks and finally spot High Rider curled up inside the van on the floorboard, shotgun side. No sign of Star Trek.
Rod says, “You some kinda tough guy?”
Little Red gurgles.
Rod whips the butt of the revolver straight into his nose. Blood sprays onto Rod’s face. High Rider tries to suppress a yelp. Little Red is heaving now.
“Hold this.” The revolver flies toward me, hits me square on the chest, and I manage to grab it before it hits the ground. It’s cold and heavy, and I don’t know what to do with it, so I shove it down the back of my sweats like I’ve seen in the movies.
Rod puts Little Red in an upright choke hold, from behind, and whips him toward the side gate. “Backyard,” he snaps. “Danny, get the other guy.”
And then I notice my next-door neighbor, Louis, standing beside his midnight-black Saab, briefcase slung over his shoulder. Staring at us.
Louis is a few years older than me. He does product marketing at NetApp—he’s worth millions now, no doubt—and has managed to avoid eye contact with me for the better part of four years. I give him a stoic hey-dude nod and grab High Rider by his collar shirt, yanking him out of the van. I look back at Louis one more time and realize he’s hypnotized by the revolver sticking out of my sweats.
The rising sun warms us.
We’ve got High Rider and Little Red sitting cross-legged on the grass. Rod is squatting in front of them, holding the revolver. Little Red has blood running down his lip. He nods to the revolver. “I didn’t pull that on you.”
Rod snorts. “I don’t like pricks who reach behind their backs when I’m talking to them.”
High Rider glares at Rod. “If either one of you ever touches us again, we’ll release the details of Dan’s terminable offenses.”
Rod straightens. “You screw up my friend’s life, I’ll release myself on you.”
High Rider looks at Rod, then at me. “We instructed you to tell no one.”
“Hey,” Rod snaps, “do you have any idea what’s happened to this man since you took him for that little joyride?”
They look back, waiting.
“Danny here had some asshole attack him at a Safeway. Then the same prick pulled a knife on him a few hours later.” He pauses. “In front of his kids.”
Little Red loses his smirk, and High Rider goes pale. And I’m thinking, either these two are great actors or they have nothing to do with Baldy.
“Yeah, that’s right. We have a problem.” Rod glares at them. “And it’s your problem.”
High Rider says, “We don’t know this individual.”
I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“We told you we’d come with action items.”
“C’mon, out with it.” I think of my neighbor Louis, who’s probably dialing 911 right now. “Quickly.”
High Rider nearly closes his eyes. “Tomorrow night your CEO will arrive in Tampa, Florida, for a speech he will deliver the following morning. As you know, he will speak to an audience of investors and analysts.” There’s pleasure in High Rider’s voice. “Currently, you are not scheduled to join him, on account of your recovering testicles.” He pauses an extra-long time. “You will rectify that.”
Rod leans back and rolls his eyes.
My heart sinks.
“You need to be on that jet tomorrow morning. Find a reason; it shouldn’t be hard. And you need to be with Stephen Fitzroy the entire evening preceding the speech.” He looks over at Little Red, who’s grinning. “Mr. Fitzroy will be staying in an executive suite at the Grand Hyatt Tampa Bay.” High Rider’s upper lip curls; his eyebrow arches. “It’s going to be interesting.” He looks at Little Red and snickers as he reaches into his pants pocket. “You will find a way to be with Stephen Fitzroy that evening, and you will have this on your person.”
He pulls out a small black box tangled in wires, slings it onto my lap. I squint at the contraption; one wire is attached to the box, and another is attached to a black shirt button. Rod leans over, gives it a look. “Micro video camera,” he announces, glancing at me. “They want you to tape him.” He squints at High Rider. “What’s happening in Tampa?”
High Rider is stoic. “You don’t need to know that.”
Little Red widens his eyes and smiles. His eyes are huge behind those glasses.
I look at the camera and sigh. How in the hell am I gonna pull this off?
“What are you gonna do with the tape?”
High Rider says, “Again, you don’t need to know.”
Rod turns to me, squints. “Well, their motivation has to be either blackmail or some kind of humiliation.”
High Rider smirks. “Don’t hurt your little walnut trying to figure it out.”
Little Red snickers.
“All you need to know is that Mr. Fitzroy won’t know about the footage until after Danny’s precious options vest. It’s only fair.” He turns to me, narrows his eyes. “And if you do this right, he’ll never know it was you.”
I feel blood rushing to my face, my breathing getting shallow. I close my eyes, count to five, and open them. “You understand that if something bad gets out, it could destroy the dreams of thousands of hardworking people?”
High Rider puts his hand up. “We’re not doing that,” he intones. “This is not about destroying livelihoods.” He waits, narrows his eyes. “But of course, the dreams and livelihoods of these hardworking colleagues were hardly a concern when you leaked all that damaging background to BusinessWeek.” Long pause. “You sound like a hypocrite, Mr. Jordan.”
My heart sinks. Shit. He’s right.
Rod says, “If it’s not about blackmail, then what is this?”
“Again, it’s not your concern.”
I’m staring back at High Rider, wondering what they want from Fitzroy. Money? A favor? A change in corporate strategy? Ethical business behavior? A cancellation of his outsourcing and offshoring policies that got these guys laid off? Something else that I couldn’t possibly imagine?
“Any chance that some third party is monitoring you guys?”
They look at each other, pause, and burst out laughing.
“Impossible.” High Rider beams with pride. “No one is monitoring us. Nobody hacks our systems.”
Impossible? Arrogant prick. When it comes to hacking, nothing is impossible.
High Rider reaches over, grabs the black box, flips it over. “This red switch here activates the power.” He points to an orange button. “This activates the recording mode.” He points to a black button beside it. “And this stops the recording.” He pauses, looks at Little Red, who nods. “The unit is fully charged. The batteries will last ninety minutes, the tape will last thirty.”
Rod’s face is contorted. “What’s he going after?”
“Before the night is over, he’ll know,” High Rider says. “We want nice, clear footage of that mucus plug you call a leader.” He turns to me. “And if you return with poor material, you know what we’ll do.”
I look at him.
“All that IT history goes public.”
Little Red adds, “And you can say bye-bye to all your big ladies of the night.”
High Rider turns, squints at the grass, and snaps, “Stop it.”
Little Red glows. “You never know.”
High Rider mumbles, “You and your big ladies.” Then to me, he says, “The lens in that shirt button is wide-angle. It’ll capture anything within ten feet. Be sure it’s installed correctly, preferably in a black collar shirt, and make sure it’s not pointing up or sideways. The best way to ensure a good shot is to stay as close to Mr. Fitzroy as humanly possible.”
I exhale, heavy. How the hell am I gonna do this?
“When you return to your room that night, you will remove the cassette, deposit it in your briefcase, and place the button camera and recording pack into a plastic bag. You will take that bag with you on a late-night stroll near the hotel, during which time you will dispense of the camera in a trash receptacle.” He pauses for effect. “We will know if you don’t follow this procedure.”
Rod looks at me, shakes his head, and chuckles. He leans over, reaches around me, and snatches the Modelo bottle I never finished. He glares at the geeks and takes a long swig.
“The following night, at six-fifteen, the jet is scheduled to land in San Jose.” High Rider is gazing into my eyes. “You will deplane at the corporate jet center, get into your Corolla, and start driving north on U.S. 101, as always. At six-thirty, you will receive a call in which you will be instructed to proceed to a specified location. We will be waiting at this location, in the van, where we will review the footage.”
I think of my future life on the other side of the hills: my beach-shack life, now just two days away. I think of being able to get the hell out of here, away from all the money people, away from all the opportunists like these guys, all the people who want to clamp on to the Stephen Fitzroys of Silicon Valley and suck something out of them.
“One last thing.” High Rider points at me, then at Rod. “We’re watching. We’re monitoring your call records, your e-mails, your Web browsing—everything.” His eyes widen. “If we see that you’ve told anybody else about this, the deal is off.”
Rod gets up, shoves the revolver into the back of his army surplus pants, takes another swig of Modelo, and motions for them to follow. “I want you guys to leave,” he says, “before I do something we all regret.”
Rod opens the side door to the van and shoves both of them in. High Rider yelps and scampers to the driver’s seat. Little Red points at Rod and growls, then slinks further into the van.
Rod steps back, takes another swig of beer, and squints at them. With his other hand he reaches behind his back, pulls out the revolver, and empties the rounds onto the sidewalk, six brass bullets bouncing over his flip-flops. He throws the gun to Little Red, a little too hard. “Bring live rounds to my friend’s house again, you’ll eat them.”
Little Red sneers and slides the door shut as High Rider speeds the van away. I have the button-camera contraption in one hand as I squat to pick up the bullets, thinking, Geeks who pack heat?
Rod is pointing. “I think we’ve got another visitor.”
I jolt. What now? Detective Bryant? Baldy?
“Isn’t that your neighbor?”
I look up, and there is Louis, frozen in the driver’s seat of his parked Saab. He’s parked away from his house, down the street, maybe hoping we wouldn’t see him. He must have driven around the block and returned, parking where he’d have a better vantage point, and by the looks of him I’m guessing he’s never been this scared. He reminds me of a toddler trying to poo: teeth gritted, jaw strained, brows asking for charity.
We move toward him.
He fumbles with his cell phone.
Rod breaks ahead, pointing at him. “Get off the phone, hotshot.” When he gets to the driver’s side of the Saab, the doors lock in a muffled click of Swedish precision. Louis lowers the cell and peers up through the window, his gaze weak, as Rod knocks the bottom of his beer bottle against the glass.
“Open the goddamn door.”
Louis has these droopy eyes. They were the first thing I noticed about him the day he moved in. After the movers had left, I’d walked over and found him in his garage. Introduced myself. He glanced at my high-tops, mumbled, “Yeah, hi,” ignored my outstretched hand (strike one), popped the trunk of his Saab, pulled out his golf clubs (strike two), and asked, “What do you do?” Not Glad to meet you? Not Thanks for coming by. Not Hi, I’m Louis.
Strike three.
We’re in the Saab now—me in the back, Rod riding shotgun, crowding Louis’s space. In this intimate setting, it’s clear just how imposing Rod is to someone like Louis: Rod isn’t huge, exactly, but he makes the car a lot smaller. I look at his glinty eyes, his cauliflower ears, his giant hands, the scar on his cheek, and it all makes me feel like some kind of country-club dandy.
Louis has his head half bowed before Rod, eyes down, hands in his lap. It’s the first sign of respect I’ve ever seen from him.
Rod reaches over and taps the cell phone with his Modelo. “Who were you calling?” His voice is hard and even.
“What? It’s just that . . . Well, you see, I just . . .”
Rod’s voice gets darker. “You were gonna call nine-one-one.”
Louis looks down and nods, real slow.
“I want you to stay out of my buddy’s business.” Slowly, Rod reaches over and takes the cell out of Louis’s hand, holds it as if he’s weighing it. Louis shrinks further into his seat, wincing. “If I see you getting involved, watching that house over there, calling the police, or anything I don’t like, I’ll come back for you.” He pauses, leans back, looks out the window. “And I will cram this piece of shit down your throat.”
Long silence.
Still gazing out the window. “You hear me?”
Eyes still down. “Yes.”
Seeing how much Louis is trembling, I see a great opportunity.
“Do you know those guys, Louis?”
Shakes his head no.
“So you were just parked here watching?”
Louis glances at Rod. “When they showed up, I saw you with the gun. . . . I mean, it was just a—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t know what to think.”
Rod squints, his jaw out. “That’s not your job. Your job is to be the arrogant prick who lives next to my best friend.”
Louis glances at the beer bottle, nods slowly.
I wave Rod off. “You don’t need to worry about this, Louis. Seriously.”
My cell rings, the number blocked. Rod turns and frowns. “Who’s calling you at this hour?” He nods at the cell. “Pick it up. Maybe it’s your baldy.”
I take the call.
“Dan, this is Janice from Fi—”
I hang up. “False alarm.”
Louis mumbles, “You’re a speechwriter, right?”
“I am.” I sigh.
My cell rings again, and I turn it off.
“FlowBid, right?”
Rod huffs and leans in, bringing the beer bottle to eye level. “Listen, asshole.” He presses the tip into Louis’s doughy cheek. “What part of Mind your own business and fuck off don’t you understand?”
The trembling intensifies. I swear there’s a whimper.
I wave Rod off. He withdraws the bottle. Then something catches his eye outside.
“Freak show at one o’clock.”
I look up, and there’s Calhoun in his dirty-white terry-cloth robe—dingleberries everywhere—barefoot, hair pointing in all directions, eyes puffy. Huge stupid smile on his face.
“Ah, shit.”
He’s pretending to tiptoe toward us, shoulders hunched, hands under his chin exaggerating each step. So happy with himself.
Louis squirms, mumbles under his breath.
“That’s Calhoun, by the way.”
Calhoun, still on tiptoe, getting closer, laughing.
Rod straightens, jerks around to look at me. “This is the guy who saved your life?”
I close my eyes, nod.
Calhoun goes to Louis’s side and presses his face against the glass. Louis looks straight ahead, slumps a little more.
Light finger tapping on the glass.
“Yoooooo-hoooooooooooooooooooo?” Laughter and giggling.
Rod says, “Open the window.”
The window descends.
Calhoun sticks his head through, nearly touches Louis’s nose, offers a wide-angle view of his tits. His trademark scent wafts in.
“When the Saab’s rockin’ . . . I do come knockin’.”
Rod laughs, says, “You saved my best friend’s life yesterday.”
Calhoun beams. “Even more reason to invite me in.”
“Well, I wanna thank you.”
Calhoun nods, glances at Louis. “I see you’re getting to know Mr. Precious here. A real down-to-earth guy, don’t ya think?” He giggles. “A real charmer, so full of—what’s the word?—humility.”
He laughs.
Louis sinks lower.
Rod says, “Calhoun, I have a favor to ask.”
Mock surprise. “From me?”
Rod nods. “Calhoun, would you mind keeping an eye on this guy?”
A squeal. “You mean, like, house visits?”
“Exactly. I was hoping you could keep him out of trouble.”
Louis moans.
“Oh, yes.” Calhoun inches closer to Louis’s face. “You play Risk, Mr. Louis?”
Louis pulls back.
“Because I’m a tournament champion.”
Rod says, “Okay, buddy. Sounds like a plan. Now, can we have a few more minutes with your new friend here?”
“Fine.” He blows a playful raspberry at Rod, sprays Louis. “Little party pooper.” Pulls his head out, starts to walk away, arms folded. “Car’s not big enough for another stud, eh?”
Rod turns to Louis. “So, I guess you could say we’ll be watching you.”
Louis is staring at his dashboard.
“Listen, Louis.” I hope he can tell I’m still a rational guy. “We just need you to be cool about this, okay?”
Rod bristles. “You think this guy understands cool, Danny?” He sighs, annoyed. “I don’t think this asshole would know cool if it got him drunk and fucked him.”
Louis straightens, fiddles with the leather lining of his steering wheel. “Nah, I’m cool, guys. I mean, I . . . You know, I saw nothing. Really. And I’ll just keep this—”
“You know what?” Rod is looking at him, nearly amused. “I’d really like you to stop talking.”
“Okay, I’ll just . . .”
And he’s wise to stop right there.
Rod has brought a small Igloo full of food. He knows he can’t rely on my kitchen to provide the early-morning nourishment he’s ingrained into his daily routine. He’s at the kitchen table, eyes closed over a half pound of raw salmon, cut sashimi-style—thanking the salmon, no doubt, for what it is about to give him. Finally, he opens his eyes and sighs, content, grabbing the chopsticks and glancing at his large glass of carrot juice.
I’m leaning against the counter, watching him. “You think I should stop all this and tell the detectives?”
Rod drops a piece into his mouth, looks out to the backyard, squinting. “Well . . .” He chews slowly, thinking about it, and swallows. “There’s one thing I know.” He drops another piece into his mouth. Chews, swallows, takes a sip of carrot juice. “As your friend”—he straightens, looks down at his lap—“as the guy who knows what you could be doing with your life, all this just proves that you need to quit that job, drop this way of living, and listen to your soul.” He takes a sip. “So I’m happy you have a plan to get out.”
He glances up at me, returns to his sashimi.
“So if that means you need to hang on a few more days and play along with the geeks on this thing in Florida, maybe that makes sense.” Sip of juice. “Wait till the money’s in your account.”
As crazy as it sounds, I think I agree.
He adds, “And I don’t think it’s such a bad thing that you’ll be out of the state a day or two—you know, considering we have no idea who’s behind Baldy.”
I nod. “Probably would be safer.”
“You’ll be safe with your CEO and on the jet, far away from here and whoever sent Baldy after you, and Kate and the boys will be safe up at my place.” He downs another piece. “I’ll have to keep training at the gym, but I can get some guys to come over when I’m gone.”
The thought of Kate and the boys staying at Rod’s place calms me. His flat is a fortress, and you couldn’t ask for a better group of protectors than Rod and his cage fighters.
“And later, if you think there is a connection between the geeks and the bald guy, you can tell the cops.”
Then a funny thing happens. I actually feel like I might have a chance in hell.
All the scheming is starting to hurt my head. I haven’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and I can feel my logic functions grinding to a crawl. Sitting here in my boys’ room, on the rocking chair, waiting for them to wake, my brain tries to pick itself off the floor, like it’s drooling as it stares into space with a dull gaze. I snap into a moment of clarity, replaying in a garbled echo what Rod just said in the kitchen.
You’ve got bigger monkeys to corral.
You need to get yourself on that jet tomorrow.
You need to calm your family’s nerves.
You need to ID that bald guy.
You need to handle your nosy neighbor.
You need to prepare for Fitzroy and Florida.
My heart flutters as I consider it all: the guy I attacked, the guy who came after me and my family for reasons unknown. And now my best friend suggesting I’ve turned into a Money Guy, someone who has abandoned his passion—and even endangered his family—for Internet riches.
I used to be like Rod, so sure about things. But the older I get, the less sure I’m of anything.
There was a time I looked down on the corporate jobs. But then we brought Harry home from the hospital. I’d stare at him for hours at a time, and my perspective changed. Providing for your family is noble, period. It has universal value, and it gives meaning to life. Right?
Not to Rod, I guess. In one sense, that annoyed the hell out of me. But then again I loved the fact he was so resistant, such a purist. Hell, Rod wouldn’t be Rod if he didn’t scream into the deafening roar of Silicon Valley, if he didn’t stand before it and throw his hips out and heave his middle fingers into the air. And of course, I’d love to join him, cashing out and giving this life the finger.
The house is silent as I begin to nod off in the rocking chair.
Then a gurgling noise. The sound of thick liquid. Choking.
A weak, muffled “Daddy.”
I shake my head, my temples throbbing.
More choking. Splatter on the floor. A gasp. “Daddy.”
Ben is sitting on the edge of his little bed, something dripping off his chin. I bolt over and scoop him up.
He cries, “Daddy.” Holds me tight. Little hands gripping my shoulders.
I smell vomit, and I’m relieved. It’s not blood.
“Daddy,” he moans, and vomits again. It runs down my neck and back.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, and stroke his head. His forehead is a little warm—mild fever. “Daddy’s here now.”
I move us to the hallway, where I can get some towels. He vomits again, down my back and onto the floor. Rod comes around the corner, see us, and grabs some towels from the linen closet.
I turn on the faucet, splash cool water into Ben’s mouth to get the taste out.
Afterward, he rests his head on my shoulder. “Daddy,” he mumbles, and squeezes me. A lump forms in my throat, my chest expands in warmth.
Rod is in the hallway, oblivious to the sour odor. He wipes Ben’s mouth with one towel, drops the other near my feet, and spreads it out with a naked foot. “Let me have him,” he whispers.
I give him a look.
“I’ll take care of him,” Rod says. “I want you to go out front and tell me if you recognize the guy I found in your garage.”
“What?”
“I tied him up,” Rod whispers. “I’ll stay here, near Kate and the boys.”
I give him my what-the-fuck? look.
I switch Ben over to Rod, and they hug.
Rod nods toward the front of the house. “Go see.”
The kitchen door opens to the garage. I open it, poke my head in—and see the nasty end of my garden shovel coming straight at my face.
I fall to my knees, kind of slow. I can’t feel my nose, mouth or forehead—it’s all morphed into a thick mask of pain. I look up, see the shovel coming again. I duck.
The shovel sinks into the door frame.
I look up. A man in his forties is backing up into the garage. I don’t know this guy. Some of my rope is still wrapped around his right arm, my duct tape trailing his ankles. Rod may know how to fight, but apparently he knows jack about tying people up.
The man is wearing dark blue sweats and a gray sweatshirt. He looks athletic, and horrified.
No way this asshole’s getting through me. I lunge for him, knock him down.
Rod’s voice echoes from the other side of the house. “Danny?”
The man screams at the sound of Rod’s voice, stumbles up, and slaps the garage door button on the wall. The garage door starts to jerk open, and he bolts toward it.
I struggle to my feet, slap the button. The door halts. I slap it again and it starts to jerk closed. “You’re not going—”
He slides under the garage door, inches to spare.
Feeling a bit dizzy, I find myself falling to one knee. Can’t let this guy . . .
Rod hollers, “Danny, you okay?”
“Yeah.” I get to my feet, shake my head. “Just stay with Kate and the boys.”
I hear Kate holler, “Dan?”
Outside, a car door opens and shuts.
I reach back into the kitchen, feel around for the key hook on the wall, grab my keys, and slap the garage door open again. I try to run, but I suddenly realize I must have strained my scrotum, which is now sinking ice picks of pain into my stomach. I hobble out, see a green BMW 325i racing past my house.
He might have the fancy German import, and I might have an old Toyota. But I have raced through countless neighborhoods to reach shootings, disasters, and myriad other public-safety events, and I’d bet my life that I can catch him.
To the Corolla! I think, and limp to the street.
I just don’t expect to find Detective Bryant when I get there. But there he is, leaning against my shotgun door, toothpick in his mouth. Sly grin.
I stop for a second and limp toward him.
“Little bloody there, Danny.” Bryant pulls out the toothpick and shakes his head. “I’d call that a head wound.”
“That guy.” I shuffle up to him, panting. “You didn’t stop him?”
Bryant smirks. “You ready to talk, Danny? For real?”
I stand there and think about it, wipe the blood out of my eyes.
“Okay.”