Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

God almighty above. He looked at the unremarkable brown paper sack in his hand. Looked at her face, full of desperation and fear and hope. "Isobel," he said. He cradled her cheek in one hand. How could he ask her what he wanted to know? Did you kill that man? Is this your gun?

"Amado." Only a whisper between them. Then she stepped toward him and not even that remained. Slowly, shyly, she wrapped her arms around him. He dropped the sack. Cupped her face in both hands.

He didn't know what made him tear his eyes away from her, toward the woods at the other end of the pasture. An instinct for self-preservation forged during two illegal crossings, maybe. Whatever it was, he looked-and saw a burly, blond Anglo framed in the footpath's opening. Even from that distance, he could tell the man was related to Isobel.

" Mierda ," he whispered.

Isobel whirled. Inhaled. Turned to him. "Go," she said.

He shook his head. He wasn't about to leave her to face her family alone. "No. You come."

"Please! Go! Vamanose!" She glanced back over her shoulder. Said something fast and full of despair. She pushed at him. "Please, Amado, please. Go. No come back. I okay."

"No!"

She dragged him around the corner of the barn, out of sight of the approaching man, and pinned him in place with her body. "You no come back! I okay. He-" She struggled to find a word, then sliced her finger across her throat. Then she leaped over all those high bars and good reasons keeping them apart as easily as she jumped from the haymow and kissed him.

Time stopped in an endless moment of soft and wet and the taste of coffee and corn chips. His breath caught and his eyes fluttered shut, and then she pulled away and shoved him toward the woods. He tucked the sack under his arm and ran, his mind fogged, until the thrash of branches and the sawing of his own breath alerted him to the fact that a blind man could follow the noisy trail he was making. He stopped, chest heaving. Wait. He had to make sure she was all right.

He doubled back toward the barn, slipping between hemlocks and birch trees. He stayed low, sticking to shadows and scrub brush. He spotted a deadfall pine, moldering into the forest floor, and he dropped belly-down next to it.

He could hear them, faintly, the big man bellowing and Isobel yelling. He was demanding, she was defying-that Amado got from the pitch of their voices. Then- oh, God -there was the meaty sound of flesh hitting flesh. Isobel shrieked. He heard it again. He was up from his hiding place, up and moving, his hand flailing at the paper bag, reaching for the gun, when he heard her, over the sound of his thudding feet.

"Amado!" He skidded to a stop. She wasn't calling his name. She was… naming him. He moved closer, tree to tree to tree. He could hear her, sobbing. "Amado, okay?" she said. Then more-between the weeping and the English, he couldn't make it out-but he heard her say "McGeochs" clear enough.

His fingers curled around the butt of the gun. Through the leaves, he could make out the top half of the barn. He dropped the sack and fell to his stomach again, crawling through the underbrush until he could see.

Isobel was curled on the ground, trapped between the barn and the big man. She had both arms wrapped around her in futile protection. She shook with sobs. Her lip was bleeding. Amado brought the gun up and sighted it. The bastard's back was wide enough; even an inexperienced shot couldn't miss.

Then Isobel's attacker bent over and scooped her up. He cradled her tenderly, making soothing noises, stroking her back and hair. She clung to the monster, still weeping, and buried her face in his shoulder.

Amado lowered the gun. He turned away, fighting to keep his gorge down. He knew what that was. He had seen it before. There were a few women in his village whose husbands would beat them Saturday night and woo them Sunday morning. But he was sure Isobel was unmarried. A brother, then? Or an uncle? He stared at the gun in his hand, heavy and unfamiliar, and almost dropped it again. Sweet mother of Christ. Had the bearded giant been hitting Isobel because he had seen her with a dark-skinned man? Or because this was missing?

Hide , she had said. Hide . He bent, scooped up the sack he had dropped, and replaced the gun inside. Slowly, carefully, he threaded his way through the trees. Back toward the McGeochs' land. To do what she had asked him to do.

The first person Kevin ran into as he snuck into the station that afternoon was the deputy chief. "What the hell are you doin' here?" MacAuley asked.

"Uh… I wanted to get in a little early for my shift."

"An hour early? Damn, boy, your hair's still wet."

"I showered at the gym. I was working out."

MacAuley's caterpillar eyebrows went up. "You. Were working out." He thwacked Kevin on the chest with a manila folder. "I thought you were more into pickup basketball games."

Kevin shrugged.

MacAuley shook his head and looked upward, to where acoustic tiles covered the hallway's original plaster ceiling. "God help us all," he said. He thumbed toward the briefing room. "May as well get back there. You can tell the chief about your stop last night."

"My what?"

MacAuley looked at him impatiently. "You stopped to pick up Knox, right? Ran plates on a Hummer driven by a guy with tattoos? A corpse cake turned up this morning in the woods off of Lick Springs Road. Matching marks on his hands. La-ti-no." He rolled his eyes. "Not PC to say Mexican anymore. Hunh. Maybe I'll start calling myself a Hibernian-American."

"I think you mean Caledonian-American, Dep. Hibernian-American would be Irish. Like me." By the look on MacAuley's face, that last "like me" might have been overdoing it.

"Get in there, before I go Irish on your ass."

Kevin hustled into the squad room, grinning to himself. To be rewarded by the sight of her , seated at the big table, studying a series of photos.

"Hey, Hadley," he said, his voice a pitch-perfect blend of friendly and casual. He had practiced in his Aztek on the way over.

"Hey, Flynn." She didn't take her eyes off the pictures.

"You can call me Kevin, you know."

That made her glance up. "I don't think so."

"What are you doing here so early?" The voice made him jump. Oh. Yeah. There was somebody else in the room. Kevin turned toward the bulletin board, where the chief was tacking up rap sheets. "Never mind," he continued, "Come here and tell me if you recognize any of these."

Kevin crossed to the board. The sheets had the familiar formatting of the NYS VCAP database. Eight young Latinos stared at him, captured by booking photographers in Brooklyn and Manhattan and the Bronx: defiant, stoned, sullen, smirking. Kevin tapped the smirking face. "That's the one I had to chase off. He doesn't have his piercings in this shot"-he touched his upper lip-"but that's him." He leaned closer to read the guy's short list. Fresh out of Plattsburgh, less than four months ago. Three possessions, carrying concealed, auto theft, assault, and assault with a deadly weapon. Possible associate of the Punta Diablos. No wonder he'd intimidated Hadley.

The chief grunted. "Knox ID'd him as well. Anybody else?"

Kevin closed his eyes for a moment. Tried to re-create the moment in his mind: his lights on Hadley's car, the men, two on either side as he drove up. One pair scuttling for the Hummer before he had gotten out of his cruiser. Leaving his rig twisted frontward some, so the big block of his Colt.44 could make an impression. The littler rat-faced guy squinting at his gun. Panicked.

He opened his eyes again. Pointed. "That one. He was with, uh-" he leaned forward to read the smirking guy's name-"Alejandro Santiago."