If I Live

  I get to Monnogan’s early and check out the place just to make sure this isn’t a trick. I reject the table I’m directed toward and instead pull three others together and move the chairs around it. It’s kind of a paranoid thing to do, a way to control the situation in case I’m about to be set up or bugged. Then again, I guess Kurt could be wired himself if he’s in cahoots with his dad.

  He comes in a few minutes after seven—our meeting time—and he’s got a girl with him. She’s pretty, blonde, the cheerleader type, which Kurt always went for. He introduces her as Grayson and says she’s his fiancée.

  Grayson is pretty in a collegiate sort of way, with a quick smile and intelligent eyes. She takes the seat between us as though she’s already comfortable with me, which does impress me. He seems truly smitten with her, looking at her often and including her in everything he tells me. The three of us shoot the breeze as we order drinks—two beers and my trusty Coke—and one by one, some of our friends from high school show up. Every one of them has something to say about Brent’s death, but I don’t want to talk about it. I quickly get them off the subject and ask what they’ve been up to in the last few years.

  When everyone is served their drinks and there’s food on the table, there are five conversations going on. I watch Grayson interacting with Kurt, and I try to see his father’s mannerisms in him and figure out whether he’s a psychopath too. I think back to times in our school years when I did things with him. I wouldn’t call him the king of empathy, but nothing in his character ever suggested that he could be a party to murder.

  When he and a friend go to the pinball machine, I’m left making conversation with Grayson. “So when’s the wedding?” I ask.

  “In six weeks,” she says. “We’re counting down the days.”

  I sip my drink. “You having a big wedding?”

  “As big as we can afford,” she says.

  “My sister had this humongous wedding,” I tell her. “Six bridesmaids. She married a rich dude. My family sure didn’t pay for it. They were barely invited. But I was glad she got what she wanted. She deserved it.”

  “We’re paying for most of it ourselves,” she says. “We both have kind of controlling families. When we take money from them, we’re beholden to them. Kurt and I figured out early that we wanted to just do it within our means.”

  Interesting, I think. “Oh yeah? So do you guys have a big honeymoon planned?”

  “We’re just going down to New Orleans for a weekend. He doesn’t make much on a cop’s salary, and I’m a teacher, so we don’t have much put away to go to Cancun or anything.”

  “Yeah, that probably takes a big chunk out of your budget.”

  “We’re good to go,” she says. “I ordered my dress off of eBay. It’s gorgeous. I literally bought a Vera Wang for two hundred dollars. I was worried it would come looking like a Halloween costume or something, but it was absolutely what I wanted. My church is really pretty so we don’t have to spend a lot on flowers to dress the place up. And some of my friends are helping me make the food for the reception.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” I say.

  “It’s saving us a whole lot of money. We did kind of go crazy on the cake, though. It just doesn’t seem like a wedding without a nice cake.” She blushes and waves her hand. “I’m sorry. I know you couldn’t care less about wedding planning.”

  “No, it’s interesting,” I say. She seems like a nice girl, and her mention of her church makes me think she might be a Christian. I can’t imagine that they would be scrimping quite so much if Kurt’s dad were providing any of the cash. Maybe that’s a good sign that he isn’t involved. I really hope he’s not.

  Kurt comes back to the table and orders another beer. I’m still nursing my Coke, but the ice has melted. “What are you drinking, man?” he asks, ready to buy me one.

  I don’t want to lie about it. “Just a soda.”

  “You’re kidding,” he says. “Are you a recovering alcoholic? Did they turn you into a lush in Afghanistan?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m just not much of a drinker.”

  “Oh yeah. I should’ve remembered that about you.” He looks around, as though he wants to say something that isn’t overheard. The others have left the table, and Grayson is talking to someone she knows at another table.

  He lowers his voice. “So tell me about the Brent Pace case,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  “Your dad hasn’t told you?”

  He shrugs. “Honestly, my dad and I don’t talk that much. We had a falling-out a few months ago, and I don’t have a lot to say to the guy.”

  I’d love to dig further and find out what the falling-out was about, but I can’t appear too eager. “That’s too bad when you’re about to get married and all.”

  “My mom will make him come to the wedding. But we don’t just sit around and hang out, you know? Last I heard through the department grapevine, you guys were bearing down on Casey Cox. And then all that stuff in Dallas happened.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’ve come close to catching her twice.”

  “Any leads on where she is now?”

  Again, my gut tightens. This could be the question he’s waited all night to ask. I shake my head. “Not yet, but I’m gonna find her.”

  “She’s smart, that one,” he says. “She’s given the old man a run for his money. I love it when that happens.”

  I’m not buying it. Grayson comes back and reclaims her place between us. “So how is your mom?” I ask Kurt.

  “She’s fine,” he says, and looks off across the room as if retreating into his own thoughts.

  Grayson leans forward. “He worries about his mom a lot.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask him.

  He turns back to me and shrugs. “I just think my dad should treat her better.”

  I don’t say anything, afraid to tip my hand. Finally, he takes another guzzle out of his beer bottle, sets it down. “He’s got a mistress. I found out a few months ago. He’s been with her for a few years. He goes on these trips to Dallas, lies to my mother about where he’s going. Leaves her home alone. Finally I looked into it and found this woman. She’s rich, so she’s buying him all these toys.”

  I frown. He doesn’t know that Keegan’s the one buying her toys, not the other way around.

  “Did you tell your mother?” I ask.

  “He should have,” Grayson says, sweeping her hair behind her ears.

  Kurt shakes his head. “No, man. I couldn’t break her heart like that. I just told my dad that I knew. I guess I hoped it would knock some sense into him, make him realize he was about to lose everything. But nothing’s changed. He’s still out of town a lot.”

  “Wow,” I say, trying to keep things light. “I’d hate to be at your Thanksgiving dinners.”

  Kurt laughs a little. “They never were that much fun to begin with.”

  I’m not quite ready to let it go. “I always thought you guys were close. You followed in your dad’s footsteps, became a cop . . . right?”

  “But you know my granddad—my mom’s dad—was a cop too. My uncles. In fact, that’s probably why my dad went into it in the first place. I keep telling myself that I’m following in their footsteps, not his.”

  His distaste for his father seems real, but I’m still aware he could be playing me.

  He changes the subject as some of the guys come back from the pinball machines, and there’s a lot of laughter and nostalgia as we talk about memorable football trips.

  After a couple more hours, the guys leave one by one, until it’s just Kurt and Grayson and me left.

  “There’s my dad’s partner,” Kurt tells Grayson. “Detective Rollins.” I turn and see Sy slumped on a barstool. “That means Dad’s probably not too far behind,” Kurt says. “Maybe it’s time for us to go.”

  They pay their tab and get up to leave. When we’ve said our goodbyes, I go slip onto the barstool next to Rollins. “How you doing, man?”

  Ro
llins squints his eyes and focuses on me. “Man, are you stalking me or what? I can’t go to a bar without you turning up.”

  “Nah, I was just here meeting some buddies. Saw you come in.”

  He orders another drink, offers me one, and I order another Coke. I’m gonna be up until next Tuesday with all this caffeine in my system, but it’s worth it.

  “I’d sure like you better if you drank with me,” he broods.

  “Then who would drive you home?” I ask.

  He’s in a sour mood, so I settle in, hoping he’ll expose something as he falls deeper into his stupor.

  11

  DYLAN

  Rollins drinks two more rounds while I’m sitting next to him, and when he decides to leave, I don’t know if it’s because he’s had enough or because I’m getting on his nerves. My guess is he was already soggy all the way through when he got to the bar, because with his tolerance, four drinks wouldn’t have put him over the top. But now he can hardly make it to the door.

  I pay my tab and follow him out, watch as he goes to the wrong car and tries to get the key to turn. I watch him over my car’s roof as he fumbles around, confused. Finally, I go over to him. “Can I help you, man?”

  “My key won’t open it,” he mutters.

  “I don’t think this is your car.”

  I take his key fob and hold it over the roof, click the panic button. His horn beeps and his lights start flashing across the parking lot. “It’s over there.”

  I put his arm around my shoulders and hobble with him over to his car. He gets the door open this time and slides behind the wheel. Part of me wants to let him go and hope he winds up in a ditch. The other part doesn’t want him to cause an eight-car pileup on the road home.

  “Let me drive you home, man.”

  “No, I need my car,” he says.

  “But I really don’t think you ought to be driving. Remember the DUI? It would really get you into trouble with the department.” Ignoring me, Rollins tries to get his key in the ignition but he can’t quite find the slit.

  I reach in and take his keys from him. “Come on, man. I’ll drive you home in my car and you can hire Uber to bring you tomorrow to pick yours up.”

  Rollins doesn’t seem to have the strength to fight me. When I tug on his arm, he comes out of the car and allows me to hold him up again as we walk to mine. I put him in the passenger seat and hurry around to the driver’s side.

  He’s almost asleep when I start the car, but I don’t want that. I want him to chatter. I nudge him awake. “Seat belt, man,” I say. He clumsily reaches for the seat belt and I help him click it into place. “So you seem to be in a sour mood,” I say as I start the car. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just a terrible week,” he slurs. “Keegan’s out of control . . . and he won’t listen to me.”

  I’m quiet, hoping he’ll go on, but he doesn’t. “Have you ever thought of asking for a different partner?”

  “No way, man,” he says. “He’s like the Hotel California. You can never leave.”

  I get the gist. Getting involved with Keegan is something you don’t escape from. You’re either in with him or you’re the enemy. “I’ve never understood why people kowtow to him,” I say carefully. Rollins seems to sober up at the thought and he looks out the window. “He have something on you?”

  The minute the words are out of my mouth, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Rollins looks at me, more clarity in his eyes. “He makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.”

  When he’s silent again, I pretend I don’t understand the gravity of what he’s just said. “Pushes you out of your comfort zone?”

  He lets it go at that, just nods his head. I keep my eyes straight ahead, praying he’ll go on, but instead I hear him snoring.

  I let him sleep until we get to his house. I’d like to get inside there, see what I can see, so I take him out of the passenger seat and walk him to the door. The garage door is closed, so we go to the front and I grope around for the right key and get the door unlocked. I start to walk him inside but he stops me, wedging himself between me and the front room.

  “Thanks, man. Appreciate you bringing me. Don’t say anything to Keegan about this, all right?”

  “Did I last time?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head no. “I’m just saying.” He taps my shoulder with a clumsy hand. “You’re all right, Dylan.” Then he closes the door in my face and I hear the dead bolt locking. I back away, waiting to see if he opens it again, but he doesn’t. I wonder if he’ll even make it to the bed.

  I go back to my car and drive away in silence. You can check in but you can never leave. At some point Rollins gave in to Keegan on one of these killings, and now he’s in way over his head, doing Keegan’s bidding. He knows that if he ever gets caught he’ll go to prison for the rest of his life.

  Maybe it didn’t start out that way. Maybe at one point he really wanted to be a decent cop. Now he drinks to cover up the guilt.

  If I can keep making Rollins think I’m his friend, maybe I can make those fears a reality.

  12

  DYLAN

  I’m tired when I get home. I won’t have trouble sleeping tonight. I feel so good about how much evidence has come together today that I unroll my makeshift whiteboard and hang it back up.

  It’s hot, so I go to the thermostat and check the AC. It says it’s 80 degrees. I turn it down to 72, but the unit doesn’t come on. I turn it down lower, make sure it’s on AC and not heat, but it’s still unresponsive.

  Great.

  I go to the window and open it, and cooler air does breeze in. Mosquitoes are likely to come with it since there are no screens on my windows. Humidity is already settling over me.

  I change into my sleep shorts and drop into bed, wearing my PTSD patch from a clinical study. It helps with my brain waves when I sleep, and when I wear it I don’t have as many night terrors. I hope I can shut my mind off tonight.

  I drift in and out, but after a while, a swishing sound drags me from REM sleep. I sit up, groggy. It’s dark, so I can’t see what made the noise, but as I reach for the lamp, I smell a strong gas smell. I switch on the lamp and see that my carpet under the window is wet, and fumes distort the lines of the window.

  Gas!

  I jump up and lunge for the window when something else flies in, hits the floor, and rolls across my room.

  Then I see that it’s a grenade.

  I dive for the door and get out of the room, fling open the front door, just as the blast throws me off my feet. I hit the concrete breezeway outside my apartment. I’m dazed when I hear the crackle of fire inside.

  People. There are people in the apartment below me. Next door. Behind all these doors . . .

  Searing pain shoots up my leg until a flame erupts on my shorts. Slapping the flame out, I get to my feet and run into the blinding smoke. I have to get them out.

  I yell at the top of my lungs. “Evacuate! Clear the building!”

  Coughing, I find my way to the door next to me, bang on it, then run to the one on the other side of my apartment. “Open up! You have to get out! Fire!”

  People are coming out now, and I yell over the railing. “Check on the people below me! Get them out!”

  I bang on each door as I run to the staircase and stumble down. Smoke billows out through the shattered window in the apartment below me.

  “Help evacuate!” I yell to people stepping out. “Get everybody out!”

  The door to the apartment below me looks like it took as much of the blast as mine did. I pull off my shirt, cover my nose and mouth, and tie it around the back of my head to filter my air. Then I get down on my knees and crawl into that place. Fire covers the walls, and the smoke makes it hard to see.

  “Anybody in here?” I call out. “Just yell so I can hear you!”

  I hear a woman crying, and I crawl toward her. “Where are you?” I yell. “Talk to me!”

  “Here,” she says, a few feet away from me to my rig
ht. The ceiling between her apartment and mine above her has burned through, and the smoke billows upward, but it’s still thick here near the floor.

  When I touch her, I feel blood on her arms, her hands, and I doubt she can get out of here on her own. I get to my feet and pull her over my shoulder. She’s coughing, and I feel her warm blood down my back.

  “Is there anybody else in here?”

  “No. God . . . help me.”

  I get her out the door into less smoky air. The red lights of a fire truck pull into the parking lot. “Over here!” I yell, then I cough my guts out as I stagger toward the ambulance coming behind the truck. “Help!”

  Two EMTs appear and take her from me. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. The woman’s leg looks mutilated and burnt, and her hair is singed on one side. She, too, is coughing, trying to clear her lungs. They get her to the ambulance, then others rush to me.

  I double over in a coughing fit. When I can speak, I assure them I’m okay.

  “No, you’re not,” a paramedic says. “You have burns.”

  “Just get everybody out,” I rasp. “There may be others.”

  Other fire trucks arrive on the scene, and the firefighters take over, hosing the fire and evacuating the building. It doesn’t look like anyone else is injured.

  As they get me into the ambulance, I wish I could have run behind the building to see if I could catch a glimpse of who threw the gas and grenade into my apartment. Whoever it was is surely gone by now.

  As the ambulance carries me away, something inside me sharpens. Keegan is behind this. He must know I’ve figured him out and that I’m going to expose him.

  He wants me dead. All I have to do is stay alive long enough to expose him.

  13

  KEEGAN

  Rollins is drunk again. When I bang on his door, it takes him a while to wake from his stupor and open it. I walk him to my car and usher him in. He overcompensates for his clumsiness by trying to sit up straighter and talking a blue streak. His speech is slurred, but he enunciates more, as if that sounds natural. He thinks he’s got me fooled. He’s clearly not aware that his breath reeks and he has a whiskey stain on his shirt, or that he’s wet his pants.