Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(19)

“I don’t know.”

“People.” I took a sip. “I tell you—nine times out of ten, something goes wrong, it’s not the job, it’s the people.”

“Well. I can relate to that.” He smiled, and I felt myself relax. “Teaching profession—well, everybody reckons it’s the kids that give you trouble. Ain’t the case, though, nine times out of ten. Turns out, the kids are fine, most of ’em. It’s the guys you work with, or the parents, or the state, or—” He waved a hand, as if to brush it all away.

“That’s it,” I said.

But he kept looking at me.

He’d mentioned hospital. I hadn’t answered him, and he was waiting.

“Chicago,” I said, presently. “I got pretty badly beaten up. It was Angel pulled me out of that one, actually.”

“That so?”

“She—yeah. She saved my life, I’d say. She’s good. I’ve got confidence in her.”

“She didn’t tell the story that way. But she saved you?”

I nodded.

He took a drink. I took a drink.

“She’s determined on this,” he said.

I wasn’t sure it was a question, but I said, “She is.”

“Girl sets her mind to something, no point trying to stop her. She’s—” He brought his hand down sharply. “She’s like her mom in that. That’s where she gets it from, not me.”

“That’s her.”

“She could have been a lawyer. Doctor. Just about anything she set her mind to. But no, she wants to study music, and that’s what she does. Doesn’t want to make a record, be a star, like most kids. No. Just wants to study, wants to understand. And when her mom and me don’t have the money to support her, she says, fine, I’ll get a job. And she does that.”

“More than one,” I said.

He opened the bottle, refilled my glass and then his own. “You want more ice?”

“I’m fine.”

“Me, too, I guess.” He rattled the few small cubes left in his glass. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love Angel. More, I respect her. I would walk through fire for that girl and never think twice about it. I am as proud of her as any father could be. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she has a sense of right and wrong. She’s kind. She would never willingly hurt someone, someone close to her. But she’s—ah. She’s focused. And, you got to be aware of that.”

“Um . . .”

“I’m saying, she goes for what she wants. Doesn’t always pay a whole lot of attention to what else is happening. What, or who. She’s kind of blinkered that way. Know what I’m saying?”

I had thought he wanted reassurances, but he didn’t. He was warning me. Gently, kindly: but a warning, nonetheless.

“Let’s say, she doesn’t always see how it affects the people close to her. Not unless you point it out. And sometimes—yeah. Not even then.”





Chapter 16

Dealing with Death




The mood was lighter over dinner, helped by a glass of Merlot that sat nicely on the JD. Charles grew talkative, as teachers do. Evelyn was quick-witted and funny, and took delight in quietly harpooning him each time he started to pontificate. (“Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”) Oddly enough, he seemed to like her little barbs, even waiting for her to chime in, and the pair of them would banter back and forth like some old comedy duo. The jokes weren’t new, but that was fine: familiarity was half the fun.

It was very pleasant, very charming, and not the least bit like my own marriage, so many years ago. I was starting to enjoy the feeling of normality. I was even starting to relax.

And then I thought of Frugs and Melody.

The gloss went off it after that.



I said to Angel, “They’re nice. I like them.”

“Oh, they’re real nice. And right now, I’m about niced out.”

Riff slept in our room—Angel’s room. He started in an old dog bed on the floor. I woke to find him snuffling up between us, shouldering us aside. When I put my hand out, he gave me a big, sloppy lick.

It was sometime in the small hours, and I lay there, on the far edge of the bed, thinking about Melody Duchess and the last hours of her life, the hours that I’d reluctantly shared.

They say there are stages for dealing with death—the prospect of your own death, anyway. Denial. Anger. Negotiation. All of that. Maybe it could happen when you’re faced with someone else’s death, as well.

I’d passed denial pretty quickly. Couldn’t really do much else.

But I was stuck on anger.

I hadn’t even liked the woman. Oh, I’d sympathized, maybe. Felt sorry for her. But if she’d dropped dead of a heart attack, I’d probably have shrugged and told myself, “Must have been time.”

Only she hadn’t had a heart attack.

Maybe I should have had retrieval gear, though God knows, it’s not something you’d carry round, just on the off chance. Or not been so pushy with her. Or not poured her that last drink . . .

I was angry with her. I was angry with myself. And more than that, I was angry with the guy who’d given her the means to do the deed. Johnny fucking Appleseed. He might not actually have put it in her mouth. He might not even have known the thing was dangerous—though that just made him an idiot, on top of everything else. He might even have thought she’d benefit from it. Though if she’d really paid him three grand, like she’d said, then it was pretty obvious who really benefitted. I argued it out every way I could, chasing it around my head, and what it all came down to, in the end, was this. Suppose you’ve got a kid who shoots someone, or shoots himself. The kid’s responsible. It’s no one else’s doing. It’s just his. But even so—you want to know who handed him the gun, don’t you?