Last shot

Chapter 79

The desert scent of sage drifting through his open window, Tim cruised up Pearblossom Highway. Unfiltered by smog or clouds, the sun was a perfect blood-orange disk, hanging low in the western sky. He was due home for dinner, but he'd found himself on a detour after leaving the office.

This morning's L.A. Times had held no mention of Walker Jameson or Dean Kagan. In the five weeks that had passed since Walker's shooting, they-and the arrested Vector employees-had slipped farther back in the paper, the headlines moving on to terrorist chatter and earthquakes in India, until they finally fell off the back page. Tim's colorful career had left him familiar with the wax and wane of public interest. There'd be an upsurge before the trial, scheduled for early next year.

The task force had found no direct evidence linking Pierce to Walker. Morgenstein could've acted on his own, though they all knew he hadn't. His body had been found the morning after he'd been shot, the end of Walker's blood trail. The city was pressing forward with a suit against Pierce for his creative plumbing, but that would be months, if not years.

Tim threaded through the run-down community and parked in a long shadow across the street.

In his front yard, Sam Jameson crouched over the rebuilt anthill, his younger friend watching apprehensively from a few feet away. Sam lit a match, dropped it into the hole, and stood back. His little friend turned, ready to run. Red ants spilled out, swarming the top of the hill, and Sam giggled.

Kaitlin's voice sailed through the screen door. "What are you doing out there?"

Sam shoved the matches into his pocket. "Nothing."

The boys waited to see if she'd emerge, but she didn't. Sam picked up his Coke and carefully poured a rivulet down the side of the anthill, rewarding his charges.

They watched the ants dine.

A thrumming of bicycle tires over asphalt, and then the bully on the Huffy pedaled into view, approaching. Sam's head snapped up, his body tensed for fight or flight, but rather than slowing, the burly kid hoisted himself up on the pedals, lowered his head, and pumped harder. He flew past in a blur, his dirt bike curving out of sight into the park at the street's end. After a moment Sam relaxed.

Tim wondered what the hell that was about.

Kaitlin stepped outside and settled into a wicker chair on the porch, looking sad and tired and fulfilled. After a few minutes, she glanced over. Tim raised a hand in greeting, but she remained expressionless. She called out to Sam, then rose, the screen door knocking behind her. Sam said good-bye to his friend and headed in for dinner. He paused on the porch, his back to Tim. Somehow Tim knew he'd just registered his presence.

Walker Jameson had moved through prison bars and clawed his way from the trash-filled earth to avenge his sister, but in the end what he'd found to offer was a piece of himself. Blood type O, in all its universal glory. He'd balanced a cosmic account, spending his life to grant another.

On the porch Sam turned and looked across the street. He held Tim's gaze for a moment. His eyes were bright and curious, the sclera white as ivory. His mouth curved in a partial smile.

Then he went inside.

Tim stared at the dusty screen door for a few minutes before starting the drive home.