An Empty Hell Page 21

  Donne rolled onto his back and sprawled out. He dared to open his eyes. The light dangling above him obscured his vision at first, but after blinking a few times, the world came back into focus. Cops surrounded him like in a football huddle. Two of them were on their phones. He exhaled and the air wheezed out of him.

  One cop crouched down next to him. He whistled. “The famous Jackson Donne.”

  The pain had fallen to a dull roar, the kind you feel after your first ever workout. The cops knew what they were doing, and minus the first two punches, they avoided his head.

  “You need a doctor or a hospital?”

  Donne shook his head. The huddle dispersed, except for the crouched cop.

  “Good. What the hell are you doing back here? You the reason shit is blowing up everywhere today?” The cop reached out a hand. Donne ignored it. He liked the cold, concrete prison floor. It was like ice on his bruises.

  “I didn’t bomb anything,” he said.

  Shut up. Shut up! You know better. Keep your mouth shut and get your lawyer on the phone. His brain was running a mile a minute. Jesus, would Lester even take your calls anymore?

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he found himself saying. Couldn’t even listen to his own advice.

  The cop pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  “Did you think the beard would fool anyone? I mean, you do look like a lumberjack. But once you waltz back into this state and start fighting with people… One of our contacts down in New Brunswick was at a fire today. He said the owner of the place said to look out for you. He told them to call us. So our ears perked up. And then you walk into the middle of a fistfight outside of a school.”

  “Trying to help.”

  The cop shook his head. “Not what the guy next door said. He said he was trying to stop you. That you killed our friend.”

  “That guy is insane. A murderer.” Donne swallowed and a burst of light exploded in front of his eyes. “He killed the cop.”

  “You shot a senator.”

  Donne shook his head. His mouth was dry and talking hurt his throat. That was on the bottom of the list of injuries to worry about, but at least it was something he could control. He worked on breathing steadily instead.

  “You have a lawyer?” the cop asked.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  The cop laughed. “Really? After all the times you’ve been in the news, you think we can’t get you on something? I’ll ask again. Lawyer?”

  Donne nodded and hoped Lester Russell was still in business. The images of the dead danced in his mind and formed figures in the light above his head. Ghosts in a jail cell.

  “Better get him on the phone,” the cop said.

  “What about Mosley?”

  “We’re dealing with that. Not your problem.” The cop laughed. “Well, judging by the stories he’s telling about you, he is your problem.”

  “Herrick.”

  The cop stood up, brushed off his pants. “Not your problem either. You going to get up or are you going to lay there for a while?”

  Donne didn’t answer.

  “Let me know when you want the phone.”

  “Water,” Donne said.

  “Yeah, we’ll take care of that. Jesus Christ, what a night.”

  Donne rested his hands on his chest and stared up at the light. It wobbled a bit, swaying after the jail cell door slammed shut. It was hypnotic and for an instant Donne thought he could fall asleep right there. Just five minutes. He would need it.

  He had the feeling there wouldn’t be many more restful sleeps coming. He felt like everything had finally caught up with him.

  He didn’t need to go to hell when he died. He was already there.

  Stuck in a Jersey City prison cell with the ghosts of the past floating around him, about to reap their vengeance.

  THEY DIDN’T speak on the drive home.

  But Sarah got out of the car with Herrick and helped him up to his apartment. She’d gotten lucky and found a parking space only half a block away. Hoboken was notorious for double parking and police tickets, so this was a minor miracle. The first, and only, one of the night.

  She sat Herrick down on the couch, fetched him Advil and water, and then sat next to him. The earth didn’t crackle at their closeness. Herrick downed the Advil and the glass of water. He wished the liquid was stronger.

  “You hit your head on the asphalt,” Sarah said.

  Herrick chuckled. Just this morning, that probably would have meant something else. Now? He rested his head back on the couch and looked at her.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Love tap.”

  “This is bad, Matt. I’m not kidding.”

  The couch was soft and his eyes were heavy. Maybe he could just close them for a few minutes. A charge of electricity jolted him awake. Sarah had pinched him.

  “I’m talking to you.” Her voice was stiff.

  “Did anybody get hurt?” Herrick exhaled. “The kids?”

  Sarah patted him on the thigh. “No. Everyone is okay.”

  “I’m gonna win state with them this year.”

  “Well, you better be able to explain how you happened to have a fire drill as a maniac and a fugitive were out behind the school trying to blow the place up.”

  He thought about Donne, wondering how he was holding up. Herrick needed a plan to get him out of there. A hotshot lawyer maybe or a piece of evidence that would pin everything on Mosley would work. But not tonight, his brain was working fine, his mind wasn’t cloudy. Maybe self-diagnosing wasn’t the smartest move he ever made, but they did it all the time in Afghanistan. Avoid the medic and just keep pushing.

  He just needed some sleep. Herrick needed to get his mind just a few moments of rest. Needed to stop playing things over in his head. He blinked. When he opened his eyes, the boy was there, arms akimbo, mouth moving just like it had years ago when Herrick pulled the trigger.

  And then the words came spilling out of his mouth.

  “I don’t know what to do.” His throat got tight and his eyes burned.

  He started to gulp for air and his chest was tight. His hands were shaking. Sarah sat up straight and said his name. It came to him as if it were cutting through static. Herrick tried to catch his breath, but it wouldn’t come. His heart was hammering.

  Sarah wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him in close. He put his head on her shoulder and returned the embrace. The world started to come back into focus. He held Sarah tight.

  “You’re okay, Matt.” She caressed his hair. His heart rate started to slow. It’d been years since his last attack. Not since the army psychiatrist’s office, when she made him play out the worst moment of his life over and over again. Describe in detail, as if she was going to get the guilt out of him through words only. Instead it sent him into fits and gasps.

  Now, he pulled Sarah tight into him. The pain went away, replaced with the fire of the adrenaline in his veins, and his body trying to settle itself down. Sarah pulled into him just as tightly. Herrick blinked away the heat in his eyes.

  Sarah pulled back away from him.

  He looked in her eyes and took a deep breath. It went down into his lungs like it was supposed to.

  “I’m getting there. I’m sorry. I—”

  She smiled, brushed some hair off his forehead. “Don’t apologize. I get it.”

  He opened his mouth one more time, but stopped before he could say anything dumb. Instead he leaned in and kissed her. Sarah returned it, her lips pressing against his. They did that for a while.

  When they broke the kiss, Sarah also broke the embrace. Herrick’s face was warm. Sarah’s cheeks were flushed. She laughed. Herrick started to talk.

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” she said.

  “Happy hour?” he asked.

  “Any time.” Sarah straightened her shirt and ran a hand through her hair. “You need to fix stuff with the boss.”

  “I need to fix a lot of things.” The pain in his
jaw started to throb its way back to the forefront. “I have to get Jackson Donne out of prison. He doesn’t deserve to be there. We got the guy. The cops got the right guy too.”

  “Let them figure it out.” Sarah got up and picked up the empty glass of water. “They’re cops. It’s their job. They’ll get it right.”

  Herrick shook his head. Bad idea. “I need to help them out. I need to finish this.”

  “You just told me you didn’t know what to do.”

  Herrick waved her off. His breathing was normal now. On the street outside, a couple of drunk kids were singing Katy Perry at the top of their lungs.

  “It all comes down to Alex Robinson,” Herrick said.

  Sarah went into the kitchen. He heard her moving dishes and glasses around. A few minutes later, she came back with a glass of red wine. Probably one of the bottles he’d gotten from clients that he’d never decided to open.

  “I’m going to stay here tonight.”

  Herrick felt his face heat up again.

  “Just to make sure you’re okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. Check on you during the night.” Sarah took a sip. “They closed the school for tomorrow. Too much press. Too much police presence.”

  Herrick nodded.

  “Go try to sleep,” she said.

  She didn’t have to tell him twice. He got up, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went into his bedroom and lay down. In the other room, Sarah turned on the TV. Herrick closed his eyes and was out before he heard the end of the first commercial break.

  DONNE WAS still on his back.

  They’d given him a cell phone to call Lester Russell, who promised he’d be in in the morning. Then Donne made it up to one of the benches in the cell, and even that took effort. Once he got on it, he needed time to catch his breath. Time passed, but he wasn’t sure how much. Occasionally, someone would scream or puke or sing an Irish shanty, but most of the beats of time were passed with silence. His back made it feel like he was lying on the edges of rocks.

  The door to his cell swung open and Donne fought through the agony to sit up. He expected to see more cops, maybe with nightsticks this time. And there was one cop, in uniform, frowning in his direction. But what worried Donne more was what the cop was escorting.

  Lucas Mosley.

  He walked normally, and didn’t seem slowed or stiff. His face was clear of bruises and marks. Except for the smile plastered across it.

  “Hmph,” the cops said. “Seems like we’re all filled up tonight. Gotta put you two together.”

  “What a coincidence,” Donne said. The vibration of his vocal cords felt like nails on a chalkboard to the rest of his body.

  The cop closed the cell door, and the lock thunked into place. He said, “You going to be all right?”

  Mosley said, “I got this.”

  Donne’s stomach turned to mush as the cop disappeared from view. Mosley took the area on the bench where Donne’s back once was. There wasn’t much room on the bench, and his thigh was pressed against Donne’s. Mosley patted the thigh, gently. He touched one of Donne’s bruises and fire erupted up to his stomach. Donne clenched his teeth and tried to keep the pain inside.

  “This isn’t how I usually do things,” Mosley said. “I don’t like being front and center. But those cops, they offered me a sweet deal.”

  Donne folded his arms in front of him. Waited.

  “They call me a bounty hunter. My brother too, you know. But that’s not really what we are. Hit men is probably better, but you don’t get much business advertising that way. I kept having to correct Alex. He was messing with my brand.I mean sometimes we’d track people down and talk them into turning themselves in, but you know what I really like?”

  Donne still didn’t answer. The Irish shanty picked up again, echoing down the hallway.

  Mosley leaned in closer, his arm digging into Donne’s. More fireworks for his nerves.

  “I like when people off themselves because of me. Or come to me and beg me to kill them,” Mosley whispered. “I really don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

  Donne tried to flex his muscles and wake them up. The beating had brought an exhaustion and stiffness to them. He wasn’t loose, and Mosley leaning against him wasn’t helping.

  “But here’s the thing,” Mosley said. “I have lot at stake here. Payment is due. Cops don’t like you, don’t even want to play with a trial. Your lawyer is good, they said. But there’s one more thing …”

  Mosley brought a quick, flat left hand up and tried to crush Donne’s windpipe. Donne got his right arm up to deflect, but he was a hair too slow. Mosley adjusted his blow and only glanced Donne’s throat, but it was still enough to close off Donne’s breathing. He gasped and fell forward flat into the floor.

  “You killed my brother, didn’t you?” Mosley’s voice still wasn’t above a whisper.

  Donne opened and closed his mouth, fighting for air, but only able to slightly wheeze.

  “Damn it,” Mosley said. “They said they softened you up. Well, at least you can’t scream.”

  Donne got to his knees and kept his left hand on the ground for support. With his right he massaged his throat. Air was starting to flow in again, but it was in fits and starts. Mosley grabbed a handful of shirt and picked him back up, so he was just on his knees.

  Donne swung his left arm wildly and connected with Mosley’s ankle. Mosley grunted and went down to his own knees. They must have looked ridiculous, like two drunk frat boys trying to have a game of wrestling, but barely able to stand on their own.

  Mosley swung an elbow into Donne’s gut. The contents of it almost came up. His vision clouded and he was almost out. Donne couldn’t take much more of a pounding, if any at all. The cops had done the dirty work. Mosley was just here to clean up the mess.

  Donne coughed. He was nearly blinded by lightheadedness. He was sure Mosley was winding up for the end.

  Donne fell backwards, letting his legs kick out in front of him. He landed on the hard floor, just like hours before. The light above him was blotted out by the frame of Lucas Mosley, who’d gotten to his feet. He lifted his left leg up and brought it down on Donne’s crotch. Donne screamed, a wheezy, almost airless scream. Tears flooded from his eyes.

  This was how he was going to die, in a prison cell, covered in phlegm, bruises, and tears.

  Mosley brought his leg up again and Donne rolled toward the one he’d planted into the floor as fast as he could. He caught the leg with his own and pushed harder. He felt the leg give from the floor and saw Mosley falling backward.

  The crunch came. Donne curled up and waited for Mosley to rebound. He coughed hard and tried to catch his breath. The guy who sang the Irish Shanty was screaming now, asking what the hell was happening.

  Mosley didn’t attack. Donne counted to ten. Breathing normally was an option again. He opened his eyes.

  Mosley sat on the floor across from him. The sharp, metal corner of the bench they’d both sat on was embedded in his skull. His eyes were wide and lifeless. A long gurgle came from his mouth, then nothing.

  Two cops rushed into the hall and unlocked the cell door.

  One of them said, “What happened?”

  “He fell,” Donne said.

  Then he passed out.

  HERRICK WOKE the next morning and inspected the bruise on his stomach. It was black, blue, and a tinge yellowish. It ran from the corner of his pelvis bone up to the bottom of his ribs. And it throbbed like a marching band drum section in double time.

  He tried to blink away the pain and force it out of his nerves, as if it was just temporary. But that didn’t work. Chewing anything more solid than oatmeal was going to be hard for the next few weeks. He took a shower, pulled on some chinos and a black knit sweater, and went out into the living room. Sarah was still there, sitting on the couch, holding a cup of coffee with two hands.

  “You remember me waking you up last night?” Sarah’s cheeks were red.

  Herrick nodded. “Twice.”

&nb
sp; “First time, you barely moved. I thought you were dead.”

  “I was tired.”

  “Well, if you have a concussion—”

  “I don’t have a concussion. I got hit in the stomach.”

  Sarah sipped coffee. The redness of her cheeks deepened. “There’s a full pot in the kitchen.”

  Herrick said, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  Sarah nodded. “Someone has to make sure you survive your decisions.”

  The sun streamed through the blinds, and onto her hair. Flecks of blond that he’d never noticed before shined and added more volume to it.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” he asked.

  “Some. I only got up to check on you. Set the alarm on my iPhone.”

  He sat next to her on the couch, leaned in, ignored all the throbbing pain, and kissed her on the cheek. She turned her head and smiled at him, their eyes locking, cutting through the steam from the coffee. Herrick wanted to say something smart or classy. Nothing came to mind.

  Sarah’s fingers brushed his ribs. The not-bruised side, thank God.

  “How long do you think before you heal?”

  “I’m lucky my ribs aren’t cracked,” he said. “A couple of weeks, I’m sure.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Herrick got off the couch and went into the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of coffee. Cream and sugar, just enough to cut the bitterness. Someone once told him he just needed to learn to make coffee better. That skill was never in his wheelhouse. What he made was just fine after the swill he drank in Afghanistan.

  An image crossed through his mind; pouring coffee in the desert, talking to Angie. It was the morning of the boy. When Angie had security duty at the gate. Herrick’s desire to drink the brew faded.

  “What are your plans for today? Just resting, right?” Sarah asked. “I’m here at your beck and call. Get some rest. I can make you lunch, run to CVS to get you Advil. Maybe some cans of soup.”

  Herrick came back into the living room.

  “Awkward first date,” he said.

  Sarah laughed. “I don’t think last night counted.”