Don Winslow - Dawn Patrol

Petra watches Boone sleep.

It's a somewhat edifying experience, in that she's never actually watched a man sleep before.

Not that there haven't been men in her bed, but she has typically fallen asleep before they have, or, preferably, they have gotten up and left after the sexual act and a decent period of “cuddling,” although, truth be told, she could do without the latter. It seems to be expected, however, even though she suspects that the man could dispense with it as well.

If she's in the man's bed, she gets up and leaves after the polite interval, because she prefers to sleep alone, and, especially, wake up alone. She's hardly decent-physically, emotionally, or psychologically-until she's had that first cup of Lapsang souchong, and besides, the last thing she wants to be doing in the morning is looking after a man's needs, feigning cheerfulness as she makes him coffee, eggs, sausages, and the like.

That's what restaurants are for.

Now she watches Boone Daniels sleep and she's fascinated.

One moment the man was totally, utterly awake and one second later he was just as totally, utterly asleep, as if he didn't have the proverbial care in the world. As if he weren't financially bereft, as if he didn't have a crucial witness to locate, as if an apparently violent gangster wasn't out to harm him, as if…

I weren't even here, she admits to herself.

Is that what's bothering you? she asks herself. That this man can simply ignore you to the extent of actual unconsciousness?

Ridiculous, she tells herself. Why would you care if this… primitive doesn't find you as fascinating as, let's face it, most men do? It's not as if you have any interest in him, not as if you've made the slightest effort to attract him.

Of course, you never make the slightest effort, she thinks. Be truthful, woman, you're very lazy when it comes to that. Lazy because you can be, because a frank assessment in the mirror tells you so, and because men tell you so.

They act like idiots and they're ridiculously easy to bring into your bed, if that's what you want.

Not that there have been that many.

A few well-selected, well-heeled, polite, appropriate sexual partners, one or two of whom she had considered as potential husbands and who, she supposes, have evaluated her as a potential wife.

But they are all much too career-oriented and, face it, selfish for marriage. At least at this point in her life, in any case. Perhaps after she makes partner, she might seek out a more serious relationship, perhaps find a man who might be a suitable husband. In the meantime, she's content to find the occasional young lawyer or banker who's appropriate to take to company dinners and, even more occasionally, to bed.

Or am I, she wonders, so content?

You are lonely, she admits to herself. It isn't a sudden revelation, an epiphany of sorts, but more of a creeping realization that she's been missing something, something she never thought she wanted-a close emotional connection with another person. The realization shocks her. She's always been, as long as she can remember, totally self-sufficient.

Which is the way she likes it.

But now she's beginning to feel that she needs somebody, and she doesn't like the feeling.

At all.

She regards Boone again.

How can the man sleep at a time like this?

She briefly considers waking him up but then rejects the idea.

Maybe I'm just jealous she thinks, envious at this ability to sleep so easily.

She doesn't fall asleep easily or sleep particularly well. Instead, she lies awake thinking about cases, about things she needs to do, second-guessing herself about decisions she's made, worrying about them, worrying about how she's perceived at the firm, whether she's working hard, whether she's working too hard and arousing dangerous jealousies. She worries about her wardrobe, her hair. She worries about worrying. Half the time, she can't sleep because she's worrying about not getting enough sleep.

If it weren't for Ambien, she might not sleep at all.

But this waterlogged Cro-Magnon with a PI license, she thinks, he sleeps like a baby. It must be true, then: Ignorance is bliss.

Her mind turns to the girl at the restaurant that morning. The tall, athletic creature with the tawny hair. Clearly, he's sleeping with her, and who could blame him? She's gorgeous. But what on earth could she see in him? She could have any man she wanted, so why does she choose this? Could he be that good in bed? Worth having to wake up to? Certainly not.

It's a mystery.

She's working it through when she sees Teddy walking up the road.

“Ouch.”

Boone's awake even before he feels Petra's elbow dig into his ribs.

You develop a sixth sense on stakeouts after a while. You can be asleep, but there's an internal alarm clock that will wake you up when something's going down.

Boone pulls his beanie up and sees Petra pointing down the road at Teddy.

He has a little girl with him.

The girl from the reeds.

“Stay in the van.”

“But-”

“I said, stay in the fucking van,” Boone snaps in a voice that even Petra doesn't question. He gets out of the van and walks toward the cabin.

It has a central front door with a small window on either side. A front sitting room leads into a back bedroom and a bath. The curtain is open on one of the windows and Boone sees Teddy sitting on the bed next to the girl, shaking some pills from a vial into his hand.

Boone feels like kicking the motel door in, then beating the uncouth piss out of Teddy until the good doctor needs a cosmetic surgeon for himself.

Because Teddy D-Cup, with access to literally hundreds of beautiful women, is feeding roofies to a little girl in a motel room preparatory to raping her. And now Boone knows what the good Dr. Cole was doing in the strawberry fields-shopping for a family so fucking desperate, they'd sell their daughter to him. And the mojados who worked Boone over in the reeds were taking his back.

It's a beautiful world.

Boone throws his shoulder into the door, which splinters around the bolt lock and opens. He's into the bedroom in three long strides and has Teddy by the shirtfront on the fourth. He lifts Teddy up and holds him in the air.

The girl screams and runs out the door.

“This isn't what it looks like,” Teddy says.

Christ, Boone thinks, does every fucking child molester have to say that every fucking time? No, dude, it's always what it looks like. Boone pivots and slams Teddy into the wall. Pulls him in toward his own chest and then slams him again.

Teddy yells, “I'm helping her!”

Yeah, I'll bet you are, Boone thinks. He takes his right hand off Teddy's shirt, clenches it into a tight fist, and cocks his arm, ready to blast Teddy's face into oatmeal. Except suddenly it isn't Teddy's face; it's Russ Rasmussen's. Boone's world goes red. Tilting crazily, like a bad wipeout.

“Boone!”

Through the red haze, he hears Petra, gets that she disapproves, but he doesn't care.

“Boone!”

He turns around to tell her to butt out.

Dan Silver is holding a gun to her head. Two of his boys stand behind him.

“Let him go, Boone,” Dan says.

The world comes level again, back into focus. Boone says, “He's a short eyes.”

“We'll take care of him,” Dan says. “Let him go now or I'll put two in her pretty head before I do you.”

Boone looks at Petra. Her pale skin is absolutely white, her eyes are big and full of tears, and her legs quiver. She's scared to death. Boone lowers his clenched fist but then jams his palm into Teddy's ribs before releasing his grip on the man.

Teddy slides to the floor.