Don't Leave Me (27 page)

It was almost light when Sandy Epperson got back to her house and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into bed after merely kicking off her shoes. No time for niceties. She needed to sleep. After the adrenaline rush of the raid, the alerting of the Coast Guard to be on the lookout for a chopper, the gathering of bodies and victims off the hill, she was ready to get at least ten hours of sleep.

And then she got a call from her partner. She almost ignored it. Let it go to voicemail. A fat lot of good he was doing last night.

But at the last second she decided to give it an answer just to get it over with.

“Who’s your hero?” Mark Mooney said.

“What is it, Mark?”

“You need to get some work done,” he said.

Sandy fought back a curse trying to explode from her throat. “I’ve been a little busy.”

“Oh really? Playing SWAT? I hope you had fun.”

“Tell me what this is about and fast. I want to go to bed.”

“I had to shoot a kid tonight.”

His voice had suddenly changed, from joking to deadly serious.

“But he was about to shoot somebody else,” Mark said. “One Raymond Hunt.”

Sandy’s head went even lighter, like it was floating off her neck. “Tell me what this is about, tell me now.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Raymond Hunt accepted drug money to fund his Academy. Our Jimmy Stone was the go-between. His little brother went to have it out with Ray Hunt at his house tonight. He was about to shoot him, and I got him in the wing. I’m very good.”

Sandy said nothing. Her eyelids felt like overfed St. Bernards.

“And I got a complete confession out of Hunt,” Mark said. “The whole set-up. It’s going to make me look like the smartest kid in school.”

“Wait a second,” she said. “Wasn’t I the one who told you that? And you told me basically to shove it.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m dog tired, Mark.”

“Then you rest up. Until our meeting with Brady.”

“Meet with Brady? Why?”

“You can congratulate me.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out. Night, sweetie.”

The call dropped.

And so did Sandy Epperson, onto the sofa. She was thinking what a snot Mark Mooney was when she lay down. She was thinking he was going to get the nod to Robbery-Homicide, the elite unit, when her head hit the pillow.

She thought of nothing more, but in the thickness of sleep she dreamed. She was in an ice cold lake. Underwater. She couldn’t breathe. Her father was trying to get to her. His hand was in the water but he couldn’t quite reach. . .

.

The park was beautiful.

It wasn’t like any park Chuck had seen before. Not a real life park, so he knew it was a dream. But he also knew this was more than a dream because he wasn’t dreaming, he was dead. He was seeing a vision in death.

Right?

He asked himself that question. He could hear himself asking if he was dead, right in the vision. His voice coming out of him.

He was seeing the park as if he was standing right there on the ground. Not himself. That would have been more like a dream, Chuck reasoned.

I can reason. I’m thinking.

This is a good sign.

In the park there were two figures, on the other side of the park, on the other side of the green grass.

Oh yes, old friends.

Nolan Ryan and Mario Lemieux. Only this time looking at Chuck, smiling, waving to him to come over and join them.

But if I go, where will I be?

Come on! they shout.

I have to find my brother, Chuck says in the vision.

“Your brother is all right.”

That voice didn’t come from the vision!

Open your eyes, Chuck.

“Your brother is going to be fine.” The voice is a woman’s voice. Chuck knew that voice.

“Stan . . .”

“Yes,” the voice said. “He’s downstairs.”

“Where?”

“Hospital. Santa Monica.”

Open your eyes!

Light.

He was not dead.

Alive.

And she was Detective Sandy Epperson.

He was hooked up in a bed and alive.

“You’re going to be all right, too,” Sandy Epperson said. “You’ll need a lot of time to heal, though.”

Voice thick like it was coming out of tar pits. “Want to see Stan.”

“As soon as you both are able. You’ve been in here two days.”

“What . . happened?”

“Later. When you’re feeling better.”

“No. Now.” He was coming back and he wanted to know everything. He wanted his mind working again.

“You and your brother only helped bring down the most vicious heroin trafficking network we’ve ever had. Nothing major.”

Okay, good. Funny was good.

“And you,” Detective Epperson said, “managed to kill the son of Svetozar Zivkcovic.”

“Who?”

“Also known as Steven Kovak, the man whose house you were in.”

“How? We fell.”

Epperson nodded. “It was nasty. Dragoslav Zivkcovic, also known as Dag the Dog, fell right on top of a Manzanita. Branch went right through him, through his heart, and through your side. You two must have looked like shish kabob.”

Chuck felt the tightness of the bandages around his body.

“We got Kovak,” Epperson said. “He tried to get to a boat by way of a two-man chopper, but went down near the Channel Islands. Coast Guard picked him and his chief guy out of the drink.”

“My wife––”

“That’s enough for now. You need to rest.”

“No. Where is my wife?”

“You’re going to see her,” Sandy Epperson said. “But not yet.”