If I Live

  “What did you say to him tonight?” I ask as I drive, staring straight ahead into the night.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Dylan Roberts. When you saw him at the bar. What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. How do you know— ? I didn’t hardly talk to him.”

  “He drove you home.”

  He turns to me, and his outrage is almost funny. “Were you watching me?”

  I don’t answer.

  “When’d you start watching me?” he has the gall to demand.

  “When you became a loose cannon. When I had to start worrying what would come out of your mouth when you drank too much!”

  “I didn’t drink too much. I’m fine.”

  “You weren’t fine at the bar. You couldn’t even drive home.”

  “Seriously, you got somebody tailing me, or you watching me yourself?”

  I stare out the windshield, my jaw set and my molars clenched so tight they ache. I don’t owe him an explanation.

  “So I’m the enemy now?” he asks. “I’m the one you have to watch?”

  I have no intention of answering. My phone rings, so I look down at it. It’s the call I’ve been waiting for. I swipe it on. “Yeah?”

  “It’s done,” the caller says.

  “Explosion?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it was beautiful. He couldn’t have got out.”

  “Did you make sure?”

  “No, man! I got out of there before the cops and fire department came. But trust me, he’s dead.”

  “All right, good work.” I click the phone off, and Rollins is still staring at me. “What explosion? What did you do?”

  “Dylan Roberts,” I say. “He’s been in a little accident.”

  His eyebrows go up, and his voice sounds tighter. “Car bomb? Did you kill him?”

  I don’t want to correct him, because it doesn’t really matter.

  I turn onto the dirt road in the thick of the trees, and as a tree branch scrapes the top of my roof, he realizes something’s off. “Where are we going, Gordo?”

  “I have to show you something.”

  “What? Where are you taking me? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Sy gets quiet as we go deeper into the woods. I put my lights on bright, and when I stop, I point through the windshield. “See that?”

  He squints. “No, what?”

  “Come on. Get out,” I say. “I’ll show you. You’re gonna love this.”

  He opens his door and gets out, wobbling unsteadily into the headlight beams. I meet him, trying to walk with a jaunt in my step so I don’t tip him off. As I walk, I draw my Glock and keep it down so he doesn’t see it.

  He takes a few steps forward, sees the pit I came out here earlier to dig . . . big enough for a body.

  “Somebody in there?” he asks me, turning.

  He sees my weapon, my barrel only a couple of feet from his forehead. His arms come up. “Come on, Gordo. Not me. I’m on your side.”

  “You’re sloppy,” I say. “I can’t have you out there drunk all the time. You’re a liability to me.”

  “But you can’t. You won’t—”

  I pull the trigger, cutting off his words. He falls back, partially into the grave. I step forward, staying clear of the blood, and kick him the rest of the way in. Then I walk back to my car and get the shovel out of the trunk. I shovel the mound of dirt over him, covering his face first. He’s not dead yet. I watch him inhale the dirt through his nostrils, making two little divots shift in the dirt. I shovel another mound over his face, then thrust the blade into his throat. I step on it, using my weight to finish him off.

  Satisfied that he’s out, I cover his arms, then his legs. Before covering his torso, I thrust the shovel into his ribs a few times just for good measure. He doesn’t flinch. Yeah, he’s definitely gone.

  When he’s covered completely, I spread leaves over the grave.

  I toss the shovel back into my trunk. I dust off my shoes, then swipe my hands together to get the dirt off. I slide back into my seat, feeling the adrenaline pulsing through me. It’s the best high I’ve ever felt. Grinning, I look in my rearview mirror and back out.

  When I’m on the street, I turn the radio on. Buddy Holly is playing, and I sing along to “Peggy Sue” as I head home.

  14

  DYLAN

  I can’t stop shaking as I sit on the bed in the ER, grinding my teeth with the pain while I wait for a doctor to evaluate the burns on my calves and thighs. I don’t have time for this. I need to go back to the apartments and look for any clues that might have been left behind. Though two or three cops have come by to check on me, and a couple are still in the waiting room, they haven’t been able to give me any information about any clues left behind.

  I’ve given my story to the police, but I didn’t tell them who I’m sure is behind it. Until I can prove it, they wouldn’t believe me and my story would blow up in my face.

  The burns on my legs are minimal compared to the wounds of the woman I got out of the apartment below me. They’ve airlifted her to the burn center. This wouldn’t have happened to her if it weren’t for me. Once again, I’m the survivor who’s barely injured, and someone else is fighting for life.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I look up to see Dex in the doorway. “Hey.”

  “What happened?” he demands to know. “I saw the fire on the ten o’clock news. Went by there and saw it was your place that was blown out.” He rubs his mouth with his good hand. It’s trembling. “Dude, I thought you were dead.”

  “Nope. Not me.”

  He looks at my burns, shakes his head. “Seriously, what happened?”

  I sigh and try to think. “First my AC was out, so I opened my window. I never open my window. It’s too humid and there’s no screen. I don’t remember the last time I opened it.” I try to move my leg, but I wince in pain.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Someone was outside my window, sloshed gas in.”

  “You’re on the second floor.”

  “Yeah, they must have used a ladder. They probably knocked out my AC so I’d open the window. The sound woke me up. I was just headed for the window to look out when a grenade came flying in.”

  “A grenade?” Dex comes toward me. “Man, how did you survive?”

  “I got out the door. Didn’t get away completely unscathed. Then the woman below me . . . She was badly burned. I got her out . . .”

  Dex turns away for a moment, and I can’t see his face. Finally, he turns back. “So whoever did this was preying on your PTSD. A grenade?”

  “Yeah. A literal blast from the past.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “No, it’s not. Sorry.”

  He doesn’t hold it against me. “Man, if a grenade came flying at me, I’d have lost it.”

  “I did lose it.”

  “But you acted, man, just like you did that day in Kandahar. You saved people.”

  “One person. And she may not make it.”

  “That day you saved more, Dylan. You know you did. You saved me.”

  I don’t really want to hear that right now. “I just need to get out of here. How bad do these burns look?”

  Dex was a medic in the army, and he treated all kinds of burns. He looks them over. “Bad enough to need dressing. What’s your big hurry? You don’t have anyplace to crash.”

  That’s true. Where will I go? “I lost my phone. My computer. The evidence I’d compiled. It’s all blown up.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says. “Remember, you have a lot of it in the safe deposit box. I can help you re-create the rest. And you took pictures, right? Aren’t they on the cloud somewhere?”

  That’s true. I e-mailed them to Casey. That makes me feel better. I wish I could call her now, but I don’t know her burner phone’s number. I had it programmed into mine, and now it’s collateral damage. I’ll need to e-mail her after I get another phone.
She needs to know how desperate Keegan is getting, even if she won’t talk to me.

  “You’re coming home with me, man.”

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t barge into your place. Your wife, your kids . . . I’ll get a hotel. It’s fine.”

  “Do you even have a credit card with you? Any cash?”

  I sigh. “No. I was sleeping. My wallet was on the dresser. I’ll have to wait till morning to go to the bank and get another card. And a driver’s license.”

  “Then you can’t get any cash out tonight. You have no choice, Pretty Boy. You’re coming with me.”

  He’s right. I should be grateful he came. “It may be a while,” I say.

  “Lay down, dude,” he insists. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  15

  DYLAN

  I’ve met Dex’s wife, Shannon, a couple of times, but I’m not sure how she’ll receive me when Dex brings me home. He apparently called to tell her I was coming, and she greets me with a careful hug. The smell of brownies wafts across their small house, even though it’s four in the morning.

  “I made comfort food,” she says. “I hope you like brownies.”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I say. “You shouldn’t have gotten up. I hope I’m not putting you out.”

  “You saved my husband’s life, Dylan,” she says, tears glistening in her eyes. “There is nothing you could do that would put me out.”

  I’ve always liked her. I know she and Dex have had their issues, but she seems like an angel.

  “Thanks for taking me in, Shannon. Once I get my debit card replaced, I’ll get a hotel until I can go back home.”

  “You don’t need a hotel, dude,” Dex says. “You need a new apartment.”

  “I saw the fire on the news,” Shannon says. “If that blast area was your apartment, you’re not going back there.”

  “Nobody in that building is going back there for a while,” Dex says. “I’m sure the wiring is toast even in the apartments that weren’t touched.”

  Weary, I lower to the couch, squeezing my eyes shut with the pain.

  “Here, put your feet up,” Shannon says, offering me a pillow. “I’ll bring the brownies. You want some decaf?”

  “No, thanks.” I lift my feet to the coffee table.

  “You’re sleeping in Jared’s room. You must be exhausted.”

  “I can sleep on the couch. Really, I don’t want to displace anybody.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve already moved him to our bed. He’s zonked out, so don’t give it another thought. You’re sleeping in Jared’s bed so you’ll be more comfortable.”

  Her insistence moves me, and I decide not to fight it. I eat the brownies, surprised at how comforting comfort food really is. In my family, food was fuel, but most of the time we had to fend for ourselves. I eat at least four, letting the sugar energize me.

  Eventually, Shannon goes to bed, and Dex shows me where the bathroom is and points me to the room where I’ll sleep.

  “Go to bed, man,” I say. “I’m fine. You’ve done enough for me tonight.”

  “I will. But if you can’t sleep, wake me up. We can watch a movie or something.”

  I don’t know if I’ll sleep, but I wouldn’t wake him up for anything.

  I go lie down on the twin bed and stare up at the ceiling. I would really like to talk to Casey tonight, but I don’t have her number. It would be good to hear her voice, to talk through this with her. She is comfort for me like the brownies, but it’s a comfort I can’t have right now.

  I hope she’s all right.

  I wonder what she would be like as a wife. Would she be like Shannon, welcoming my hurting friends as if they’re family, making brownies, fussing around to make sure they feel welcome? Yes, somehow I think she would be.

  I close my eyes and ask God to forgive me for my ingratitude at surviving again. I thank him for saving me tonight, for waking me up and giving me a window of time to get out of that apartment before the blast, and for helping me get to the woman in the apartment below me. I pray for her, that God will heal her and comfort her tonight.

  Then I pray for Casey, that as she stands on the precipice of faith, she would understand the height and depth and width and breadth of God’s love for her.

  And mine too.

  Love is a striking word that I don’t use often. I haven’t thought of it in relation to Casey Cox until now. But it occurs to me as my adrenaline fades after a close call with death, that love is just what I feel for her. I’ve never felt quite this way about another human being. But what if it’s just the pressure and the intensity of our relationship that makes me feel that way?

  I ask God to give me a chance to know her without the threat of death hanging over her. I ask him to give me the opportunity to get to know her under boring conditions, to see if anything is really there. I ask him to let me be a blessing and an example to her, whatever happens between her and me.

  Tomorrow I’ll get a new phone and e-mail her my new number. The craving for her voice aches through me.

  I fall asleep and dream of us at the deer camp where I helped Dex treat her gunshot wound. The touch of her face on my fingertips, the feel of her lips when I kissed her . . .

  Unbelievably, I sleep deeply, undisturbed by my burns or the PTSD flare-up I would have expected after what happened tonight. Just thoughts of Casey—the comfort food to my mind. Better even than brownies.

  16

  DYLAN

  The next morning I go to the bank and replace my debit card. They are able to print it so that I can use it immediately. I also go by the DMV to get a new driver’s license. Then I head to my cell phone store and replace the phone that everyone knows about for the third time in a matter of weeks. I follow that by getting a burner phone at the drugstore. I activate it right away.

  I wrestle with whether I should call Keegan to update him, but I decide to bag the idea. I can’t make myself do it.

  I drive back to my apartment, and I’m struck again by the level of damage. There’s still a fire truck there, and firefighters hosing smoldering embers. I get out of my car and stand in the parking lot looking up, wondering if they would let me go in. I doubt there’s much I could salvage.

  Instead I walk around to the back of the building. There’s a ladder lying on the charred grass under my window. As I get closer I can see that they’ve dusted it for prints.

  I take a step closer to the building and study the ground for footprints. After all the water that was sprayed at the building, the dirt is mud now, but I walk to where it’s still dry. Nothing.

  I finally give up on finding prints and go back to my car. I sit there for a moment, trying to imagine what might have happened last night. Keegan knows I’m on to him. If he suspected that I was about to take him down, he would take me out first. That’s what last night was about.

  I wonder if Rollins got drunk because he knew it was happening.

  17

  CASEY

  I miss talking to Dylan. It’s as if he’s been a vital part of my days for decades, even though I’ve spent so little time with him. I ache with the need to resolve my case so I can go back to seeing him. But I still won’t let myself talk to him, and his calls have fallen off. I get on the Internet and go to the local news site to see what new things they’re saying about me that might not have been picked up on the national news cycle. Tonight I’m the lead story again on Channel 3. They’re rehashing the indictment and why it’s taking police so long to find me.

  Then the anchor says, “In a related story . . . ,” and launches into the coverage of a fire at a local apartment building last night. I watch the footage to see if anyone I know lives there. I recognize the apartments. I used to drive past them on the way to work. But how are they related to my investigation?

  “Fire officials say that the fire was caused by an explosion in the upstairs apartment of a local veteran who works as a private investigator. Sources told us that he’s working with po
lice on the Brent Pace murder case . . .”

  I catch my breath and stumble to my feet. Dylan? Is that where he lives?

  I listen for them to say if he was injured, but somehow I’ve missed it. I back it up and play the video again, and the word explosion reverberates through my mind. I back it up again. Was Dylan killed? When did this happen? Last night? Today?

  Apparently it was in the wee hours of this morning, and it says that two people were injured, including the veteran who lived there.

  I stumble to my purse, grab my phone out, and click on his number. It rings until a voice says that the person I’m trying to call hasn’t set up his voice mail. I text, but get a message that it’s undeliverable.

  Was the phone burned up in the fire? Is he suffering in a hospital?

  I consider calling his regular phone, but I don’t know the number, and even if I had it, it could get him into terrible trouble. I dial the local hospital closest to his apartment and ask if Dylan Roberts is a patient there. They tell me he isn’t.

  Tears assault me. Why did I dodge his calls for the last couple of days? I get on my e-mail, hands shaking, and type him a message.

  Dylan, I just heard about the fire. Please call me. I’m praying you’re okay.

  I hit Send and wait to hear back, but an hour passes, then two, and I don’t hear from him.

  I’ve never felt more helpless. I have an overwhelming urge to call his friend Dex or my sister Hannah, but my better reasoning wins out and I don’t do it.

  Calm down, Casey, I tell myself. Get a grip. Don’t do anything stupid. He’ll call. He has to.

  I navigate to another local news station and watch their footage of the fire. I hear that the downstairs neighbor suffered severe burns, but that Dylan’s condition is unknown.

  “Fire department inspectors are telling us that they do suspect foul play. We’re told that a device was thrown through the resident’s window, and its explosion caused this fire to erupt and destroy most of the building.”