Lisa Unger - Smoke

She fired blind through the blizzard of glass and missed the guy completely. He kept coming. A shot fired from his weapon whipped past her so close and so fast that she thought it drew blood without touching her, blowing a cannon-sized hole in the windshield, then in the seat beside her. She looked down at Matt; he was pale and out cold but she could see his shallow breathing. But her mind was clear; panic had left her. As their assailant ratcheted the gun, bringing more ammunition to the chamber, she scrambled from the car and went around the hood. Inside the vehicle, she knew, she was a sitting duck. From outside, she could protect them both better.

“Put your gun on the ground and your hands in the air,” she yelled ridiculously. “I’m a police officer and the sirens you hear are coming this way.”

He answered her by putting another round into the car. The Explorer jerked with the impact and she held on tight to her Glock. She’d fired four rounds already, which meant she had thirteen left. She lay on the ground and saw his feet beside the Explorer, right beside the back driver’s side where Mount lay wounded and helpless.

Then, “Stand where I can see you and I won’t kill your partner,” he said, his voice calm, hard and rough as the engine of a semi. “I’m standing over him with the barrel of my gun to his head.”

Every nerve ending in her body felt like it had been electrified and all she could hear was the sound of her heart hammering in her ears.

“Okay,” she said, her breathing so labored she was having trouble speaking. She fought to keep the fear out of her voice. “Put your gun on the ground and I’ll move where you can see me.”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “That’s gonna happen.”

She heard him ratchet the gun again as she moved onto her belly and held her Glock in front of her. She heard the sirens growing louder; they were still too far to help her. She was on her own. She fired at his ankles, a nearly impossible shot. But he had a big ankle and she had good aim and the night filled with the sound of him screaming, high pitched and girlish, frantic with agony. She fired again, clipping his other leg for good measure. She heard the gun go off as he fell and then landed on the concrete. She was on her feet before he hit the dirt and then she heard the sirens louder and closer. She felt something like relief pulse through her.

“Mount,” she yelled as she came around behind him, her gun trained in front of her. The guy didn’t look as big or as tough lying on the ground writhing in pain. She held the Glock in his direction as she came around his side and kicked his gun away. It slid across the gravel of the shoulder, out of his reach.

She made a mistake then. She looked away from the road and from the man lying there and into the window where Mount lay very still, too still. She yelled his name again and reached a hand in to feel his pulse.

She never even saw the other van come up from the other direction until shots fractured the night with sound and light. She felt an impossible impact and then a terrible burning in her shoulder, her leg, her arm. She opened fire with her own gun, putting holes in the side of the van. The man on the road reached for his gun and she put a round in his chest. He fell flat and motionless, eyes staring.

Then she was falling. The van was speeding off and the sirens were loud; she could see their red and blue glow. Before the van was out of sight, she saw a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair at the wheel. And beside her was a young man. It was a face she recognized but could not place. Then there was black.

The box sat waiting for her when they returned home from bringing Lily back to her mother. Dax drove the Land Rover back to New York. Lydia, Jeffrey, and Lily had boarded a plane in Tampa in the interest of getting Lily back to her mother as quickly as possible. It was midmorning by the time they stepped from the elevator onto the bleached wood floor of their loft.

They’d been up all night. But Lydia didn’t even take her coat off; she went straight to the kitchen for a box cutter, then strode over to the box and slashed at its taped center. Her eyes were heavy and her body ached with fatigue and from the fall she’d taken. She would have liked to climb into bed but now was the time; if she didn’t look inside the box this morning, she never would. She had a gift for avoidance but she didn’t want to do that this time. To turn her back on what could be inside those cardboard walls would be like turning her back on a part of herself.

“Do you want me to go?” asked Jeffrey, taking off his coat. She turned to look at him. There had been times in their past together when she would have pushed him away, asked him to leave so that she could experience her emotions the only way she knew how, alone. She saw the worried uncertainty in his face and she felt a wash of sadness; she’d often treated him badly and the memory of it hurt her.

“No,” she said. “Stay with me.”

He smiled at her and sank into the couch. She knelt on the floor near his legs, leaned into the box. Inside were stacks of large leather photo albums, color faded, edges frayed with age. On top rested a single letter. There were five albums in total. She lifted one out at a time and stacked them on the floor between her and Jeffrey. He leaned in, resting his forearms on his thighs.

She sat on the floor beside Jeffrey, her shoulder resting against his leg. She took the letter in her hand, and broke the seal, unfolded the single page inside. The handwriting was thick and uncertain, the author pressing so hard in places that the ink pooled and blotched. She read the words aloud so that Jeffrey could hear.

Dear Lydia,

You can probably guess the kind of man I am, if you don’t already know from the letters I’ve sent you over the years. I have no reason to think you’ve ever read any of them. Maybe you just threw them in the trash unopened; or maybe they were kept from you. I know your grandparents aren’t especially fond of me. Never were. Can’t blame them really. There’s a voice inside of me that tells me you’ve never seen them. You’re a curious one, I know. I don’t think you could have stayed away, had you known I’d been trying to reach you.

Anyway, if you’re reading this, I guess I’ve taken leave of this place. I can’t say I’m sorry to go. When you’ve spent most of your life making a mess of things, trying in your own pathetic way to clean up and then making even more mess, it starts to get a bit wearing. I don’t imagine anyone will be shedding any tears. Not you, certainly. Not your half-sister, Estrellita or her mother Jaynie.

Some of the biggest mistakes I made involved your mother. I’d say, though you probably won’t believe me, that she was the great love of my life. Life with Jaynie was a lot easier, don’t get me wrong. Though I eventually screwed that up, too. But the love I felt for your mother… nothing ever came close to that again. Her death haunts me still today. I ask myself the question I know you must have asked yourself a thousand times. If I had stayed, would she still be with us? If I had been a different kind of husband and father, where would we all be? I think about her every night, remember her as she was when I married her. There are photos of the three of us enclosed that I know you’ve never seen. And I’m willing to bet that the woman there will be unrecognizable. When I met her, she was funny and full of passion, a prankster and a lover and there was this light inside her. I’ll admit to you that I’m the one that snuffed out that light with my cruelty and irresponsibility. And then when it was gone, I couldn’t bear to see her burned out and empty. I left her and you. But, Lydia, trust me, it was my loss. I truly believe you were better off without me.