Andrew Gross - Reckless

“Chew on this, fucker.”

Hauck pushed back against it vainly, his arm finally freed, but it was too late.

The assailant was too strong, too adept, and he leaned on top of Hauck with all his leverage. Hauck started to gag. He couldn’t push it back. His eyes flashed to Jared standing across the room, transfixed, squeezing a sliver of space for air, shouting to him, “Jared, please, run. Now!”

The boy took a step toward the door.

Hauck felt the oxygen and strength slowly seeping out of him. He strained, lungs bursting, pushing back with everything he had, twisting his torso to push the guy off. But he couldn’t! He looked into the dark, wide pupils of the man’s gloating eyes and realized, his breaths growing short and frantic, he might die here.

“Next time, be careful where you stick your nose…” The man grinned triumphantly.

Hauck’s lungs were exploding. He looked helplessly at Jared one more time, unable to even beg him now. With the last of his strength, he reached, desperate for anything he could find, fingers grasping at his side-pads, towels, nothing…

A skate.

Suddenly he felt his hand come into contact with it. His fingers fumbled at the leather boot, the laces. He slid it along the floor, clutching on to the laces.

This could save his life.

That’s when he heard someone scream. “Get off him! Get off!”

Jared coming over and beating on the man. What was he doing?

The boy’s hands around the man’s neck, trying to twist him back. “Let him go!”

Jared’s blows were meaningless. The man flung his arm around, sending him flying into the wall of lockers.

It gave Hauck the instant he needed.

He squeezed on the boot and swung it upward, catching the startled attacker in the face just as he turned back, his eyes widening in surprise.

The grunt that came out of him was fearful, garbled; his hands rushed to his face.

Hauck spun him off. They both fell onto the floor, Hauck rolling on top of him. He heard a deep-rooted groan, more of a gurgling sound, and a crack, the weight of Hauck’s body lodging the skate blade deep in his attacker’s chest.

A matted slick of blood appeared.

Eyes glazing over, the man began to breathe heavily. Blood oozed from his jacket.

Hauck rolled off him, collapsing back in exhaustion against the row of lockers.

The man just looked at him, helpless, a pool of dark blood building up by his side.

“Who?” Hauck’s throat was so tight and rasping he could barely speak. “Who sent you?”

The man just looked at him, taking short, croaking breaths. Denial in his eyes. Lips quivering. Until he stopped.

Jared ran up to Hauck. He pulled the traumatized boy against him, an arm around his shoulders, stroking his face. “It’s going to be alright, son,” he said, shielding Jared’s view from the bloody sight of the man dying.

He repeated it, telling himself as well. “It’s going to be okay.”

The Greenwich police arrived a few minutes later. The first officer, a ten-year vet, found Hauck sitting, bloodied, against a wall outside the locker room, with his arm around Jared. The cop stuck his head inside and came out white-faced. “My God…”

Maybe two minutes later, the medical team arrived. They checked out Jared-he was okay, thank God, other than a few marks on his neck where the blade had nicked him. Just in a state of shock. Hauck had called Annie. She was on her way now. One of the med techs took a look at Hauck’s arm. The knife wound hadn’t gone too deep, but the flesh was torn pretty good. He’d need stitches.

Soon after that, the on-duty detectives arrived. Ed Sinclair and Sally Combes, doing the weekend graveyard shift. Followed a short while after by Steve Chrisafoulis, who’d been with his family coming out of the movies in White Plains. Shell-shocked, he looked at Hauck, relieved to find him okay. Hauck’s arm was being dressed and he had lacerations all over his face and neck. Steve asked, eyes wide in disbelief, “Who won?”

“We did,” Hauck said. “Six to one.”

“Not funny, Ty.” The head of detectives shook his head. “What the hell is it with you? Can’t a guy just enjoy a relaxing Saturday night?”

Hauck shrugged. “If I can’t, why should you?” The med tech applied a temporary bandage to his arm.

“How’s the kid?” Steve looked over at Jared.

“A little shaken. Take a look inside. You’ll understand why.”

Steve nodded, scratching at his mustache. “You?”

Hauck exhaled, the kind of equivocation in his eye that said he was not exactly sure. He knew he’d come within an inch of losing his life. If he hadn’t found that skate with his last breaths, if Jared hadn’t distracted his assailant, Hauck was pretty sure it would have been him they’d be in there looking over. “Lucky to be alive.”

“You don’t exactly look it,” Steve said. He put his arm on Hauck’s shoulder and squeezed. “You know we can do this ourselves. Why don’t you go outside and get some air? I’ll have Ed and Sally take your statement in a while.”

“No. I’m alright.” He pulled himself up.

The tech finished up on his arm. “That ought to hold.”

Hauck rolled down his sweatshirt. “Let’s get it done.”

Steve went in and asked Ed and Sally if he and Hauck could have a minute in the locker room alone. It was an unusual request, but they nodded, “Sure,” given that only a few months ago, Hauck had been their boss.

Steve stopped and gazed soberly at the inert body, his eyes growing large at the sight of the skate still lodged in his chest, the pool of blood congealing next to him. He shook his head. “Jesus, Ty…”

“I know.”

“These hockey dads are just gonna have to learn not to take things so damn seriously.”

This time Hauck smiled and then told him how it had all happened. Chrisafoulis bent down over the body. He stretched on rubber gloves and turned it, gently, rummaging through the guy’s pockets. “What do you think, was he after you?”

“He knew who I was.” Hauck shrugged. “He knew I was an ex-cop. My gut says he was trying to prove a point with the boy. Trying to get to me by going after him.”

“Get to you how?”

“I think you already know the answer to that one, lieutenant…”

The detective lifted a wallet out of the corpse’s pants. “James Alan Merced. The address says Pismo Beach, California. There’s an armed forces ID in here too. The guy’s a vet. Camp Victory. Iraq.”

He dug his finger deep inside the billfold and pulled something out. A small badge-a wreath of gold leaf overset with what looked like a World War I rifle.

Hauck shrugged. “What’s that?”

“CIB badge,” Steve said. “Means he saw hand-to-hand combat. You’re a lucky dude.”

“There’s also a cell phone in the jacket pocket,” Hauck said. “That should tell you something.”

Chrisafoulis looked up at him reprovingly. Only the investigators were supposed to touch the body.

Hauck shrugged sheepishly. “Couldn’t help myself. Old habits are tough to break.”

Soon after, Annie rushed in, straight from the kitchen. She embraced her son tightly, her eyes wet with joyful tears. “Oh, baby, baby, what happened? Thank God you’re okay.”

“The man tried to hurt me, Mom.” Jared squeezed her. “But Ty came in and saved me. They had a big fight. He told me to run, but I tried to help him, Mom.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Annie said. “I heard. You’re such a brave little man.” She hugged him again and looked up at Hauck. “He’s alright?”

“The med tech said just a little shock. Some small cuts on his neck.”

“Ty got cut, Mom. He’s hurt.”