The Debriefing

Eight

Tony was picturing that spring day so very clearly.

I won. He lost. End of story...

The day defined them both, and that definition: they were different in kind.

From that day on, each settled into his own world. Tony went to college, criminology (he liked cop shows, so why not?), and then joined the force. Matt went into the army — special services, of course. Their lives gravitated together some — Matt resisting family reunions but never missing a funeral, which seemed a military thing to do. Then after Dad was gone, Mom grew ill, and Tony and Lucy took her in. Dementia is hard on everyone; it’s the great collateral-damage disease. It took a toll.

Tony was surprised when Matt returned to El Paso, thinking he’d come, in part, to help with Dorothy. He paid visits, yes, not that she recognized him on most days, but that was about all his brother did. Tony wondered cynically if Matt’s returning home was motivated mostly by the opening of a big glitzy casino just outside of town.

Probably that was part of it. The other reason: Matt needed a job, and surprised Tony by thinking about policing. Could Tony put in a good word for him at EPPD?

Which, against his better judgment, he did. He was scooped up, a decorated soldier. First he was on SWAT, the cowboy detail, but then — as the years went by — he did regular detective work.

But they never worked together.

Matt and I aren’t partnered...

And rarely socialized together either. Tony tried but Matt had little interest. His crowd was poker, dirt bikes, and the bars along Piedras and in Five Points East.

Now, in the hospital bed, Tony gave up the fake sleep. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the medical vital signs monitor. The sort you see in movies, where there’s the blip and then there isn’t and a sound goes off, the no-life-function warning, and we tense, thinking the hero is a goner. How did the manufacturer of the equipment decide how loud to make that sound, the pitch? Who selected the tone that meant death?

It now occurred to Tony that he’d lied twice to Agent Shea Talbot.

And you followed them. Why?

Just four officers, in Cardozo territory? Thought they might need backup.

When the truth was, of course, that as infuriated as he was about his roof-jumping, adrenaline-addicted kid brother, Tony just couldn’t give up on him. As barren as the relationship had become, they were blood and, though he knew M didn’t think about T the same way, Tony simply had to strap on body armor, get into his personal car and drive an hour into Cartelville to look out for him.

What a fool. What a fucking fool I am. Tony choked a cry. Never should’ve gone. Better not to even suspect what Matt might have done.

But he had gone and he couldn’t live with the question hanging over him for the rest of his life. He had to know.

He rehearsed the words: M, did you sell the team out? Are you responsible for Jonny Boyd’s death?

Blunt. Bare knuckles.

The Douglas Incident.

“M?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I have to ask you.”

Matt looked around. “Any booze here?”

“What?”

Matt repeated, “Any booze?”

“I don’t know. It’s a hospital. Of course not. Just shut up and listen.”

Matt looked toward his brother.

“I need to know something. I need—”

But the question went no further. Tony had looked away briefly, glancing out the circling-hawk window. He gasped. Three, no four men, in camo and ski masks, were holding machine guns with suppressors on them. Their guns were up and they were swiveling right to left as they made their way steadily toward the hospital entrance.