Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Sixty-Eight





Sherwood grabbed his gun off the kitchen counter and strapped on his holster. He’d made a vow, a few days back, he wasn’t sure precisely when. Maybe it was after Pelican Bay. Or when he’d heard about the lyrics to Charlie’s song. Or maybe it went all the way back to that dollar bill in Thomas Greenway’s stomach.

Or maybe back to the doc asking what that new liver had been for . . .

If it was going to end in a fight, he’d be the one to end it.

He put on his jacket and touched the picture of Dorrie good-bye, pressing his fingers to her smile, just as he did every time he went out on the job.

“The guy’s a panhandler,” the doc had said, excited. “Near my hotel. He’s pushed his way into my life. I didn’t realize it—but for the past few days, I think he’s been stalking me.”

“Stay where you are,” Sherwood had instructed him. “Whatever you do, don’t leave. I’ll be right there.”

It was time to end this thing—and now.

He headed out the kitchen door. His Camry was parked in the drive outside. He had about a fifteen-minute ride from where he lived to the Cliffside Suites motel. He needed to warn the patrol car he had stationed outside Charlie’s apartment to be on alert, but he decided he might as well do it from the car, on his way.

He crossed around to the driver’s side, this weird sensation flashing through him: how Jay Erlich had wormed his way into his life, past his defenses. It had been a long time since he had let anyone in. One day there would be very little he would miss in this life. His friends had all moved on, down to San Diego or Arizona. The people he really loved were gone. But this past week . . . He chuckled. Something had awakened inside him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Something vital. Over people he had never even heard of or given a rat’s ass about just a week before.

Funny, he thought to himself, how these things go. You never know what’s really important to you, until—

As he reached for the door handle, he heard a rustle from behind him.

Then he felt the most excruciating shock of pain cleave deep into his back.

The next thing he knew he felt the pavement, cold and firm against his face. Something sharp and body-splitting deep in his back. The air rushed out of him. He didn’t know what had happened, only that he couldn’t move and that it was bad. He tried to inhale, but it was like there was a hole in his air sac, his breaths leaking out of his back.

Turn over.

Before he could, he heard a loud grunt and felt another bone-splitting blow bury into his upper back. The pain almost sheared him in two. He tried to reach for it. He tried to power his brain through the pain—What had happened? What was there to do?—with whatever clarity he still possessed.

He had to warn the doc. He was in trouble too.

That was all.

But he couldn’t move. A warm, coppery taste was on his tongue and he saw blood trickle down the driveway past his face into a growing pool. Damn. He tried to force himself up, like an animal fighting for one last breath—one last rush—but then another cracking jolt cleaved through him, his spine splitting in two.

“Ahh . . . ,” he groaned deeply. He reared back around and saw, almost with a glint of amusement, what appeared to be the wooden handle of an ax.

Chickens, he thought, and lay his head back down. Damn.

“Don’t . . .” He heard a woman’s voice. It was more of a plea than a command. His mind was fuzzy. “Please, don’t. We told you to stay out, you dumb bastard. If you had . . .”

There was another, spine-splitting blow. No longer pain, just numbness and cold. All the air sucked out of his body from his back.

He felt sad to have let the doc down. Not to have finished what he vowed to complete.

He knew it was time to let go, but as he did, something else came into his drifting mind.

He struggled forward, like a snake cut in half continuing to slide on his belly. His fingers gripped the pavement, now like sand. Each small measure forward consuming most of what was left of his strength.

And he crawled, down the driveway, every inch labored and life-emptying, like a strong current fighting against him, keeping him away.

No, not this time, it wouldn’t . . .

He looked up to the shining, sunlit sight. He could almost touch it. Just a few more feet.

Please . . .

Sherwood opened his eyes. The driveway was gone, and instead of asphalt, soft leaves and moss brushed against his face. Green and cool now. The soothing tide of the river felt good against him.

Just stay with me, son. I’ll be there.

Through the haze he saw the blue craft up ahead. He kept forcing himself, pushing against the current, against the dissipation of everything inside him. To get there. “Please, please, please, son, please . . .”

He reached out, desperation in his voice.

He made it. He felt the smooth, slick exterior of the fiberglass hull. The bright white stripe. His heart in panic, he turned it over and looked inside.

There he was. Kyle, all huddled up inside. Smiling at him. In his helmet. In the River Tours T-shirt they had bought him at the check-in station. The greatest joy he had ever felt coursing through him. Welcoming him.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Kyle said, reaching to hug him. “I’m okay. I’m here.”