Sweet Dreams (WJA Series Book 1)

Chapter 7

Footprints were everywhere. Most of them, it appeared, belonged to Martinez, or a man with very wide feet. Then he saw what he was looking for—a second set of prints, smaller ones. The mystery woman.

He checked his surroundings, then re-holstered his gun and pulled a digital camera from his pocket. He snapped several shots of the footprints and of the tire tracks.

He saw where the second truck had parked behind the structure, just out of sight from the road. Squatting on one knee, he peered at the tracks, which looked weird, not like tread marks from a normal delivery truck. The rear tracks were about twice the size of the front ones. Probably some kind of armored truck.

He straightened and started toward the silo tower ten yards behind the main building. The tower was about fifty feet tall with a cone-shaped top and a rusty ladder strapped to the side that ran all the way from the bottom to the top. Though it was probably empty, the silo still emanated sawdust and dirt, a smell strong enough to make his eyes water.

Then he saw the newly painted letters blazing in the sun high atop the tower: WJA. “What in the—?”

He pulled out his camera and took a picture, thinking someone had spent some time painting the giant lettering. It was not a hack job, like what he was used to seeing from the local taggers back in Detroit. This was very professional.

He dropped the camera back into his pocket and turned just in time to see a billy club crash down on his forehead. A flash of light filled his vision as he crumpled to the ground. He heard the thud of his head hitting the dirt as he grabbed for his gun. Before he could find the holster, another blow smashed the back of his skull.

* * *

MARK OPENED THE DOOR to his apartment feeling like he’d been cheated. His life had been turned upside-down—for what? The thoughts of K and Sam tortured him every moment of every day.

When he closed his eyes, he saw them. When he walked down the street, they were with him. When he drove his car, he heard Sam’s chatter in the back seat. Felt K’s hand in his. He could barely eat. Could barely think.

He ran his hand through his hair. He had to return to work. He’d call Hank tonight and tell him he was going to work tomorrow. That was the only way he would get his mind off his own personal hell.

On the kitchen counter, he saw the bottle of wine that had been in one of the gift baskets sent to his hospital room. He didn’t remember who sent it, but it was just what he needed at the moment.

He rummaged through the silverware drawer. After he found a corkscrew, he managed to pop the cork, despite his bandaged fingers, and pour himself a glass. He’d always thought people who drank to smother their pain were cowards. Now he wasn’t so sure. At least for today, he needed a break from the agony.

He held his glass to his nose and breathed in deep, inhaling the rich scent of the red wine and the promise of relief. He sat on the couch, the bottle in one hand and the wine glass in the other.

But his back, still sore from the rollover, seized as he sat, sending daggers of pain up and down his body. He dropped the glass. It hit the floor, and a red stain instantly spread across the area rug. He groaned, set the bottle down, and painfully maneuvered off the couch.

After he cleaned the rug and hung it outside on the balcony to dry, he returned to the couch. This time, he lowered himself slowly, careful not to send his back into orbit again.

He reached for the now empty wine glass, looked at it, then back at the bottle on the coffee table. With a sigh, he set the glass on the end table. He could not numb the pain and the grief. He wanted to live, to feel. Bad feelings were just as much a part of life as good ones. This was how he would remember how much he loved K and Sam. The pain was his love for them, which would never die.