The Listener

CHAPTER TWO

THE SAND was rock hard. It scoured his bare feet as he ran blindly down the beach in the midnight darkness. Anyone else would have needed more than the water’s phosphorescence to guide him, but Ryan Lukas had made this trip once a day—sometimes twice when things were really bad—for the past eighteen months; he had the route memorized. He required nothing but time. He pounded down the shore in silence, his breath contained, like everything else, in the tight rhythm he allowed himself. Forty-five minutes later, the final pier loomed, a blacker shadow. He made a wide turn and headed back, his toes sinking into the softer, wetter area that marked the edge of the surf.

Usually when he ran, his mind emptied. He ran for that very reason. Only when his body was in movement was he able to find a certain kind of peace. It wasn’t the ordinary calmness he’d known and taken for granted before but it was as close as he could get to the feeling and still be awake. For the most part, he lived outside his body. He went to work, came home, cooked his dinner…did all the things he had to without any of them registering. Only when he ran did he feel as he once had. Tonight, even that eluded him and he cursed in the darkness.

But he went on just the same.

His heart thundering, he reached the lights that marked the deck of the house he rented, right behind the dunes. He didn’t think of it as home. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was simply the place where he slept and ate when he wasn’t at work. His gaze slid sideways toward the patio and he cursed.

As always, the dog was waiting. A full-grown German shepherd, he had the patience of a stone statue and the eyes of a sad saint. He tracked Ryan’s progress, but his stare was the only part of him that moved. He didn’t have a name because Ryan hadn’t given him one. When he got up every morning, the dog would be in the same spot in the kitchen. By the back door. Ryan would let him out and ten minutes later, he’d always return.

Ryan hated the animal. Each day, he vowed that day would be the last. He’d take the dog to the pound and forget about him. It never seemed to happen, though. Instead, Ryan would fling some kibble into the bowl in the corner then wash and fill a second one with fresh water. With quiet dignity, the animal would accept the offerings then reposition himself by the door for the rest of the day. On the rare occasions when Ryan was in the house for any length of time, the shepherd was his shadow, a silent, black presence that glided through the emptiness, always near but never touching.

Ginny had given the dog to Ryan for his birthday. The day before she’d died.

Slowing down, he jogged past the lights another hundred yards until he was finally walking instead of running. At that point he turned and splashed into the surf, his sweat-drenched body seeking the cool relief of the water.

He swam parallel to the beach, his strokes sure and steady. In the beginning, he’d always headed out, the lights of the beachfront homes shrinking as he put as much distance between himself and them as he could. Then he’d realized the danger in that. The temptation to keep going—until he couldn’t—was more than he could handle. Something deep inside him had made him stop and now he swam this way. Along the edge of the surf but not in it. Near the beach, but not too close. Out as far as he could…but not too far.

His strong broad strokes brought him quickly to the point where the lights twinkled. He stayed still and treaded the water, reluctant to get out, his mind going back to the woman he’d talked to today. Maria Worley. She obviously had no idea what she was doing to him. His anger sharpened as he thought about the leave. If he didn’t work, he wasn’t sure what would happen to him, but he knew one thing: It wouldn’t be good.

He emerged from the surf, salty rivulets running down his chest as his feet found purchase in the sand. He was halfway to the deck and the waiting dog when he paused and looked back over his shoulder. The Gulf waters called to him. He listened for a bit, then he continued to the deck, dismissing the temptation.

For now.

MARIA PULLED the Toyota up to the curb and shut off the engine, her gaze cutting across the seat to the other side of the car. Christopher was slouched down as far as he could possibly get, his earphones crammed so tightly into his ears, it looked painful. Despite that fact, the music still leaked out. Nine Inch Nails. “The Day the World Went Away,” his favorite. He probably wished it was “The Day His Mother Went Away.”

“We’re here,” she announced in a fake cheerful voice. “Let’s go.”

Pretending he couldn’t hear, he ignored her, his ploy so obvious it was might have been amusing under different circumstance. He was punishing her for the decrees she’d issued. Friday Maria had rescheduled all of her patients, spending the time instead at his school, talking to each of his teachers as they’d become available. She’d spoken to his counselor as well. Caring and thoughtful, they’d all tried to be helpful, but no one had a magic answer. As usual, Maria was on her own. Finally, after thinking about it long and hard, she’d forbidden him to go anywhere after school for the rest of the month. She’d also reinstated a rule she’d relaxed last year. He had to call her the minute he got home. He was supposed to do that before, but she’d eased up on that. No more.

He’d been so desperate to get out of the house, he’d actually agreed to come with her to Angel’s Attic. Now that they were here, Maria found herself second-guessing her decision. He was being so obnoxious she almost wished he’d stayed home. At least then she’d be able to have a good time.

She shook her head at her thoughts—what kind of mother was she?—then reached over and patted his arm. He turned to look at her and she nodded toward the house. “We’re here.”

He opened his car door without speaking and climbed outside.

With a sigh, Maria followed and they headed up a sidewalk already growing crowded. Someone had strung a line of Japanese lanterns along the railing of the front porch and in the warm spring evening, their lights twinkled brightly. They were miles from the expensive beachfront subdivisions but the air held a sea breeze all the same. Maria’s eyes went over the guests. They ranged from previous tenants of the shelter to cops to a group of teachers who helped run the home for battered women.

As Christopher headed for a side yard where a pickup game of basketball was taking place, Maria made her way to the dozen or so tables that held the auction items. Displayed were a variety of things that would be sold to raise money for the shelter, including a fishing excursion, dinner for two at the Marina Café and a hundred dollars worth of groceries from Delchamps, the local grocery store. It would be a silent auction; people had already filled out slips and left them in baskets by the items. The winning bids would be announced after dinner. Maria walked slowly down the line trying to decide. A full day at the new spa for her or two-hour Jet Ski lesson for Christopher? Maria reached for the slip in front of the Jet Ski offering just as Lena walked up.

“Hey! I didn’t know you liked to ride those things!” Lena smiled and nodded toward the photo of the purple-and-yellow Jet Ski on the table. “I’ve got one. I’ll teach you how to use it anytime you want.”

Maria returned Lena’s smile then acknowledged Andres, her husband, who waited patiently beside her. They’d had a few problems before their marriage last year, but they seemed so happy and contented now, Maria felt a sudden touch of envy. She and Reed had never stood that way, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, their eyes meeting frequently with silent messages that told everyone how much they really loved each other.

“This is for Chris,” Maria said, holding up the ticket. “But if I win, things would have to change before he could even think about redeeming it.”

Lena smiled sympathetically as Andres made a clucking sound. “What’s the problem, chica?”

Andres was Cuban, and the Spanish term of endearment rolled off his tongue with ease.

Maria shook her head. “Let’s just say if he continues as is, he’s going to show up on the Most Wanted list for forgery.”

“Uh-oh…that sounds bad.”

Maria nodded her agreement to Lena’s pronouncement just as someone across the room called to Andres. He excused himself and headed off and the two women turned back to each other.

“You know why Chris is doing all this, don’t you?” Lena asked.

“Of course, I do. He’s mad because his father left him,” Maria said. “I know why—I just don’t know what to do about it.” She made a noise that was half frustration, half resignation. “I feel so helpless sometimes. All this training, all my degrees…and I’m an utter klutz when it comes to my own kid.”

Lena squeezed her arm softly. “Haven’t you heard that old saying about the cobbler’s kids going without shoes?”

“Maybe that is the case. All I know is that I love him, but I don’t know how to handle him.” She gave Lena the details of the forged signature and the punishment she’d leveled. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s never done anything like that before. Never.”

Lena looked thoughtful for a moment. “The kids he’s hanging out with—do you know who they are?”

“I’ve met some of them. They’re not really the kind of friends I’d like him to have.”

“Give me their names,” Lena said. “The juvie guys know all the troublemakers and I’d be happy to ask. Let’s see if they’re on the list of bad boys or just regular, annoying kids.”

“That would be terrific,” Maria said gratefully. “I’ve talked to as many of the parents of his friends as I can, but it seems like there’s never enough time. I still haven’t met some of them. I’d love to know more.”

“No problem,” Lena said. “It shouldn’t take any time at all.”

They finished going down the line of auction items after that, Maria feeling somewhat more hopeful. It wasn’t until after dinner and they were all ready to leave that Lena pulled her aside.

“I just wanted you to know I talked with Ryan this morning. We went over the terms of his leave. I’ve given him office duty for six weeks. If he’s made some progress at that point, then I’ll reconsider the situation and put him back on active status.”

“Six weeks?” Maria frowned. “I thought I suggested a month.”

“You did,” Lena replied. “But I think he needs more time than that. I’d rather err on this side than on the other, if you know what I mean.”

“He must not have liked that….” And she’d hear about it Thursday, too. He’d come in primed, she was sure, if he even kept his appointment. “What did he say?”

“Not much. I could see he was boiling on the inside, but he’s got too much discipline to let it out.”

“And that’s part of the problem.” Maria felt sorry for him before she could stop herself. Her reaction was unexpected; usually she detached herself from the problems of her patients. She had to—helping them required that she see their situations objectively. Psychologists who didn’t frequently ended up in another career or went nuts themselves. Why she felt differently about Ryan Lukas, she couldn’t say.

“He’s keeping all his emotions bottled and trying to deny them,” she explained. “The end result isn’t good. It’ll lead to a meltdown.”

Lena nodded, her worried gaze holding Maria’s. “Do you think you can help him?”

Maria answered “I hope so,” and Lena nodded, walking off a second later with her arm linked inside Andres’s. As Maria watched them leave, though, she wondered if she had told Lena the truth. Some of the cops who came through her office were past helping. They’d seen too much, done too much…lost too much. She hoped Ryan Lukas wasn’t one of them.

But she suspected he might be.

HE’D HAD ENOUGH.

After two full shifts of office duty, Ryan knew he’d never make it six weeks. No way. Every day was torture, every hour an endurance test. How did people do it, he asked himself, his eyes blurring as he studied the report in front of him. How could they just sit like this, at a desk, in an office, hour after hour, day after day…year after year?

When the crawling hands of the clock reached 4:00 p.m., he couldn’t stand it another minute. He grabbed his jacket, mumbled an excuse to the sergeant at the front desk, and charged out of the building to drive home. Which was an even bigger mistake.

The dog met him at the door, the house as silent as a tomb.

Ryan pushed past the animal and dropped his coat on the kitchen table. At the refrigerator, he pulled out a can of cold beer, popped the tab and managed one swallow before a beeping sound broke the quiet. His pager. He stared at it, frustration rolling over him in a wave as he realized what had happened. A call for the team. And he wouldn’t be there. He cursed and the dog whined softly, answering him.

Ryan ripped the pager from his belt and tossed it to the tiled counter where it slid upside down until it hit the toaster at the other end. He then strode into the bedroom, peeling his clothes off as he went. In a matter of minutes, he was outside on the deck, stretching his calves and trying not to think. The dog padded past him to sit at the top of the stairs.

The running did no good. In the days since he’d seen the good Dr. Worley, the physical activity had come to help him less and less. Halfway down, he simply gave up and returned to the house. Collapsing on the deck, he found himself eye to eye with the dog.

A confusion of thoughts swirled through his mind as he stared into the German shepherd’s black eyes.

“To hell with it…” Ryan finally said. “What are they gonna do? Put me on leave?”

He got up and stomped into the house, the screen door banging behind him as he made his way to his bedroom. Nabbing a fresh T-shirt from the chest, he peeled off the sweaty one he’d been running in and thrust his arms into the clean one. Another minute and he was in his truck heading back to town. It took a while for him to find the address still flashing on his beeper, but when he got close, the red and blue lights led him the rest of the way.

He slowed his truck and turned into a side street, catching a glimpse of the War Wagon down another. Along with the surveillance gear it contained, the enormous customized Winnebago was equipped with every high-tech communication device known to man. The team used the equipment to stay in touch with each other and to reach the station during a call-out. More than a single bullet hole on the side explained how it’d been used for cover once or twice as well.

Three black and whites—the arriving officers probably—had the nearest routes barricaded. Ryan eased his truck to the curb just outside their line of sight. Despite his pronouncement to the dog, there was no need to deliberately aggravate anyone.

He looked around as he climbed out of the truck. The area wasn’t one that generated a lot of calls. An industrial park made up mostly of warehouses and loading docks, the complex was located on the outskirts of town. He couldn’t remember having ever received a call from here, and now he understood why. The place was empty. There were no tenants in any of the buildings. An air of desertion hung over the entire area.

A sudden movement near one of the black and whites caught his eye. An older man wearing the uniform of a security guard bent over as he talked to the officers inside the car. He’d probably been the one to call in. But what in the hell was going on? Ryan realized too late he should have taken the time to listen to his radio before jumping in the truck and driving over here. The awareness of what he’d done—acting so impulsively—suddenly registered. Where had his deliberateness gone? His careful thinking? He never did anything without much consideration, but the boredom and agony of sitting all day had brought him to this.

Thanks, Dr. Worley, he thought bitterly. If it weren’t for you, I’d know what the hell had happened and I wouldn’t be standing here like some ignorant kid, gawking instead of helping.

The thought barely had time to register when a shot rang out.

Ryan fell to the pavement automatically, the truck his only protection. A second report registered almost immediately, the sound coming from somewhere inside the complex. Ryan chanced another look toward the clump of buildings. He couldn’t see any team members, but he didn’t expect to. If they were doing their job right, they were already in place, as silent and invisible as ghosts. He lifted his gaze to the roofs of the nearest buildings. There were no easy holes, he thought. No place Lena could have put a shooter without someone seeing him take his place. He looked a little closer, though, and then…there!…right by the fourth building on the left. He caught a glint of metal, the hint of the slightest movement. No one else but Ryan would have seen it, and his gut tightened as he realized what it meant. It had to be Chase Mitchell, the countersniper for Team Alpha.

Ryan spoke Maria’s name like a curse. He should have been up on that hot, humid roof. It should have been him doing the job, not Chase.

When the third shot sounded, Ryan was prepared. Listening closely, he cataloged the popping noise, relaxing as he did so. He wouldn’t have bet his life on it, but he was ninety-nine percent sure he’d just heard an air rifle go off and nothing more. Peeking around the edge of his tire, he caught sight of the security guard and two uniformed officers. The excited gestures of the older man led Ryan to the obvious conclusion. This is what had brought out the team. The old guy had heard something or seen something, then the uniforms had shown up and shots had been fired.

As soon as Ryan had figured it out, the situation appeared to be over. The front door of the nearest building banged open. Sliding cautiously up from his spot behind the vehicle, Ryan looked over at the building. Three men wearing black came out. He squinted in the dying sunlight and made out their faces—Peter Douglas and John Fletcher, two of the rear-entry men, and J. L. LeBlanc, a front entry officer. In between their cordon was a figure in jeans and a T-shirt.

From his long distance vantage point, Ryan couldn’t tell much more, but their body language confirmed his initial assessment. No one looked too nervous, and in fact, when Peter said something into the headset microphone the team members wore, he grinned as he spoke. He wouldn’t have done that if there had been a serious gun involved. The three officers walked the suspect to the black and white and a few minutes later, the uniforms took off with their shooter in the back seat. Ryan caught a quick glimpse as the car sped by. The only thing visible was a blond head hanging down—a young kid headed in the wrong direction, in more ways than one.

Ryan stuck around for another half hour, but there wasn’t anything else to see. What he did witness—the team gathering around the War Wagon for their debriefing—only made him wish more that Maria Worley would take a flying leap off the top of her office building and land in the Gulf. Ryan thought briefly of storming up to the Winnebago in defiance, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Lena would kick his ass all the way back to the office and he’d look like a fool.

Finally, after a bit more useless watching, he trudged back to his truck and climbed inside, the summer sun fading, as it could sometimes do, seemingly within an instant. In that moment—in that quick second between light and total darkness—he happened to look west, directly into the glare, and a movement caught his attention. He blinked, then blinked again, holding his hand up to shade his eyes against the blinding rays.

He saw nothing but the orange ball of the sun against a glowing sky and finally decided he had imagined the motion. Then he saw it again. A small figure behind one of the warehouses, a black baseball cap on his head, a blue backpack hanging off one shoulder. Ryan’s breath stopped in response, the adrenaline flowing before he assessed the situation. It was just a kid, he realized, a kid watching the action just as Ryan had been doing. As Ryan watched, the youngster turned around and loped away. A few minutes after that, Ryan left the scene as well, the bitter taste of exclusion his primary sensation.

He was sitting on the deck after midnight when the question finally hit him.

How had a kid gotten to a deserted warehouse so far out on the edge of town?

He reached for his cell phone he’d brought to the deck out of habit, but before he could finish dialing the number, he stopped, his fingers growing still. If he told Lena what he’d seen, she’d be pissed because he was there. She might even add more time to his “sentence.” Chances were, the kid’s appearance meant nothing anyway. Ryan had passed a trailer park a mile or so before the complex. The boy had probably walked over from there to see what all the excitement was about. He ought to be home studying instead, Ryan mused. Why did he even care?