Chelsea Cain - Heartsick

But then there was Susan. Reston would kill her. The second after he’d fired at Archie, he’d shoot her in the head, and he wouldn’t miss. SWAT wouldn’t be able to take him out in time, not where he was standing. They’d storm in after the first crack of gunfire. But Susan would be dead by then and Reston would maybe be able to get the gun in his mouth, fire it. Or they’d tackle him. Take the gun away. Arrest him. Archie and Susan would be dead and Reston would survive. That didn’t seem fair.

Back to plan A. The plan in which Reston got the bullet through the skull. It was a better plan anyway, thought Archie.

Time to alert the cavalry. Archie placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his right hand, the side that faced the porthole. He curled his pinkie and ring finger and extended his index and middle fingers straight, like the barrel of a shotgun, right to the temple. They would be watching him; he had been sitting there long enough, a goldfish in a bowl, a girl watching TV at night in an apartment. Henry would understand. The portholes were made out of some sort of thick double-paned acrylic. The best shot would be through the hatch, which Archie had left open. If the sharpshooters had even arrived. If anyone had seen his signal. If he could get Reston in the line of fire.

Reston took a tiny step forward, the gun still pressed against Susan’s skull. “Do the pills help?”

“No,” Archie said truthfully. “But they make you feel less guilty.”

“Give me some,” Reston demanded.

Archie picked up a pill and looked at it. “Do you have a prescription?”

“I’ll kill her.”

“You’re going to kill her anyway.”

“I’ll kill you.”

Archie set the pill back on the table. “Still not scary, Paul.”

Reston grabbed a handful of Susan’s pink hair and rammed her head into the teak-paneled wall of the cabin.

“Fuck!” she yelled.

Archie stood.

Reston leveled the gun on him, still holding Susan by the hair. Her forehead was bleeding, but she was conscious, fighting. Reston was infuriated, his face beet red, eyes searing. His chest heaved and his features transformed into something misshapen, deformed with rage.

“Okay,” Archie said. He picked up a pill and tossed it toward Reston. It landed on the green carpet, halfway between the two men. Reston scrambled forward, dragging Susan by the hair, gun still leveled at Archie. He got to where the pill lay, and unwilling to drop the gun or Susan, lowered his head, eyes still raised at Archie, and picked up the pill in his teeth. With a victorious grin at Archie, he swallowed it. Then, there was a crack of a sniper’s rifle through the open hatch, and Reston ’s head jerked forward and he slammed into the carpet. Susan screamed and scooted backward, her mouth open.

The SWAT team rushed in, weapons drawn, their black gear making them look like creatures that had just risen out of the Willamette. Susan had her bound hands in front of her face and she was saying, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Check through there,” Archie said, pointing down the hallway. But he didn’t move. There were still two pills on the table. He brushed them into his hand and dropped them in his pocket.

A rchie was high.He stood at the river’s edge, hands in his pockets, a fine mist of rain settling on his shoulders. One of these days, he was going to get one of those waterproof jackets that everyone kept recommending. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. But he wasn’t tired. The right dose of Vicodin kept him in a state of perpetual in-between. Not tired, not awake. It wasn’t such a bad state of mind once you got used to it.

Behind him, about fifty feet from the river’s edge, was the downtown branch of the Green Hornet River Patrol office. Rectangular, with brown plastic siding, the building looked like something that had come in a box and been put together in an afternoon. Henry, Claire, Susan, and the others were inside. They were talking to her first; then Archie would be up. He had sneaked out to get some air. The Chris-Craft had been towed to the dock, and Archie watched now as the crime-scene techs set up 1,800-watt lights that lit the exterior of the boat up like a movie set.

Addy Jackson was stable and on her way to Emanuel. The Rohypnol fog was already lifting, and she was conscious, though confused and unable to answer questions yet. Archie hoped that she would be blessed with the drug’s more amnesiac properties.

The press had yet to arrive. They would have heard the police call by then, but Portland was still a small market, and the TV stations worked skeleton shifts at night. Archie imagined them pulling on their news slickers, racing to the scene, prepared to go live with the story for as long as they could wring the drama from it. It would start all over again.

Archie heard the man behind him before he saw him. A few footsteps, and then the silhouette of a fat man appeared in the dark. Archie didn’t even need to turn his head. He recognized the faint smell of liquor and stale cigarettes.

“Quentin Parker,” Archie said.

“Heard you caught yourself another one.”

“You working this?”

“I’ve got a kid with me,” Parker said. “Derek Rogers. Plus, Ian Harper’s on his way.”

“Ah.”

Parker snorted. “You think he’s a twit now. Wait until you meet him.”

The two stood side by side for a long moment, watching the Chris-Craft, the lights, the black river. Finally, Archie spoke. “You never came to see me in the hospital. Everyone else was scrambling to sneak into my room, begging for interviews, sending flowers, impersonating doctors. Not you.”

The big man shrugged. “Never got around to it.”

“It was appreciated,” Archie said.

Parker fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. It was tiny in his hand, the tip glowing orange in the darkness. “You’re going to be famous again.”

Archie looked up at the sky. The moon was a smear of light behind the cloud cover. “I’m thinking of moving to Australia.”

“Watch yourself, Sheridan. Those stories Susan did have stirred things up. The whole ‘tragic hero’ thing goes over well, but pretty soon they’ll want more. The pills. Your weekly sit-downs with Gretchen Lowell. We’ll eat you alive for that shit. The mayor, Henry, they can only do so much to protect you. If the Fourth Estate smells blood, there’s gonna be a bloodbath.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Bad call, huh?” Parker said, bringing his fist to his mouth, the cigarette a tiny lantern.

“What?” Archie asked.

“Becoming a cop,” he said, looking at the cigarette in his hand. “Should’ve been an academic.” He ashed the cigarette with a delicate flick of his big wrist. “Taught school somewhere.”

“Too late now,” Archie said.

“Me. I wanted to be a car salesman.” He looked into the distance and smiled. “Oldsmobiles.” He gave Archie a shrug and studied the cigarette. “Got sidetracked as a copy boy. Tenth grade. Nineteen fifty-nine. Never went to college. They used to print the paper right there. In the basement. I used to love the smell of the ink.” He brought the cigarette to his mouth again, took a drag, and exhaled it. “These days? Paper won’t hire someone for an unpaid internship unless they’ve got an Ivy League degree.”

“Times change.”

“How’s our girl?”

Archie looked up at the office. “Pissed.”

“She’s a hell of a kid.”

“Can I havea piece of gum?” Susan asked. She was in a back room in the patrol office with Henry and Claire. There was a desk in the room, and a task chair. The walls were covered with nautical charts. The desk was stacked with black binders with the city seal on them, and white and pink pieces of paper that appeared to be various forms and reports, boxes checked, explanations filled in, stamped, certified, signed. It was a man’s office. Color photographs of him hung on the walls in cheap diploma frames. Fishing. Standing around with other men in green uniforms. Formal Sears portraits with the family. He had a mustache and an exuberant expression. In some of the more recent pictures, he had a beard. To the left of the desk was a four-shelf metal bookcase, stacked with books about marine law and Oregon history. On top of the bookcase was a jar of fat pink bubblegum.