Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

Redman yelled, "Medical," before he even called, "Clear."

He could only tell that Collie was down. Still, as he was trained, he stepped into the bathroom and ripped the shotgun from the suspect's death grip and tossed it aside. Then he aimed his flashlight on his partner. He did not ask if he was OK because he knew that answer. Collie's breathing was ragged and sounded like a kid sucking the last bits of soda through a straw. Redman went to his knees and tried to search for his partner's eyes in the beam, but one was missing. A gaping hole was torn in his left cheek, and Redman could see broken teeth floating in blood inside.

He might have started screaming, "Man down! Man down!" as was his training, but Redman did not remember afterward. From then on he did not consider anyone a partner. And with Collie gone forever, no one on the team ever took point but him. And no one ever spoke of moral courage.

Redman looked at his watch now and then proceeded to bag the scope and the laser range finder and took an extra few seconds to mock the time it would take to also bag his rifle and pick up a shell casing. He inched backward from the roofline and then walked in a crouch to the fire escape. When he was back in the van, with everything stowed away, he rechecked the watch. He wanted the timing of his exit on Monday to be perfect, nothing left to chance, only training. One shot, one kill.

On Sunday Nick spent two hours on the couch watching cartoons with his daughter. He drank coffee and munched on oven-baked crescent rolls and worked very hard against the urge to get the Sunday newspaper from the driveway, and even harder at keeping the conversation with Hargrave from ringing in his head.

He would keep his unspoken promise to Carly not to ignore her on his days at home. He'd done that to his family before. It had been the source of friction in his marriage ever since the girls were born. In the beginning his passion for the work, that he was good at what he did, that he was respected, was a source of pride for his wife.

After the girls were born, he hadn't changed. He'd gotten them through the pregnancy and the postpartum by working only eight-hour days and sneaking computer time on the weekends. But at three months, the twins went to Elsa for day care and once he dropped them off, he reentered the news world. Maybe it was subconscious, the pleasure he got from it, the demands and the people and the streets. It was the only thing he did well, and without saying it, he knew it defined him.

But his wife did change. Her priorities became different. He kept claiming that he understood the mothering instinct and all. He talked a good talk about sharing as a family and how he knew how important it was for him to be part of the equation, but failed to show it. That lack of action was the reason Julie and the girls were riding alone that night, touring the Christmas lights without him. He was out doing death when it came to visit his own family.

"Why does the redhead always have to play the ditzy one?" he asked Carly, who was lying back against his legs, using them as a chair back.

"They can't change every week," she said in that Duh? voice so popular in her age group. "The dumb one is the dumb one, Dad. It's preordained."

He laughed. "Preordained? Geesh, kid. Is that the fifth-grade word of the week or what?"

"No. I read it," Carly said, being coy.

"In what did you read it?" Nick tried to match her.

"I think it was in Messenger."

"Good book." Nick had introduced her and Lindsay to the tales of Lois Lowry. The next year they were assigned by her teacher.

"OK. So what does it mean, preordained?" he said, still teasing.

Carly was silent and he could only see the back of her head against his knees. He poked her in the ribs. She elbowed him.

"Huh? What does it mean?"

"It means that everything that happens is already supposed to happen," she said and Nick could hear the clip of anger in her voice. "If people are going to die, they die. And there's nothing you can do about it."

He let it sit for a minute, silently cursing himself for setting a semantics trap that had hurt her and that had bitten him back.

"Maybe that's what that specific word means, baby. But that's not the way it is," Nick said, with authority, because he believed it.

Carly did not sniffle, did not even clear her voice. She simply remained silent while Nick stroked her hair.

"See?" she finally said, pointing her finger at the television screen. "The blond one is the smart one."

When the program was done, Carly got up and put her dishes in the sink and reminded her father that today her friend Jessica was having a birthday party and that he would have to drop her off in an hour.

Nick must have looked quizzically at her and she read his face and put a hand on her hip, just like her mother used to do to him.

"It's on the board, Dad. We talked about it on Wednesday, and you said fine, so we've got to be there by eleven."

"Right, right, right. You got it, babe. I didn't forget," Nick said, knowing she knew he'd forgotten. He tried to smile his way out of it. "Jessica's it is. Her mother's name is Ro. Her brother is Tyler. Her dad is Bob."

Carly frowned a frown that was filled with sarcasm but included that small twinkling humor in her eye.

"That would be correct, Dad," she said and he again marveled at her ability to be so damned quick and grown-up. Fast on the draw, just like her mom.

At ten thirty Carly was dressed and waiting by the door with a small wrapped present in her hands. Nick felt himself hustling to find his car keys. When they arrived in Jessica's neighborhood, he remembered exactly where to turn. He was trying to impress Carly, to show her that he was paying attention to her life. Without hesitation he spotted the Lipinskis' dominating two-story at the end of a cul-de-sac and he figured it made him look like a genius. He got out with Carly and went to the door instead of just dropping her off. Ro Lipinski welcomed them and when they stepped into the house, Carly spotted Jessica and two other girls back on the wide pool patio and with a flip of her fingers and a "'Bye, Dad," skipped away. Ro, an attractive woman with short blond streaked hair and a swimmer's athletic figure, asked if Nick wanted a cup of coffee.

"Bob's out with the boys teaching them how to play golf," she said.

Nick smiled and declined, his eyes following his daughter through the glass doors and the smiles and little-girl greetings. Ro watched the side of Nick's face.

"How's she doing, Nick?"

Her question brought him back.

"Good. I, uh, think she's good," he said.

The woman's face was showing concern, like a mom. She had been close with Nick's wife. Their kids shared schools and birthday parties. Both sets of parents shared cookouts and the occasional dinner out on weekends.

"The school counselor says that this Christmas should be easier than last year, but no guarantees. You know? They don't like to give you guarantees," Nick said, turning his gaze back out to where the girls were huddled around some new blow-up pool toy.

"Well, she's pretty good here when they're all together, Nick. I know it's still got to be hard over at your house when it's quiet," Ro said, her voice consoling, like it had been at the funeral and every time Nick had seen her since.

"Yeah, well, it's probably good for her to be around the girls instead of just me on the weekends."

Nick looked past the woman's eyes. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hadn't moved off the flagstone in the entryway.

"And how are you doing, Nicky?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's been two years. I shouldn't still be dwelling on it that much. But I am, and you know something? I don't give a damn if I am."