Airbag Scars Read online

  He knew there were bottles in the trash can, a half case of beer in the fridge, and a few hiding spots around the apartment where he’d stashed pints, cans, and flasks. Turn on the shower and he might find himself under a bourbon spray, for all he remembered of the last couple months.

  “Man,” he said to the dank living room, “what sloppy bastard lives here?”

  That was the first time he’d wished he had a pet to come home to. A yipping dog or a purring cat; something or someone excited to see him, instead of this gloomy reminder of the solitary drunkenness he’d wallowed in the last six or eight weeks.

  “Someone who needs to hire a maid, apparently,” he said.

  He set his backpack on the coffee table. With the phone recovered from his back seat in hand, he scanned through his calls and texts from Friday night, but there was nothing that could provide any clues about what had happened.

  He did find one thing, a text message composed to Frank that he hadn’t sent:

  I’m drunk. I need help.

  “Shoulda actually hit the send button, right?” he said to Boba Fett’s head as he placed the little action figure on the coffee table. Then he reached into his backpack to find the shoe and placed it in the middle, sweeping the clutter of unopened mail and dirty dishes to the edges.

  Black and white woman’s Adidas track shoe.

  It stared at him, and he stared back. Micah knew he could do this for hours, punishing himself, thinking thinking thinking, not making forward progress and only slipping further into the rabbit hole.

  Beating himself up was already growing tiresome. It wasn’t productive.

  The shoe was tied to his car accident, possibly?

  He opened the lid of his laptop and browsed a few websites linked to police blotters, but found nothing that indicated a hit and run from that night. No reports that provided anything useful.

  Had nothing happened, or was the truth too far hidden? All this conjecture was getting him nowhere.

  He had to turn his attention to things he could do something about. The most pressing task was a housecleaning. He went from the couch to open the fridge, then lifted the half-empty beer case and set it on the counter. He lined up twelve beers in front of him, which made his pulse board the bus to Panic Town. Those cans used to be a good start to a weekday evening, but now he knew they were death. He’d known they were death since he was a teenager, actually, but he never could stop drinking them once he started.

  They had to go. He popped the top on the first can, and his nostrils flooded with the sick aroma of cheap hops and barley. His stomach constricted and his hand shook, and although he was trying, he couldn’t seem to throw the stuff out. He held it at an even level, and his body refused to tilt enough to pour.

  “Damn it, hand, you do what I say.”

  He took in a breath. With his eyes closed, he tilted the can over the sink, gagging as the sudsy liquid circled the drain. He did this with each of the twelve beers and the seven bottles of liquor in his fridge, each of them in various states of emptiness.

  The bottles and cans clanged and clinked into the recycling bin. Close to a hundred dollars worth of liquor, and it pained him to see it all go. This was not the first time he’d made the bold gesture of pouring everything out, only to replenish his stock within a few hours when the compulsion to drink demanded it.

  He thought about the shoebox and wanted to see it. Not open it, but to see it, to remember that it was there.

  Micah went to the corner of his bedroom, then ran his fingers along the carpet where it met the wall. He touched the little latch he’d been feeling around for and yanked on it. A section of the carpet came away from the floor, and he tugged to break the glue. When he’d uncovered the floorboards, he removed the two closest to the wall. He dug a hand underneath them and came back out with the small shoebox.

  He ran a hand over the top of the dust-covered box, but was scared to open it. His old life was in there. A dead friend was in there. He wouldn’t look at it; not now. But the thought that he could open it, if he wanted, gave him a small comfort.

  Micah didn’t want to think about all he’d endured to get this box from Oklahoma to Colorado.

  He returned to the couch in his living room and put his head in his hands. On the coffee table in front of him was evidence that he had possibly done something horrible and unforgivable.

  But the night was a blur, and so far, none of it had materialized. What was he supposed to do to bring it back?

  Chapter Three

  Micah rolled his battered car to a stop in front of Mueller Bail Enforcement, Frank’s office. The new sign’s fresh paint gleamed in the sunlight. The old sign, MFRS—short for Mueller Fugitive Recovery Services—still leaned up against the brick side of the small one-story office building.

  Micah’s hand shook as he put the car in park. The urge to drink rumbled around inside him like a raccoon in a cage. He could never get over how insidious that desire felt. His hand plunged into his pocket and fingered the tiny plastic Boba Fett action figure head he’d been carrying around since high school, the only gift from his father he still possessed.

  He willed himself not to vomit as the raccoon in his stomach started doing jumping jacks, then he stepped out of the car and made his way inside. It was a small office, just the two desks for Frank and Micah, with a couple chairs in front of them and a little kitchen in the back. They didn’t need much, since Mueller Bail Enforcement was such a small operation. A few framed pictures and other items lined the yellowing walls, like the photo of Frank in his cop uniform, grinning in front of a mountain of seized cocaine bricks. In an expensive frame was Frank’s Renault Robinson Award from the National Black Police Association.

  Frank was retired, now a bounty hunter and sometimes bail bondsman, and Micah was his assistant. Technically, Micah’s title was skip tracer, although Frank had him do all kinds of bounty-hunterish things that he probably shouldn’t have, since Micah wasn’t licensed in Colorado.

  That unearned extension of trust always baffled Micah.

  He heard the sink running in the back bathroom, and while he was waiting for Frank to come out, he wandered over to the wall, to a framed box which contained Frank’s old badge and his Denver Police Medal of Honor.

  The bathroom door opened behind him. “I used to want to be a cop,” Micah said, “back when I was a kid. Either that or forensic psychologist, maybe.”

  Frank stood beside him, drying his hands with a paper towel. “Maybe you still can. How you feeling?”

  Micah took a deep breath. “Like I’m on a really fast merry-go-round and it’s trying to throw me off.”

  Frank adopted a slow, knowing nod. “If getting sober were easy, every drunk would do it. You’re young, though. You still have plenty of time to turn your life around.”

  Micah was nearly thirty, and he didn’t feel young today, with all the bumps and bruises on his body. He slumped into the chair behind his desk and pivoted it toward Frank. “Did you know? About my drinking the last couple months?”

  Frank retreated to the coffee machine in the kitchen and poured himself a cup. “I had a pretty good idea. I knew you weren’t making any meetings, but I didn’t see any point in calling you on it. I’m your sponsor, not your parole officer.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have done any good.”

  Frank sipped at a mug of coffee with a faded picture of John Elway in his Broncos uniform and sat at his own desk. But he said nothing.

  Micah considered telling Frank about the shoe, but he didn’t know how to start. The shame of not knowing what had happened the night of his last drunk weighed too heavily on him. How could he tell his boss and sponsor he may have killed or gravely injured someone?

  “You remember anything about last Friday?” Frank said.

  Micah shook his head. “Bits and pieces, but not enough to do anything about it. It’s all a jumble of disconnected images and sounds, like some trippy European techno music video.”

 
Frank grunted. “I have no idea what a European techie musical video is, but I sure have had my share of blackouts.”

  “You said you had a research assignment for me?”

  Frank shuffled some papers on his desk, digging into the bottom of a disorganized pile. He wrenched a folder free. “Got a jumper been MIA for about two weeks. Roland Templeton. Low-grade B&E stuff mostly, but this individual is tied to some very nasty people.”

  He handed the folder across the desk and Micah snatched it quickly so Frank wouldn’t notice his quivering hands, even though the old man probably saw it anyway. He’d been a cop forever, and still noted those sorts of details.

  “This a standard trace?”

  “No,” Frank said. “I have a pretty good idea where he is, so I’d like you to do a house call. I know it’s not in your normal activities, but where I think they’ve got him holed up, they’ll know me right away.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Pink Door,” Frank said. “Strip club downtown.”

  Micah grinned. “Strip club, huh?”

  Frank frowned and waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. The owner and I have a history. It’s best if I don’t handle this one personally, at least the investigation part of it. I just need your eyes, and we have to move quick. I suspect they’re trying to get him out of the country, so they’ll be situating a passport or maybe a coyote.”

  Micah opened the folder and ran a finger down the first page.

  “There’s something else to think about,” Frank said. “It’s a bar, so there will be alcohol there, understand?”

  A lump formed in Micah’s throat. He could already feel the future temptation swelling in his chest. “Yeah.”

  “I’d normally tell you to take someone else from AA with you if you have to go to a place like this, but in this circumstance… if this is going to make you too uncomfortable, you can say no.”

  “If I say no, how will you get eyes on him?”

  Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll have to figure something out.”

  “I think I can do this.” Micah didn’t believe it, but he’d said it anyway. He flipped through the folder, noting there was no picture of him anywhere to be found. “How will I know what he looks like?”

  “White guy, about thirty-five. Jet-black hair and skinny as a scarecrow. I need you to find out for sure if he’s there, then we can set up a snatch and grab.”

  Something in Frank’s eyes changed. He looked Micah up and down and Micah could see the doubt in his eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling up to this? You don’t have to go right this second, but you need to visit within the next couple days.”

  Micah swallowed hard. He wanted to say no, my stupid weak brain is telling me to crawl back into a bottle and live out the rest of my days there, but he didn’t want to let Frank down.

  He tried to say yes, but his mouth froze.

  “Micah? Are you in or out?”

  Chapter Four

  HAYDEN LANG stood on the corner of Colfax and Lafayette in her running sweats, hoodie, and her old worn-out pair of running shoes. One of her new ones had gone missing, so she was stuck in the shoes with no tread if she wanted them to match.

  She’d limped out here to the street corner, hoping against hope once she got going that her ankle would magically improve. She was only three days away from the Tough Mudder race and damned if she was going to miss out on one of her annual favorites because of some stupid ankle tweak.

  Not that she could remember tweaking her ankle, or why she’d had a welt the size of Kansas on the side of her head when she came home last Friday night. A lot of things from that night hadn’t made any sense, but the ankle was foremost in her mind.

  She bounced up and down a few times, and each time her foot connected, jolts of pain spiraled up through her calves and into her hamstrings.

  “Come on,” she said, trying to work through the pain. “Loosen up.”

  She pulled her curly black hair into a ponytail, then jogged along the sidewalk on Lafayette at a meandering warm up pace, but the pain intensified. Jolts became stabs. She pushed harder, willing her body to compensate and release some endorphins.

  But it refused to happen. She had to slow as the pain grew too much to bear and she smacked herself on the thigh. If she caused long term damage, that would be catastrophic to future races.

  As she limped back toward her apartment, the notion that three more days of healing was not going to be enough to make the Tough Mudder settled over her. And how disappointing that all was, not just because of forfeiting the race entry fees. After the shit that had happened with William, she needed this. Needed it. But her body refused to cooperate.

  She sat on the edge of the parking lot in front of her apartment building for a couple minutes, watching a skinny blonde woman with a labrador jogging down the street, her tight body not jiggling at all. Both the woman and her dog were smiling and smug about their six healthy limbs.

  “Can I borrow your ankle this weekend?” Hayden called after her, and the woman made a face at Hayden as she kept on running, then turned the block onto Colfax. Hayden would have cackled at the woman’s expression if she weren’t so damn disappointed.

  For two more minutes she sat, watching her breath create momentary clouds in the chilly evening air, listening to the sounds of branches swaying in the breeze. Porch lights flicked on. On nearby Colfax Avenue, car horns honked.

  She heaved a sigh and stood, feeling a renewed pulse of pain shoot through her leg. As she turned into the parking lot, she caught her former best friend Sherry standing there, leaning toward the door of her car. Key in hand, with a look on her face like she knew she’d been caught. Frozen.

  “I’m not a cat,” Hayden said. “I can see you even if you’re not moving.”

  Sherry averted her eyes. “Hi.”

  “Since we live on the same floor, I know it’s not reasonable for me to expect that I won’t run into you from time to time, but you don’t have to talk to me when we do.”

  Sherry winced, and Hayden could see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve wanted to make that long walk down the hall to talk to you, but I couldn’t find a way to do it. Now that I’m here, let me say that I’m so, so sorry. It just kinda happened.”

  Ire built up in Hayden. “Fifty feet away from where I sleep every night? How does something like that happen by accident? Have some respect for yourself.”

  This seemed to catch Sherry’s attention, and she straightened up. She scowled as the tears streamed down her face. “Maybe he wouldn’t have had to do that if—”

  “No,” Hayden said. “You are not going to put this on me like it was somehow my fault.”

  Sherry chewed on her lip for a few seconds. “You can be hard to take. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it’s true. He was good to you. The only person who couldn’t see that was you.”

  “You should leave.”

  Sherry flashed a look and then jumped into her car, leaving Hayden alone in the parking lot. She hadn’t meant leave the parking lot, she’d meant leave the apartment building, or better yet, leave Denver. Let Hayden have the city because it was the only thing she felt in control of right now.

  Hayden put her hands on her hips and squeezed until she could feel the pressure. How long could she live on the same floor as an ex-best friend who would betray her like this?

  She didn’t have to wait for the answer to come.

  As long as she had to. Hayden wasn’t leaving.

  Four days before the confrontation with Sherry in the parking lot, Hayden had limped along Colfax Avenue, cold in her green running sweats. The lights: headlights, street lights, cigarette cherries, the pulsing neon of gas stations and liquor stores. The sounds: car stereos thumping, horns honking, people talking. All of these sights and sounds melted into a droning warble as she tried to locate her apartment. One foot meandered in front of the other, and she wandered without having any idea where she was he
aded.

  Her feet took her to Lafayette, muscle memory guiding her home. At first, unable to remember why she’d turned onto this street, she got her bearings after passing a familiar house with gaudy orange shutters. A green house with orange shudders. Who would do such a thing?

  Her ankle pulsed, but she didn’t know why.

  As she limped along, a car door opened and shut behind her, and a giant of a man appeared, with a pit bull on a leash. The broad-shouldered stranger squinted as he crossed the street and walked toward her.

  “Hello?” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes to make the halos converge. Three faces became one. He was as muscular as one of those dudes crawling under barbed wire on an Army recruiting commercial. “Do I know you?” she said, her words coming out slurred, which surprised her. She hadn’t had a drop to drink.

  He hesitated. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I look fantastic. Don’t I know you?” she said. There was something strange in his eyes; a kind of unease there.

  “I, uh… I don’t think so. I’m Donovan. I was… out window-shopping for apartments in the area. Are you okay? You don’t seem fine.”

  She placed a hand against her forehead. The shape felt wrong, like she had a bump where a third eyebrow might be. “Hayden. Do I have an extra eyebrow?”

  Donovan dropped his dog’s leash and said, “Patton, sit.” The slobber-mouthed pit bull immediately dropped its hindquarters on the pavement, his fuzzy dog-penis pointed straight at her.

  Hayden snickered, because, for some reason, dog penis was funny.

  He moved closer and studied her face. “No extra eyebrow, but you’ve got a nasty bruise there on your forehead.” He moved his jaw around like he was chewing on a caramel. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  “I was out for a run,” she said. “And then I fell down. Yeah… that sounds about right.”

  A hint of a smile crept onto his face. “You really don’t know what happened to you.”