Sacrifice
Page 61
Michael couldn’t even generate his usual fury at being called a kid. His breath shook, but he nodded.
“You need an ambulance?”
He shook his head, then had to clear his throat. “No.” “Any more surprises for me?”
“I hope not.” Michael couldn’t quite believe how quickly that had all happened.
The Guide was dead. He was safe. His brothers were safe.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” The fire marshal picked up his radio and spoke into it, requesting assistance, and probably explaining what had happened. More codes Michael didn’t understand. Then he looked at Michael. “Are you going to take off again?”
“No.”
“You want to tell me how you broke the cuffs?”
Michael blinked. He’d forgotten about that part. The handcuffs were still attached to his wrists, a short stretch of chain dangling from each. “Adrenaline,” he said flatly.
Hell, it was sort of true.
Jack Faulkner’s mouth settled into a straight line. “You know I’m going to have more questions, don’t you?”
“I figured. Am I still under arrest?”
The fire marshal sighed. He looked back at the body, then at Michael. His eyes were tired—no, exhausted. “Wait and see, Mike. Wait and see.”
CHAPTER 23
Hannah found her father at the police station.
She didn’t find that out from him, of course. He’d been gone from the scene before she and Irish had been ordered to bag the body of the man he’d killed. He wouldn’t answer her texts or her calls, and he wasn’t at his office by the courthouse—she’d already checked there. Her mother only knew that he’d said he’d be late—without anything more specific than that.
So Hannah had been left to find him like a child who’d lost her mommy at a grocery store: by asking any adult who might have a clue. In this case, it meant someone with a badge.
Even when she walked into the precinct and found him sitting at an empty desk, surrounded by forms and file folders, he barely looked up at her.
“I’m busy, Hannah.”
She didn’t move. Police officers moved about the room, creating dense background noise, but his words and the tone behind them came through loud and clear. It should have felt like a slap to the face, but for some reason, right now, his words hit her as nothing more than that: just words. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded worn out. In the bright fluorescent lighting, she realized she’d never noticed just how much grey had spread through his hair, or how many lines had etched the skin around his mouth and eyes. Her mind always thought of him as the hero fireman, maybe mid-thirties, with blond hair and a bright smile.
Not as this stern taskmaster who lived and breathed by procedure and code, who looked as if life had chewed him up and spit him back out.
Her father looked up more fully when she kept staring at him. His eyes were hard, a cold blue. “I’m not kidding, Hannah. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork—”
“I see that.”
“Then what do you want?”
I wanted to see if you were okay. But she could never say that. They didn’t have that kind of relationship.
Then again, she knew he’d never killed anyone before. Maybe she was just remembering the man he’d been, the firefighter who took every life as seriously as if the victim were a member of his own family. Ten years ago, this would have bothered him. A lot. After his last job as a firefighter, when he’d failed to save everyone, he hadn’t slept for a week. She remembered.
She didn’t want to think too much about the flip side: that he wouldn’t have used deadly force unless his own life was in danger.
At first glance, he didn’t seem bothered. But his knuckles were white, as if he gripped his pen too tightly. The set of his shoulders looked almost painful.
“Hannah?”
“I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Maybe she could say it after all.
His eyes widened a little. Just enough that she knew she’d surprised him. His voice softened. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t tell Mom what happened.” Her mother had seemed startled that Hannah was even questioning her father’s whereabouts.
“I don’t talk about active investigations. You know that.” His voice was automatic. Hannah thought about what Irish had said in the fire truck. He looked up at her. “Did you tell her?”
Hannah shook her head. “No.”
“Good.”
Hannah wet her lips and dropped her voice. “You don’t want her to know?”
“No reason for her to know.”
“Dad. You shot someone.” A pause. “You killed someone.”
“I was there, Hannah.”
A small steel chair sat beside the desk, and she glanced at it. “Can I sit down?”
She honestly expected him to refuse, but after a moment, he slid the paperwork into a file folder and nodded at the chair.
She eased into it, wishing for privacy. This room was too open. Too many people swarmed around. If she said the wrong thing, her father would shut his mouth and order her out of here.
“I’m surprised you’re not in your office,” she said. “I looked there first.”
“I had people to question.”
Hannah hesitated. “You mean Michael?”
She didn’t expect an answer, but he nodded. “And his friend.”
“You need an ambulance?”
He shook his head, then had to clear his throat. “No.” “Any more surprises for me?”
“I hope not.” Michael couldn’t quite believe how quickly that had all happened.
The Guide was dead. He was safe. His brothers were safe.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet.” The fire marshal picked up his radio and spoke into it, requesting assistance, and probably explaining what had happened. More codes Michael didn’t understand. Then he looked at Michael. “Are you going to take off again?”
“No.”
“You want to tell me how you broke the cuffs?”
Michael blinked. He’d forgotten about that part. The handcuffs were still attached to his wrists, a short stretch of chain dangling from each. “Adrenaline,” he said flatly.
Hell, it was sort of true.
Jack Faulkner’s mouth settled into a straight line. “You know I’m going to have more questions, don’t you?”
“I figured. Am I still under arrest?”
The fire marshal sighed. He looked back at the body, then at Michael. His eyes were tired—no, exhausted. “Wait and see, Mike. Wait and see.”
CHAPTER 23
Hannah found her father at the police station.
She didn’t find that out from him, of course. He’d been gone from the scene before she and Irish had been ordered to bag the body of the man he’d killed. He wouldn’t answer her texts or her calls, and he wasn’t at his office by the courthouse—she’d already checked there. Her mother only knew that he’d said he’d be late—without anything more specific than that.
So Hannah had been left to find him like a child who’d lost her mommy at a grocery store: by asking any adult who might have a clue. In this case, it meant someone with a badge.
Even when she walked into the precinct and found him sitting at an empty desk, surrounded by forms and file folders, he barely looked up at her.
“I’m busy, Hannah.”
She didn’t move. Police officers moved about the room, creating dense background noise, but his words and the tone behind them came through loud and clear. It should have felt like a slap to the face, but for some reason, right now, his words hit her as nothing more than that: just words. He didn’t sound angry; he sounded worn out. In the bright fluorescent lighting, she realized she’d never noticed just how much grey had spread through his hair, or how many lines had etched the skin around his mouth and eyes. Her mind always thought of him as the hero fireman, maybe mid-thirties, with blond hair and a bright smile.
Not as this stern taskmaster who lived and breathed by procedure and code, who looked as if life had chewed him up and spit him back out.
Her father looked up more fully when she kept staring at him. His eyes were hard, a cold blue. “I’m not kidding, Hannah. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork—”
“I see that.”
“Then what do you want?”
I wanted to see if you were okay. But she could never say that. They didn’t have that kind of relationship.
Then again, she knew he’d never killed anyone before. Maybe she was just remembering the man he’d been, the firefighter who took every life as seriously as if the victim were a member of his own family. Ten years ago, this would have bothered him. A lot. After his last job as a firefighter, when he’d failed to save everyone, he hadn’t slept for a week. She remembered.
She didn’t want to think too much about the flip side: that he wouldn’t have used deadly force unless his own life was in danger.
At first glance, he didn’t seem bothered. But his knuckles were white, as if he gripped his pen too tightly. The set of his shoulders looked almost painful.
“Hannah?”
“I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Maybe she could say it after all.
His eyes widened a little. Just enough that she knew she’d surprised him. His voice softened. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t tell Mom what happened.” Her mother had seemed startled that Hannah was even questioning her father’s whereabouts.
“I don’t talk about active investigations. You know that.” His voice was automatic. Hannah thought about what Irish had said in the fire truck. He looked up at her. “Did you tell her?”
Hannah shook her head. “No.”
“Good.”
Hannah wet her lips and dropped her voice. “You don’t want her to know?”
“No reason for her to know.”
“Dad. You shot someone.” A pause. “You killed someone.”
“I was there, Hannah.”
A small steel chair sat beside the desk, and she glanced at it. “Can I sit down?”
She honestly expected him to refuse, but after a moment, he slid the paperwork into a file folder and nodded at the chair.
She eased into it, wishing for privacy. This room was too open. Too many people swarmed around. If she said the wrong thing, her father would shut his mouth and order her out of here.
“I’m surprised you’re not in your office,” she said. “I looked there first.”
“I had people to question.”
Hannah hesitated. “You mean Michael?”
She didn’t expect an answer, but he nodded. “And his friend.”
