Black Oil, Red Blood

Chapter 19



We hit Austin before I felt like Nash had calmed down enough to broach the subject of what had just happened. None of us bothered to pack, really. Me, I had nothing anyway. Nash brought only the stack of paper containing Schaeffer’s call records. We stopped by Miles’ house to get Lucy and left. Miles grabbed a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, and some face cream for himself while he was there, but that was it. Nash had taken a small armory from his office before commandeering my keys. He was driving my car. There was nowhere to go but Dallas.

Every twenty minutes or so, I’d call Gilbert’s number, but I never really expected him to pick up. None of us did. The call didn’t even go to voicemail. It just rang and rang and rang without ceasing.

The three of us were feeling pretty low, but Lucy was ecstatic, since of course her favorite thing in the whole world was riding in the car. She sat in my lap, front paws propped on the window, tongue lolling out happily.

I rode shotgun. I turned my head and looked at Nash. His neck was rigid, face set, staring straight ahead at the road.

“So, where ya from?” Miles asked Nash conversationally, hoping to diffuse the tense atmosphere.

“Chicago,” he said.

“And you left Chicago for Kettle?”

Nash sighed. “There was a drug ring. It was funded by the mayor’s biggest campaign contributor. I found the paper trail and threatened to blow the whistle. I got fired. Then my wife died. I left.”

“Whoa,” Miles said. “You’re a widower?”

That was certainly news. Maybe that explained why he seemed so emotionally shut down all the time, and maybe even why he came to Kettle, Texas. Kettle, after all, was worlds away from Chicago. Maybe he had just wanted a complete and total change—a totally new start. Like me.

“How did your wife die?” I asked, tentatively.

“It was a car accident. Some guy came at her out of nowhere. She swerved and drove off a bridge.”

While I was debating whether or not to ask him if he thought it was an accident, Miles plunged in where I feared to tread.

“And you think the death and the loss of your job were connected?”

“I can’t prove it,” Nash said. “But with no job, I had no resources. No recourse. And I was so devastated about my wife, all I wanted to do was get away.”

“What about the media?” I asked. “You could have talked to the media.”

“I tried. No one would listen. I was just one man with no proof. I wanted out. I wanted to go far, far away to live in the middle of nowhere, where life was quiet. Peaceful. Where nothing ever happened.”

“So you moved to Kettle,” I said, staring at the expansive blackness of the road ahead of us.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. There was a job opening. It’s warmer down here. Escaping Chicago winters didn’t seem like such a bad idea. And I thought I could also escape big city corruption.”

Little did he know. Was there corruption everywhere, I wondered? Was there no place left in America where decent, hard-working men and women could get ahead? How many cases like Nash’s happened all the time? How much went unnoticed and uncommented on for sheer lack of proof?

I was trying not to panic, but I was worried about what came next. It seemed like Miles and I were in a no-win situation. We could either sit around and get killed for something we might know but didn’t, or we could try to figure out what it was we didn’t know and then use that information to. . . do something. But what? The vast chasm of uncertainty seemed as though it would engulf me at any moment. Conventional wisdom was wrong. What you don’t know can hurt you.

And then there was Nash. What about Nash? What was he doing on this road trip? Was it a personal vendetta for him now? Did he see some kind of redemption in spearheading a campaign against corruption? Did he care about me in some way I wasn’t fully aware of yet? I needed to know.

“And now what?” I asked Nash. “What are you doing out here with us?”

Nash remained silent for a moment. Finally, he said quietly, “No one else is dying on my watch, if I can help it.”

I sensed that something in him had changed. He seemed different to me today than he was yesterday. He seemed a little more raw. A little more desperate. A little more dangerous. Yesterday, he would have combed his hair every day with nothing but fingers and spit if the Kettle regulation manual required it, but now. . . well, now I didn’t know what he’d do.

“So what’s the plan?” Miles asked.

Nash’s hands were clenched hard on the steering wheel. “Do you know how to shoot?”

“As in, a gun?” Miles sounded horrified.

“Yes, ‘as in a gun.’ What else?”

“I don’t know!” Miles said frantically. “Shoot pool, shoot the breeze? I don’t do guns.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“You do now. I’m about to Sarah Palin you up.”

I groaned. “Is that really necessary?”

“It’s safer to prepare for the worst. After that, we’re going to stop at a motel and get some rest. We’re going to need it. Then tomorrow, we’ll go try to find Cameron Gilbert.”

“And what if we can’t find him?” I asked. “Then what?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Nash exited the freeway and pulled onto a deserted farm road, following it a little ways in and stopping at a dark, wide open field. There were no lights in sight, except for my car’s high beams. Nash killed the ignition but left the headlights on. He popped the trunk, got out of the car, and hauled his arsenal out and set everything down on the ground in the wash of the headlights so we could see it.

Miles and I got out of the car and stood hesitantly at the edge of the car’s glow. Nash picked up a petite gun and held it out in front of me by the handle, barrel down. “This is a Smith and Wesson 38 Plus AirLite. ” He showed me the safety and how to load and unload the ammo, then he placed the gun in my hand. Moving around behind me, he placed his hands on mine and aimed the gun into the night, pointing it at a slight downward angle so that if it fired, the bullet wouldn’t travel far before hitting the ground.

“Feel this little button right here?” he asked, positioning my thumb on a small nodule in the handle. “That’s a laser sight. Hold it down.” I did, and a small laser dot appeared on the ground a few yards away. “Now pull the trigger.”

The sound didn’t shock me as much as the kickback. It was such a little gun, and yet it slammed back into the crook of my hand so hard I recoiled, my back pressing into Nash’s body, not altogether unpleasantly.

I heard his voice and felt his breath in my ear. “Good,” he said. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

My already anxiously fast heartbeat quickened even more. It had been a very, very long time since I found myself this close to a man. Fully conscious, anyway. I don’t think being carried out of a burning building after being hit with an explosive device really counted. I hadn’t dated much since Dorian, and the dates I had been on seemed to all be just first dates.

Nash’s chest was hard and warm. It felt safe. It felt like the only safe place in the universe for me right now. I lingered against it for a moment. He didn’t push me away.

I turned to look at Miles, whose arms were crossed. He was grinning at me in a smug, knowing way.

Abruptly, I pulled away from Nash and picked up another gun, holding it barrel down as an offering to Miles. “Your turn,” I said. “Were you paying attention?”

To my surprise, Miles steeled himself, took the gun, aimed, and shot immediately, without hesitation. When the shot rang out, he gasped and dropped the thing on the ground. “Holy Shinola! That thing has kick!”

Nash grinned. “What, you think I pack pea-shooters?”

“That’s enough,” Miles said. “We’re done shooting for one night. Say we’re done, please.”

“We’re done,” Nash said. “No sense in wasting ammunition.”

We got back in the car and drove until we reached Waxahachie, a small town just south of Dallas. We found a cheap motel right off the freeway and decided to stay there. Miles protested about the quality of the venue, but Nash insisted. He didn’t want to leave real names. He paid cash and we settled down for the night—Miles in one bed, Lucy and me in another, and Nash on an extra blanket on the floor.

It wasn’t long before Miles’ breathing settled into a regular rhythm. Once in awhile, he’d let out a little snore. Nothing major. I couldn’t hear Nash breathing at all.

I tossed and turned in my bed, which was hard as a rock. I stared at the red digital readout of the motel nightstand’s clock, watching the minutes go by. After an hour and a half of not being able to get comfortable, I decided I’d get up and look for some extra pillows.

I tip-toed over to the closet and opened it up, but found nothing. There was nothing in any of the drawers, either. I grabbed my card key and headed for the door, intending to just go to the front desk and see if they had any extra pillows lying around. I wasn’t optimistic—this didn’t seem like the kind of place that stocked extra anything, but it was worth a chance. Certainly better than just lying around staring at a clock in the dark.

I was still fully clothed, not having anything else to sleep in except for what I had worn that day, so I crept through the door and closed it softly behind me. Outside, the night air was warm and humid. It felt thick and oppressive as it closed in around me and leeched into my skin. I began walking toward the front desk, but stopped when I heard a soft click behind me. I turned around to find Nash standing in front of the door to our room.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I guess I’m not the only one, huh?”

Nash shrugged. “Want to take a walk?”

“Why not?” I said.

I waited for Nash to join me. He drew closer, and we began walking down the road together. We were on the service road for I-35, and large trucks whipped past us, adding the stink of exhaust to the already close air.

“I’m really sorry to hear about your wife,” I said.

Nash stared at the ground in front of him and put one foot in front of the other. “Thanks,” he said.

“That must have been really hard.”

“It was. She was an amazing woman.”

“Tell me about her,” I said, almost certain he would decline. But he surprised me. I don’t know if it was the lateness of the hour or the exhaust fumes in the air that made him more talkative than usual, but he began to open up to me.

“We met in college. She was an art major, and sometimes the college would display her art at various places on campus. It always caught my eye. One day, I was standing in the student center admiring an abstract print with her name on it. She saw me and walked over. The first thing she said to me was, ‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ I had no idea who she was. All I knew was that I loved this piece of art in front of me, and it seemed wrong to let a stranger bash it.

“I told her that if she thought that, she didn’t have much of an eye for art. She countered by asking me what made me think I did. I told her I was no professional, but on a gut level, I knew good art when I saw it. That’s when she introduced herself. I took her to dinner that very night, and we talked every day after that, right through our wedding and into the years that came afterward. We were together every single day until the day she died.”

“You really loved her, didn’t you?” I asked.

Nash nodded. “She was pregnant when her car went over the bridge.”

“Oh, no.” What a devastating blow that must have been. “How long ago did this happen?”

“About a year and a half ago,” he said.

“I’m so sorry.”

Nash didn’t say anything in reply, and we walked in silence together for a few minutes. I had never been married, but the thought of what it must be like, finding the love of your life, and then losing that person all too soon, seemed horrifying. Losing a fiancé had been bad enough. It had been two years, and I still wasn’t totally over it.

I could only imagine that Nash was almost certainly still hurting. If he seemed like he was hiding behind an emotional wall, maybe that was just his way of protecting himself. Maybe that’s why he was here with me now. Maybe the corruption and betrayal by the city of Kettle felt like a re-hash of his past problems—a kind of déjà vu come to life.

And to lose a child—again, I was no expert, but I felt like that might be the worst pain of all. Especially knowing the death could have been prevented. That’s the thing that would have kept me up at night if I were in Nash’s shoes.

“So what about you?” Nash asked. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay,” I said, feeling anything but. My career was falling down around me in flames, just like my house. I was alone in life, having loved and lost through no fault of my own. I had no money in my bank account and owned only the clothes on my back. Even my car would be repossessed if I didn’t figure out some way to make the payments soon. I had lost just about everything. On the upside, that meant there wasn’t a whole lot left to lose.

“I find that hard to believe, under the circumstances,” Nash said.

“Well.” I sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do to change the situation, so we might as well accept it and move forward.”

Nash kicked a pebble off the road into the ditch absentmindedly. “You remind me of my wife in that respect,” he said.

Something inside me softened toward him. “How so?” I asked.

“She never let anything get her down. Even when it looked like my career was over, she stayed optimistic. She was strong, like you.”

I didn’t feel strong. I felt like a big ball of wuss that wanted to curl up in my bed and never get out. The thing was, I didn’t even have a bed anymore, so that wasn’t a viable option.

“Do you miss Chicago?” I asked.

“I miss the summers there. I miss walking by the lake with my wife.”

I fought the urge to reach out and grab Nash’s hand. I wanted to connect with him, to help him fill a part of his void and comfort him somehow, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react if I did that. I had just met him, and after all, yesterday our relationship was such that he was going to arrest me. What could possibly make me think he would even want comfort from someone like me?

And why did I feel the need to comfort him in the first place? I was undeniably attracted to him physically, but I barely knew him. Maybe it was the lure of the strong, silent type. He was mysterious. And he was clearly a hero. He had carried me out of a burning building, for Pete’s sake. Maybe I was just feeling the natural affection someone would feel for someone else who saved a life. Or maybe it was the fact that Nash would be safe. He was honest and upstanding almost to a fault. I felt like he was not the kind of guy who would betray a woman the way Dorian had betrayed me. He was trustworthy. He was what I needed in a man.

“You don’t miss the Chicago winters, then?” I asked.

“The winters in Texas are much nicer. I don’t miss the snow. So there’s that.”

I liked snow. But then, I’d never had to shovel it. When it snowed in Texas, everything shut down and we had a lovely, white holiday until it melted—usually the next day.

“I’m sorry about your house,” Nash said.

“Me too,” I said.

“You’re probably not too accustomed to having nothing,” he ventured.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I didn’t have a lot of money growing up. I can live just as well without a lot of stuff as I can with it.”

Nash leaned over and gave me a quick side-hug. Just a fast squeeze—nothing lingering. Nevertheless, I flushed.

“Atta girl,” he said.

Thank goodness it was too dark for him to see the sheet of redness creeping up my face. Once again, I found myself debating about whether or not to take his hand. But my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flash of red and blue lights.

A cop car passed us and came to a stop directly in front of us. A chunky policeman clambered out of the front seat and walked towards us. “Kind of late for a stroll down the boulevard, don’t you think?

“We couldn’t sleep,” Nash said.

“You live around here?”

Nash shook his head. “We’re staying at a motel up the road.”

“I’m gonna need to see some i.d.,” the cop said.

I looked at Nash. I hadn’t brought any. The only thing I had on me was my motel room key. I produced it and said, “This is all I have. My wallet is back in the room.”

Nash pulled out his own wallet, which thankfully he had on him. He flashed his driver’s license and his badge.

“Detective Nash,” the cop said. “I see.” He looked at me. “You Chloe Taylor?”

Nash glanced at me in alarm.

“Yes,” I said, hesitatingly.

The cop handed Nash back his wallet and badge. “I’m going to need the two of you to come with me.”

“How come?” Nash demanded.

“I got an APB out for the two of you. You’re persons of interest in a murder case going on in the city of Kettle.”

“The Schaeffer case?” Nash said.

“That sounds about right.” The cop, sensing resistance, was fingering the cuffs hanging from his belt.

“You can’t be serious,” Nash said. “That’s my case. I’m the investigator on it. There must be some misunderstanding.”

The cop seemed uncertain. “Hold on,” he said. “Stay right there.” He went back to his car and radioed in to the station.

“This can’t be good,” I said. “Do you think the Chief put out an APB on you?”

“On us,” Nash said. “Which means he’s feeling antsy about having told us about the mayor.”

“What are we going to do?”

The cop got back out of his car and advanced toward us, hand on his gun.

“Follow my lead,” Nash whispered.

The cop drew his gun on us.

Nash raised his hands in the air, and I followed suit.

“Ain’t nothing I hate worse than a dirty cop,” the policeman said. “Word is, the Schaeffer case was yours until the police chief figured out you were falsifying evidence. Now it’s a matter for the FBI.”

“The FBI has no record of the case,” Nash said. “Call them. You’ll see.”

The cop didn’t lower his gun. “You think I got the FBI on speed dial?”

“I’ll give you the number,” Nash said. “Seriously, just make the call.”

“Yeah right.” The cop inched slowly toward us. “I call a number you give me so you can hook me up with some shill who sings your praises. I don’t think so. Turn around. Hands behind your back. Now!”

I glanced at Nash, waiting to see what he would do.

Nash lowered his hands slowly and put them behind his back. Then he turned around. I did the same, even though I felt uneasy about it. I didn’t relish the idea of being remanded into Chief Scott’s custody. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d get out again unscathed.

“Down on the ground!” the cop said.

Nash hesitated.

“On the ground now, or I shoot!”

Nash dropped to his knees, and so did I.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the cop fast-step toward us. When he got close, he aimed the gun at me with one hand and whipped a cuff on Nash’s wrist with the other.

Just as the cop was about to close the second bracelet, Nash whirled, and the loose cuff caught him in the crotch.

The cop doubled over. Nash’s hand shot out and sliced into the cop’s wrist. His gun went flying.

A surge of adrenaline shot through me, and I jumped to my feet, not certain what to do.

I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when Nash found his own feet, raised both arms and brought them down again on the cop’s head. This seemed so out of character for the ultra-straight-laced Nash.

The cop struggled to regain his balance, but Nash’s blows put him on one knee.

Nash spun again and knocked the cop’s one good foot out from under him. The cop went down, hitting the ground with a thud. He looked like he’d eaten one too many donuts in his day, and he was no match for Nash’s innate quickness and athleticism.

Nash turned to me. “Get the gun.”

The cop struggled, but Nash stomped a foot down on his back to keep him down.

I got the gun, but didn’t want to point it at anybody, especially a cop. I held it, barrel down, in front of me.

Nash seemed to understand that I was afraid to shoot, so he held out his hand, motioning for me to give him the weapon. I did, and he pointed it at the cop’s head. “I’m sorry about this, buddy,” he said, “but you’re interfering with my investigation. I really wouldn’t be doing this if you’d given me any other choice.”

“This ain’t right,” the cop gasped.

“Get the keys, Chloe,” Nash said.

I bent down and retrieved the handcuff keys from the cop’s belt.

“Car keys, too,” Nash said.

I gave Nash an incredulous look, but did what he said. He held out his arm, and I unlocked the cuff that bound his right wrist. Then he took the cuffs from me and put them on the cop.

“Get in the car,” Nash told me.

“The police car?” I asked, shocked.

“Do you see another car around here?” Nash said.

“I’ll have your badge for this!” the cop hollered.

I felt rooted to the ground. Surely Nash wasn’t serious.

“Car! Now!” Nash said urgently.

I picked up my feet and ran to the car, hopping into the shotgun position.

Nash backed away from the cop, gun still pointed at the guy’s head. “You move, and I shoot,” he told the cop.

I could hear the cop shouting curses at Nash, but he wasn’t fool enough to try to get up off the ground. He must have sensed that Nash was serious.

Nash backed up all the way to the car and hopped in. Then he floored it, and we high-tailed it back to the motel.

“What are you thinking?” I said.

“I’m thinking that the last place I want to ever find myself is behind bars on the orders of a dirty cop. I’ve lost enough to these kinds of scumbags already. I’m not doing it again.”

“This just seems so unlike you,” I said.

“It looks bad, but we’re still on the right side of things. We’ll find Cameron Gilbert, recover Schaeffer’s evidence, and then out all the corruption in Kettle.”

“That’s a long shot,” I said.

“Maybe, but it’s our only shot. Unless you really want to trust yourself in the hands of Chief Scott.”

“Um, no,” I said.

“I’ll just need a good lawyer to help me straighten things out once we get to the other side of the action. You know one?” He shot me a sideways grin.

“No,” I said firmly. I wouldn’t touch a criminal cop-on-cop case with a twenty-foot pole.

“Come on! You can use the necessity defense. It’s an easy win.”

“There is no such thing as an easy win,” I said.

Nash fish-tailed into the motel parking lot. As he pulled up to our room, he wrenched the dash cam off its perch, opened the car door, and smashed the camera into pieces on the ground. “Get Miles and Lucy,” he said. “That cop saw your room key, so he knows where we are. We have to get out of here before that guy can get somewhere he can call backup.”

“We’re not taking the cop car, are we?”

“And have them spot us with their GPS system? I don’t think so.”

I hopped out of the car and raced to our motel room, Nash hot on my heels.

“Get up!” I told Miles.

Miles didn’t budge.

I raced toward him and shook him. “I’m serious, Miles! Get up! We have to get out of here!”

Miles rolled over groggily. “I need my beauty rest. If I get up now, I’ll have bags under my eyes all day.”

Nash grabbed Miles’ arm and flung him unceremoniously out of bed.

“Hey!” Miles protested.

“You want to ride in the car?” I asked Lucy. She immediately started prancing in circles and jumping up and down excitedly.

Nash grabbed my keys off the dresser, threw Miles’ wallet at him, and ushered him forcibly out the door.

Lucy was out the door ahead of us, bucking up and down in front of my car. I opened the passenger-side door and she jumped in. I followed. Nash dumped Miles in the back seat, hopped in the driver’s side, and took off.