The next night, dressed in his uniform blues, Jackson sat alone in the break room, staring into space. Everyone else on his shift had retired to their rooms after dinner and a little TV time.
It had been a busy day with two “pick me ups,” which involved hefting patients from the floor and getting them back into their beds or chairs. Then, his team got dispatched to a diabetic coma. In between calls, he had his regular duties like rig check and washing the engine. So, he’d had no time for anything but his job, per usual. Now, however, he figured it was time to see if he could make a dent in the shit show he’d left at home when he’d closed down on Blaire in the middle of her horrific story.
His cell phone lay on the table next to him, burning a hole in the hardwood table. He picked it up and tapped Blaire’s number.
She’s got to be home. It’s almost 10.
No answer.
He tapped out a text. Talk to me.
He waited for her reply, twirling the device on its corner against the table. Lifting the phone, he glanced at the screen. Nothing. He positioned the device over one of the names of a previous captain which had been carved into the wood and sent it spinning with his thumb. Then, hopeful, he stared at it.
Still nothing.
He tapped her number again. This time it went straight to voicemail like she’d just declined the call.
Shit, shit and double shit.
His heart squeezed like someone had aimed an AR-15 semi-automatic at it and fired. All the blood leaked out, and he found it impossible to breathe.
For months, he and Blaire had enjoyed one hell of a physical relationship. Now, this sharing business seemed to clot the good vibes they’d enjoyed.
Is this what it means to be in love?
He understood why he’d shied away from relationships all these years. It had nothing to do with preserving his secret past—being in love and opening to the other person felt like being trundled through a slaughterhouse on a conveyor belt and dropped on a slippery floor covered with bodily fluids. He couldn’t get his footing, the floor kept disappearing, and he found himself in a perpetual state of free-fall. Tricked by his cravings to merge with her silken self, his desires only lead him down this path to…to, what, exactly? To opening up and revealing secrets that stripped him bare of skin and muscles, leaving him naked, without shelter or protection.
The flat-screened TV on the wall blared with some mindless reality show called Yukon Survival, with bearded backwoods men tromping around in the snowy wilderness. The remote lay next to him on the table.
His eyes were fixed on the screen, but his mind was back at home. He felt weird like his cells had been rearranged. No way in hell could he have expected the news Blaire told him.
The story she’d laid at his feet had been so bizarre, so difficult to take in, so bewildering, that he’d completely shut down. Same as when his mom slid into the shadows of her drug-filled world, or his dad disappeared forever, he was left with a life sliced into clear dividing lines of before and after. And Blaire’s utter heartbreak destroyed him to the point of “dead fish washed on the shore” helplessness. Then he’d done it—he’d fucked everything up. He’d gone and detached in the same way he’d lived most of his life until he’d managed to escape the clutches of the Port Coyote trailer park and his desolate existence with his brother.
He’d always thought he’d outgrown his former life, gone on to become a better man, saving lives and protecting homes. But right now, it seemed like he was still a twelve-year-old scared kid, trying to survive each day and doing a piss poor job of it.
Her comment about how he and Jake lived like the people in Caracas had landed like a poison arrow shot into his neck from a blowgun. The comment reduced him to being Blaire’s charity case when he wanted to be her champion. So, he’d kept repeating some phrase about keeping her safe when what she really needed was comfort and reassurance that he wouldn’t leave. Too late for that—emotionally, he had already fled the scene. Last night he’d been so ashamed of himself they’d slept on opposite sides of the bed. They may as well have been on opposite sides of the universe. When he woke up to get ready for work, she’d been gone.
She’d left a note on the breakfast table: Gone running. B.
No, “I love you,” or, “see you later, hotshot,” or “guess what I want to do when you get home? Hint - BJ!” or any of the other sexy, loving comments they usually left one another.
He couldn’t blame her. He deserved every slice of cold animosity she sent his way. But the dead silence and her refusal to answer her goddamned phone left him dangling on the line like a corpse, helpless to do anything. Worse was the thread of terror that snaked up his spine. She hadn’t said as much, but Karlos seemed to be the kind of guy who killed for sport.
He wasn’t really coming to Seattle to kill her…was he?
Griffin pushed through the door, carrying an empty glass lined with something like chocolate milk. He glanced at Jackson, stepped to the stainless-steel sink, and rinsed out the glass. Then, he placed it in the dishwasher before proceeding toward one of the stainless-steel refrigerators lining the wall next to the gleaming gray counter.
“What’s got you in a funk?” he said while rooting around in the fridge. “You’ve been in a mood all day. Has the honeymoon glow finally worn off and the rest of us mortals can live without the constant reminders of what we don’t have?” He chuckled, turning around with a few carrots in his grip.
Jackson lifted the black plastic remote and turned down the sound of grunting men and rasping, moaning moose. He flashed Griffin some sort of dark expression.
“Whoa, dude. I was kidding.” Griffin strode to the large wooden table. “What the hell happened?” He slid a chair out and plunked into it.
Jackson dragged his palm across his face. “I really fucked up with Blaire. She’s not answering her phone. She’s not answering my texts. She’s gone AMF on me.”
He lifted his mobile device in evidence as if it glowed with the shame of being ignored. Then, he tossed it on the table where it landed with a thwack.
“Nah,” Griffin said. “No way would she say ‘adios, motherfucker’ to you.”
“Way.” Jackson lifted one eyebrow. “I told you, she’s on this mission to get close to me by sharing. So, she revealed this shocking, horrific story with me last night, and I just shut down.”
He shook his head. “She went through several months of hell with this billionaire, playboy, gangsta-loser. And as the story poured out, I went all comparison-mode, feeling not good enough to be with her and utterly helpless as to how to fix the situation. That’s what I do. I fix things. I save people. And I’m completely clueless what to do here aside from finding her motherfucking ex and putting a gun to his head. And that idea wouldn’t go down well with my career as one of the good guys, you know?”
“Shit, man, I’m sorry. What did she tell you?” Griffin jammed a carrot in his mouth and crunched down on it.
Jackson sketched out the basics of what Blaire had told him, leaving the details of getting backhanded and the exact nature of what she did aside. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the thought of Blaire—his Blaire—getting smacked in the face, let alone living in a cartel.
And, cutting off the hair of women in broad daylight to sell it on the black market?
Griffin chewed thoughtfully as he listened, making loud crunching noises that almost made Jackson laugh. Almost, but not quite.
Finally, Griffin said, “Wow, that’s some crazy shit.” He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Okay. Okay. We need to make some calls. One of my buddy’s dad is with the FBI. Let’s call him and see if he can hook you up with his dad. It’s late, but my buddy keeps some batshit hours.”
Jackson straightened from his slumped position. “Seriously? It would be great to contact Blaire and have a solution. I wouldn’t feel like I’d let her down.”
“Yeah, let’s do it. I’ll call him right now.” Griffin pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and tapped a few numbers. He held the phone up to his ear and waited. “Hey, Pete, it’s me, Griff. Yeah, I’m good. You? Good, that’s good. Hey, the reason I called is I’ve got a friend who needs to talk with the FBI. Would your dad be down with speaking to him? What? No, he’s not in trouble, but his girlfriend might be. Yeah, she got caught up in some rough activity, and now the person who got her caught up is in town. Like gang warfare Venezuela-cartel rough. Yeah? Okay, great.”
Griffin snapped his fingers and made a gesture like writing something with a pen.
Jackson bolted to his feet and hurried out the side door toward the front desk. He fumbled about in the darkened room and snatched a pen out of a holder on the front counter. Pen in hand, he stepped into the copy room and yanked a piece of white paper from the copy machine tray. Quickly, he returned and placed it in front of Griffin.
Griffin scribbled on the paper and turned it to face Jackson.
Call him now, Jackson read, along with the number. He’s in the UK, and it’s morning over there.
After snatching his phone from the table, he nodded and gave Griffin a thumbs-up. Stepping out of the break room, he made his way down the hall to the privacy of the small bedroom he called home when he was here. He tapped the number into his mobile device.
In seconds a gruff sounding voice answered. “Agent Vogel here.”
“Agent, this is Jackson O’Halloran from the Clearfall County District Seven Fire Department over in Singer Springs.”
“Mr. O’Halloran,” Agent Vogel said, respectfully. “What can I do for you?”
“Last night, my girlfriend told me of a situation she was involved in, down in Caracas, Venezuela.”
Agent Vogel whistled into the phone. “Did your girlfriend want to get murdered? Caracas is a rough city.”
The word “murdered” sliced holes in Jackson’s soul. “No, sir. She was coerced. She said she dated a member of the cartel, only she didn’t know he was a gang member until it was too late. He was a wealthy prick who kept his motives concealed until he had her under his thumb. He kept her imprisoned in his mansion until he found a way to use her to…” He stopped before saying, “chop off women’s hair.” It seemed best to play his cards close to his chest.
“That sounds like something I might want to hear more about when I return,” Agent Vogel said.
Overhead, the tones went off in the building, alerting them they got another call from dispatch.
“One second, sir, we just got toned out.” Jackson placed his hand over the mobile device speaker and listened.
“Medic Forty-Three, Rescue Forty-Three, Engine Forty-Three, ALS, Woods Road for a motor vehicle accident involving a single vehicle off the side of the hill. Car versus tree.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re about to head out,” Jackson said
“No problem. Give me a call when you have time. I’d like to hear more. I’ll be back in Seattle next week.”
Agent Vogel sounded truly interested, giving Jackson a thread of hope to grab onto. He said his goodbyes, pocketed the phone and hurried toward the engine bay.
Griffin followed him down the hall.
Jackson’s pager and the radio crackled.
“Medic Forty-Three, Rescue Forty-Three, Engine Forty-Three from dispatch.”
“Dispatch from Rescue Forty-Three. Go ahead,” Jackson said into the radio.
“RP has stated the car is south of the ranch at three-four-six-three Woods Road,” the female dispatch operator said. “Off the side of the road and down the hill.”
“Copy that,” Jackson said as he strode through the narrow white-walled hallway.
Inside the bay, he pulled his bunkers from his locker and proceeded to don them.
Once they were in the red rescue rig with Griffin behind the wheel, they exited the bay to head to the call.
The medic unit followed next. The engine trailed behind.
Jackson lifted his radio to his lips and said, “Dispatch, this is Rescue Forty-Three, en route to Woods Road MVA.”
“Rescue Forty-Three en route to Woods Road MVA,” the dispatch operator repeated.
Jackson clipped the radio back on his coat lapel and glanced at Griffin. “You know where Woods Road is, right, Grifter?”
“Do I know where Woods Road is,” Griffin said with a snort. “How long have I lived here? Singer Springs cain’t be that big.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a pretty lonely road. A lot of losers and users up there. Wasn’t there a meth house bust up there a few years back?”
“I think so,” Jackson said. His mood had shifted when the tone sounded. Every time he got toned out, he focused on the moment. His adrenaline pumped, and it was “all hands on deck” patient care until the patient had been loaded for transport or else determined to not need to go to the hospital.
They sped through downtown, past the tastefully painted and artfully decorated mash-up of buildings old and new, and headed toward the neighborhoods tucked in the verdant green hills.
Griffin turned the rescue engine up Black Mountain Road. They wound their way up into the hills. Then, he turned left on Woods Road, a narrow, windier street.
Jackson peered out the window, trying to read the address on a metal mailbox. “This is three-four-five-four. Three-four-six-three should be next. Keep your eyes peeled for any sign of an accident.”
Griffin leaned forward, squinting, and pointed. “Like a broken fence and tire tracks?”
“That’s as good a sign as any,” Jackson said.
Griffin pulled the rig off the road and hopped out of the driver’s side. Jackson followed him.
“Dispatch from Rescue Forty-Three,” Jackson said into the radio after pulling it from his pocket.
“Rescue Forty-Three, go ahead,” the female said.
“We’re on scene at Woods Road,” he said.
Dispatch repeated back what she heard.
Then, he said, “Initiating command and investigating.” He turned to Griffin and said, “Get a TIC. I’ve got some cutters in my pocket for the valves, and I’ll grab a fire extinguisher.”
As he and Griffin made their way down the steep incline, both the engine and the medic rig lumbered up the hill. Both vehicles parked. Within minutes, the area was flooded with light.
Jackson swept his flashlight beam down the hill. Ahead lay a mangled four-door sedan. The nose of the vehicle was wedged up a Douglas fir. The hood of the car now sported a “V” where the tree collided with the vehicle. The windshield had been shattered. The driver’s side door had been crushed.
This one, he knew, was going to be bad. His job was to bear witness and provide next steps to help the victims find their way out of the tragedy that had ensnared them. If tragedy befell Blaire, he didn’t know if could remain so calm. He hoped he didn’t have to be tested in that way. But if his life thus far was any predictor, he knew he’d be dragged through the wringer.