Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Holman followed the road up to Donna and parked exactly where he had parked the last time he came. When he opened his car the heat crushed into him like a wave and the glare made him wince. He started to reach for the sunglasses, but thought, no, he didn’t want to remind her of what he used to be.

Holman brought the flowers to her grave. His earlier flowers were now black and brittle. Holman collected the old flowers, then policed the headstone of dead leaves and petals. He took the dead stuff to a trash can by the drive, then brought the fresh flowers back and put them on her grave.

Holman felt badly he hadn’t brought some kind of vase. In this heat, without water, the flowers would be shriveled and dead by the end of the day.

Holman grew even angrier with himself, thinking maybe he was just one of those people who fucked up everything.

He squatted and pressed his hand onto Donna’s marker. The hot metal burned his palm, but Holman pressed harder. He let it burn.

He whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Holman?”

Holman glanced over his shoulder to see Pollard coming toward him. He pulled himself up.

“What did you think I was going to do, rob a bank?”

Pollard stopped beside him and gazed down at the grave.

“Richard’s mother?”

“Yeah. Donna. I should’ve married this girl, but…you know.”

Holman let it drop. Pollard looked up and seemed to study him.

“You okay?”

“Not so good.”

Holman studied Donna’s name on the marker. Donna Banik. It should have been Holman.

“She was proud of him. So was I, but I guess the kid never really had a chance, not with the way I was.”

“Max, don’t do this.”

Pollard touched his arm, but Holman barely felt it, a gesture with no more weight than a wave from a passing car. He studied Pollard, who he knew to be a bright and educated woman.

“I tried to believe in God when I was in prison. That’s part of the twelve-step thing-you have to give yourself to a higher power. They say it doesn’t have to be God, but, c’mon, who are they kidding? I really wanted there to be a Heaven, man-Heaven, angels, God on a throne.”

Holman shrugged, then looked back at the marker. Donna Banik. He wondered if she would mind if he had it changed. He could save up the money and buy a new marker. Donna Holman. Then his eyes suddenly filled when he thought, no, she would probably be ashamed.

Holman wiped at his eyes.

“I got this letter-Donna wrote when Richie finished the police academy. She said how proud she was he wasn’t like me, here he was a policeman and nothing like me. Now, you might think she was being cruel, but she wasn’t. I was grateful. Donna made our boy good and she did it alone. I didn’t give them a goddamned thing. I left them with nothing. Now I hope there’s no goddamned Heaven. I don’t want her up there seeing all this. I don’t want her knowing he turned out like me.”

Holman felt ashamed of himself for saying such things. Pollard was as rigid as a statue. Her mouth was a tight line and her face was grim. When Holman glanced at her, a tear leaked down from behind her sunglasses and rolled to her chin.

Holman lost it when he saw the tear and a sob shuddered his body. He tried to fight it, but he gasped and heaved as tears flooded his eyes, and all he knew in that moment was how much pain he had caused.

He felt Pollard’s arms. She murmured words, but he did not understand what she was saying. She held him hard, and he held her back, but all he knew were the sobs. He wasn’t sure how long he cried. After a while Holman calmed, but he still held her. They just stood there, holding each other. Then Holman realized he was holding her. He stepped back.

“Sorry.”

Pollard’s hand lingered on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. He thought she might, but she turned aside to wipe her eyes.

Holman cleared his throat. He still needed to talk with Donna and he didn’t want Pollard to hear.

“Listen, I want to stick around here for a while. I’ll be okay.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“Why don’t we call it quits for today?”

“No. No, I want to see the reports. I can do that without you.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

Pollard touched his arm again and he reached to touch her hand, but then she turned away. Holman watched her walk to her car in the brutal heat and watched as she drove away. Then he looked back at Donna’s marker.

Holman’s eyes filled again, and now he was glad Pollard had gone. He squatted once more and adjusted the flowers. They were already beginning to wilt.

“Bad or not, he was ours. I’ll do what I have to do.”

Holman smiled, knowing she wouldn’t like it, but at peace with his fate. You just couldn’t beat the bad blood.

“Like son, like father.”

Holman heard a car door close behind him and glanced up into the sun. Two men were coming toward him.

“Max Holman.”

Two more men were coming from the direction of the burial, one with bright red hair.

VUKOVICH AND FUENTES were coming from one side and two more men from the other. Holman could not reach his car. They spread apart as they came like they expected him to run and were ready for it. Holman stood anyway, his heart pounding. The empty plain of the cemetery left him exposed like a fly on a dinner plate with no place to hide and no way to lose them.

Vukovich said, “Easy now.”

Holman started for the gate, and both Fuentes and one of the men behind him widened out.

Vukovich said, “Don’t be stupid.”

Holman broke into a trot and all four men suddenly ran forward. Holman shouted at the burial party.

“Help! Help me!”

Holman reversed course toward his car, knowing he couldn’t make it even as he tried.

“Over here! Help!”

Mourners at the far tent turned as the first two officers converged on him. Holman lowered his shoulder at the last moment and drove into the smaller guy hard, then spun, making a sprint for his car as Vukovich shouted.

“Take him down!”

“Help! Help here!”

Someone slammed into Holman from behind, but he kept on his feet and turned as Fuentes charged from the side, Vukovich shouting, “Stop it, goddamnit-give it up.”

Everything blurred into bodies and arms. Holman swung hard, catching Fuentes in the ear, then someone tackled his legs and he went down. Knees dug into his back and his arms were twisted behind him.

“Help! Help!”

“Shut up, asshole. What do you expect those people to do?”

“Witnesses! People are watching, you bastards!”

“Calm down, Holman. You’re being dramatic.”

Holman didn’t stop struggling until he felt the plastic restraints cut into his wrists. Vukovich lifted his head by the hair and twisted him around so they could see each other.

“Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you in. Relax.”

“I haven’t fucking done anything!”

“You’re fucking up our shit, Holman. We tried to be nice, but could you take the hint? You’re fucking up our shit.”

When they lifted him to his feet, Holman saw that everyone in the burial party was now watching them. The two motorcycle cops who had escorted the hearse were walking over, but Fuentes was trotting out to meet them.

Holman said, “They’re witnesses, goddamnit. They’re gonna remember this.”

“All they’re going to remember is some asshole getting arrested. Stop being stupid.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“In.”

“Why?”

“Just relax, man. You’re going to be fine.”

Holman didn’t like the way Vukovich told him he was going to be fine. It sounded like something you heard before you were murdered.