Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (3 page)

“Okay.” I’m about to ring the hell out of the I-need-some-goddamn-assistance bell when a skinny little fucker comes running around the corner of the nearby hallway like he’s Roger Rabbit running from the law itself. He’s got a fist full of something crumpled in his hands, and when he gets to me, he grabs the counter for balance to hold himself up.

“Captain,” he huffs a few times, out of breath. “Wanted me,” he bends over, then holds the papers up for me to take. “Here.”

“The fuck is this shit?” I read the standard set of drop off papers I generally skim when I hand someone over. When the newbie can finally breathe normally again, he stands up straight and tells me, “Captain had to leave early. He said you can sign those whenever… drop them off tomorrow. At your convenience.”

I chuckle at the joke of the year. “At my convenience?”

He breathes heavy and nods. “That’s what he said.”

I let go of Donnie and he glances down, abruptly. His jaw clenches and he swallows hard. I can just about see the thoughts running through his mind. He knows these guys, or he’s familiar with them, at the very least. And he’s scared shitless.

Possible reasons for his fear start ticking through my brain.

There’s definitely a personal relationship of some kind going on here. Like maybe he hijacked one of their cars, or something along those lines, at some point. Maybe stole some wheels. Or maybe they knew the guy he offed. They might be looking for some payback. That should probably bother me, but been there, done that.

A twitchy little brown-nosing type, whom I’ve never met before, takes a pen from the holder next to the front desk computer and hands it to me.

“We’ll sign for you tonight, if you want.”

Hank agrees. “I’ll sign personally if it’ll make you feel better.” Then smiles in a creepy
I want to kill your family
kinda way.

Everyone knows the captain and I don’t exactly get along. It’s more of a begrudged association, really. Another long story. So any excuse for me to get out of having a not-so-nice face-to-face with him is fine by me.

Paperwork is paperwork.

I sign the thing and hold it out for Hank to take, and he disappears behind the desk to give it his John Hancock and make me my copy.

“You’ve got a knack for the admin side of law enforcement, Riley.” I snigger but he doesn’t join in my amusement.

“Your services are no longer needed for the evening, Stiles. You should go home, relax.” Jim Galley sniffs in my general direction. “Get a shower or something.”

Galley’s a dick. Always has been. Always will be. Thinks he’s beyond the law and isn’t ashamed to say it in some circles.

As the men in blue laugh among themselves, Brown-Noser begins to lead Donnie off toward another room. The kid stiffens suddenly, and his eyes begin to dart around like he’s trying to figure out a way to escape this situation.

When they land on mine, there’s worry bursting from behind them. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “I don’t belong here, man. You know that, right?” The desperation in his voice causes the group of officers to cackle like a group of hens on crack, and I kinda wanna dick punch every one of them for it.

Okay, I kinda wanna dick punch them on any given day of the week, but still.

“You taking on the role of mommy now, Stiles?” Galley jibes. The rest of them applaud the ass-twat because, yeah, good one, Jim.

Meanwhile, my Spidey senses are making the back of my neck itch. So let’s take a short time out here, shall we?

Say I actually
want
to do something about this situation.

There’re three of them.
Four if you’re including chicken legs over there.
Not great odds, but I’ve taken on more than that before. No need to re-hash the details of that incident. Not to mention the fact that if I was to take off with a perp,
who’s wanted for murder, might I add,
that I was
hired
to bring in, not only am I harboring a fugitive, but I
am
a fugitive.

So the question is, do I have the energy, or the interest, to deal with the entirety of Redemption’s police department chasing my ass over this petty ass bullshit? Maybe even the entire state?

Decisions, decisions.

I check the time.

Jesus.
It’s getting late, and honestly, I’m probably just imagining things anyway.

It’s been known to happen. Especially when I’m in sleep deprivation mode.

Besides, this
is
a perp we’re talking about. Right?
Sorry about your luck, Donnie.

“See ya, kid,” I tell him. That’s my final decision and he knows it. The disappointment that spreads across his expression tells me so. Not that I’m affected by it whatsoever.

At that, Hank slaps an enthusiastic hand against my chest. It’s holding an envelope with my copy of the paperwork I need for tonight’s job. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

I take it and shove it into my pocket while simultaneously making sure I still have the money envelope there. Then I back out through the front doors and head for the car.

Sure, I left the kid to fend for himself. In my defense, I try not to make a habit of taking the word of delinquents I bring in when they tell me they didn’t do it. Which, by the way, is every single one of them. I mean, I would
not
make money that way,
and
I’d be a fucking laughing stock.

I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.

Worst case scenario, Donnie learns a tough lesson. Maybe he goes to jail with some bumps and bruises.
Or
maybe he’s telling the truth and he’ll be scot-free in a few days.

Maybe.

THERE’S NO ESCAPING FAMILY…OR STALKERS

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN my dream state and the living world there’s a kid who visits my subconscious each morning. He’s not completely unfamiliar, but he doesn’t resemble the person I knew over a decade ago either.

He’s grungy and distant. He hasn’t aged, but he hasn’t stayed the same. He’s about ten years younger than I am now. His eyes are dark and grim like his stare. They’re full of death. There’s a deep, un-healing gash just above his right eye.

I can’t stop staring at it.

No matter what I say, or how I say it, he never moves. He never speaks. He just glares.

Not that I need him to say anything. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought it a thousand times myself.

It was your fault.

For the millionth time in the past ten years, I take pause at the irony of living in a city that’s literally named after what I crave worse than tobacco but am never going to get.

A pounding somewhere off in the distance vibrates inside my head and draws my attention away from the kid. When I look back for him, he’s gone.

Heavy shit for the crack of dawn, I know.

Welcome to my world.

Fucking A.

My cranium was apparently used as a landing pad for a Boeing seven-fifty-fucking-seven overnight. I can barely move without an ache screaming at me. My system is trying to decide if it wants to flush itself upward or downward. On top of which, my cell phone alarm is pissing me
right the fuck
off.

I stretch and yawn. My arm is like lead when I feel around for the damn thing. The stiffness in my body makes every move painful. Hell, even the backs of my eyeballs are wailing out in dull misery.

I find it. The phone that is. Eventually. And once it’s silent, I toss the damn thing to the floor because I’m too fucking tired to find the table again.

I tighten my eyelids to make the jack hammering inside my head go away along with certain memories. But there’s only ever one way to make the flashbacks back the fuck off. So I open up my eyes, face the world, and fill my day with the business at hand. One day at a time. And maybe some goddamn ibuprofen.

It’s been about three weeks since I’ve slept in the bed just down the hall. I’m not sure why but as a result the first thing I see every morning is the hand drawn cartoon character of yours truly hanging on the wall, wearing a black mask, a black cape, and a ray of hope surrounding his frame. Its glass encasement protects the art work these days, but I can still see the torn edges of the paper and the wrinkles from when it was thrown away, once upon a time.

The sketch is the only thing I own worth putting up in the apartment. The only thing I both love and hate about this place.

“Morning, Mikey.” My voice is strained and rough but despite the harsh sound of it, when I say his name, I’m someone else. Someone who doesn’t hate himself with every fiber of his fucking being.

Luckily, the sound of my favorite newswoman repeating today’s news has begun to waft throughout the living room. It dulls the ache in my temples and clouds my head with distraction.

Time to get a move on.

My shoulder is killing me today. An old injury that never really healed from when I used to be a productive part of society, a.k.a., high school.

I sit up and roll it out until it’s bearable. Then I stretch my neck and rub my temples. The half-empty bottle of Patron Silver sitting on my coffee table gets shoved aside and I shiver, because… alcohol.

“Ow.” Where the fuck did this bruise on my arm come from, anyway? And where is the goddamn Aleve?

Marty Sweetwater’s voice grabs my attention again, and she sounds slightly stressed as she doles out the news. That’s not something your average Joe would notice. Even in my current state, I’m pretty good at reading people, up to and including the way their voices change during intense moments they might be having.

Not that I’ve been in Marty’s company while she was experiencing such intensity.

Much.

Okay, one time.

Every few months.

We don’t make a big deal about it. She’s way too fucking career driven to want or need a steady man in her life and I’m too drunk and/or angry to be that for anyone so… win-win.

I smack my lips and curse the dehydration that takes over thoughts of Marty in the TV station’s men’s room. I press hard against the sides of my head and try to remember where I left the pain meds last time I used them. Then I swear at the fridge because I know for a fact there’s no bottled water left.

I hate tap water. But that’s not what’s important right now.  What’s important is the fact that Marty is telling viewers that there’s a mob of curious citizens starting to congregate outside the courthouse at this very moment.

“The District Attorney just arrived with his team, and not fifteen minutes to spare.” Her reference to time causes my heart to stop. I lean over and grab my watch.

“Shit.” I overslept.

One, maybe four blinks later, I focus as best I can until things begin to clear up for me. Then I give my shirt a pat-down. When I find the cig, still safe in my front pocket, I breathe a little easier and pull it out to debate smoking it right here, right now, while Marty goes on with her story.

“There’ve been rumors lately of dirty jurors, mishandling of evidence, and most disturbing, bribed judges . . .”

“Mother of . . .” I drag a hand through my hair as the phone rings. Then I hop up off the couch a little too fast and nearly fall over from the pain behind my right eye.

“Fuck.”

The cancer stick gets flicked down onto the counter with a groan as I make my way down the hallway toward the bathroom.

The landline rings again and what’s sad is I already know who it is before the answering machine picks up, which only feeds my irritation this morning.

“Jackie, it’s Nick.”

“No shit,” I tell the phone cradle as I pass it by.

“You’re about to be late.”

My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of the mother hens. He also happens to be the lead detective for Redemption’s 1st Precinct, which is presumably why he’s so interested in my tardiness today. Not that he needs an excuse.

I flip him the bird and grab a towel out of the hall closet. It’s also reasonable to believe that I use some highly creative sign language, aimed at the phone that may or may not involve my nether regions.

“Again…” The tone in Nick’s voice tells me he’s out of patience with me at the moment. Maybe a little embarrassed. Quite honestly, I’m too hungover to give a shit.

I shut the door to the bathroom so I don’t have to listen to the rest of what my big brother has to say.

“Ah.” Pain relief sits there, waiting for me, on the bathroom sink. After I take a couple of pills, I wash them down with a handful of water from the faucet. G
ood stuff.
In the shower, the scalding water wakes me up and clears my mind.

X X X

“Fastest comeback ever.” It takes me no more than ten minutes to shower, dress, and ensure my breath doesn’t smell like ass. No time for a shave. I’m still a bit shaky, and in dire need of some greasy food, but the headache is only lingering.

Very delicately, I celebrate the tiniest of victories.

In the kitchen, I grab the king-sized bag of cat chow. Frodo’s bowl only holds about a cup of food, and every day, without fail, I manage to spill most of it onto the tiled floor. Today, even more so than usual.

“It’s gonna be one of those days, buddy.” I toss the scoop back into the bag and scratch the scrawny gray cat on his head before grabbing the last green apple off the counter for myself. It’s gonna have to do for now.

Frodo’s a stray that found me about a year ago, FYI. We had a few late night chats, and I might have let him share some of my Kung Pao chicken one night. After that, he wouldn’t stop hanging out on my doorstep. I couldn’t bring myself to call animal control when he looked up at me with those pitiful hazel eyes of his.

Plus, he gets me; this is rare. So I took him to the vet, made him legal, and the rest is history.

“See ya later.” He gives me a cracked voice box meow of some sort and a flick of his long, ratted tail. I tend to interpret this as cat speak for “fuck off.” My extremely positive mother, however, once told me he’s just letting me know he adores me.

Yeah, right.

I shove the apple into my mouth, my wallet into my jeans, and pull the door shut behind me. After I turn the deadbolt, I fly down the stairs, two steps at a time. Not on purpose. My sense of balance is way the fuck off right now. I’m lucky I don’t land on my face a couple of times.

At the bottom, I find my 1970 Chevelle hardtop waiting for me in the parking lot.

I fucking love that car.

She’s not in the best of shape these days. She wouldn’t win a drag race, that’s for sure. She’s a work in progress, really, but she gets me from point A to point B,
most of the time
. Trust me when I say that on a good day, she can kick some ass.

Speaking of which, did I return the Charger?

I definitely returned the Charger.

I’m pretty sure I returned it.

Shit. I hope I did.

I’m sure Ricky’ll let me know if I didn’t.
Right?

Regardless, I’ve gotta get my own ass over to the courthouse, pronto, which, technically speaking, is never gonna happen. Even though it should only take me about twenty minutes or so to get to the heart of the city, it’s more like thirty-five to forty in rush hour. Maybe more.

Fuck my life.

Being late really isn’t an option for me. If I’m late, my testimony doesn’t get heard, which means I don’t get paid in full for this particular job. I like money. It keeps a roof over my head, food in my belly, and it supports my hobbies.

That was a joke. I don’t have any hobbies. Unless you consider collecting fugitives a hobby, in which case I do have one.

Bottom line is, I may have to suck it up and listen to the rambling tongue lashing from big bro’s superior if I plan on seeing a bank deposit from him this time.

Awesome
.

X X X

“Hey, Marty.” I nod and wink over at the flustered reporter as I approach the steps of the courthouse.

Twenty-seven minutes
.
Not too shabby.

At the entrance, a short man dressed in blue holds a white-gloved hand up putting me even further behind schedule. This does not bode well for my temperament today.

“Are you R.P.D?” That’s Redemption Police Department, by the way. He’s all business so I keep it short as I give him my standard answer to stupid questions.

“No.”

“Marshal?” Really? I shake my head and try to stifle the urge to punch him in the face for that jibe.

“FBI?”

I clear my throat. “No.”

“CIA?”

A laugh escapes me. Because Hell, and no.

“Sir-”

“You done?” I ask him. “Damn.” I eye the entry dweeb hard as I pull my wallet out. “Stiles, P.I. I’m here as an expert witness.”

He inspects my I.D. carefully.
Like they didn’t fucking tell him to expect me.

“You’re late, Mr. Stiles.” He hands back my I.D. with a flick of his wrist.

“No shit.”

I head past Captain fucking Obvious and stop at security.

“How’s it goin’?” I take my gun out and place it in one of the bins along with my keys, then put my hands up so they can conduct the standard pat down.

“They’re waiting for you, Mr. Stiles.” The tall weightlifter they put here for no other purpose but intimidation tactics waves me through. His brow looks like it was painted into the frowning position, and his voice reminds me of Michael Clarke Duncan.

“What do you weigh, two hundred?  Two-twenty?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He’s definitely over two hundred.