He wanted to crawl into bed and not wake up for six months. But he was too wired to sleep. What he needed was exercise and fresh air. He pulled on some sweatpants and track shoes and went outside. The air had a bite to it. He stretched and then started running, guided only by a sliver of moonlight through the trees. He saw one or two houses lit up in the distance but most of the places were dark and shuttered for the season. He turned down another community road and lost even those distant lights.
The first three miles felt good. He got his rhythm. His breathing turned hard and even, draining his thoughts. He was sore from the pummeling he took in the Bronx earlier. But even with all that, the endorphins were kicking in and making him feel better. He took bigger strides. He picked up the pace. He wanted to exhaust his body in the hopes that this would somehow exhaust his mind.
He went to leap over a tree limb that had fallen too close to the road in the last storm. But his back foot caught one of the branches. It held his body for the split second it took to lose his concentration and balance. His knee hit the pavement hard. He cursed. Nothing was broken at least. But his knee felt too bruised to run anymore. He would have to limp all the way back.
He began walking along the deserted road—a road he’d traveled a thousand times in all seasons. He could probably close his eyes and find his way home. And yet for some reason he couldn’t fathom, his heart began to race. There were no streetlamps, only a dark wash of gauzy clouds that made the sky glow like a TV screen when the station has left the air. In the distance, he saw the blinking lights of an airplane. It was so high up that it trailed no sound.
He was exposed. Alone. Or maybe not alone—and that was worse.
Stop it, he told himself.
His body refused to listen. His heart beat so hard it felt like it would jump out of his chest. He broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t catch his breath.
Just stop it.
He turned and turned again, his eyes checking and rechecking the woods for movement. Logic told him no one was here but he couldn’t get his senses to agree. Every gust of wind through the trees, every crack of a branch or groan of a limb made him dizzy with panic. It sounded . . . It smelled . . . It felt like . . .
STOP IT!
It felt just like the woods last night.
He saw again that shadow of something to his right. He saw the slow, deliberate turn of Hector Ponce’s body as he reached into the front pocket of his jeans. He heard those shots from his gun. In his head, they resonated like cannon fire.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
“There is nothing out here!” Vega shouted.
The sound of his own voice surprised him. The hoarseness. The desperation. The trees closed in on him. A strong wind rustled the dead leaves. They sounded like fingernails tapping on a gravestone. He felt engulfed by a wave of nausea even though there was almost nothing in his stomach. What was wrong with him?
Goddamnit, what the hell was wrong with him?
And then he saw it—a faint glow of headlights on the next road. The vehicle was traveling at a slow creep. A homeowner? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like the driver was looking for something. Or someone. Vega wiped the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his forehead and tried to catch his breath. Big white clouds of vapor formed in front of him, glowing like phosphorus in the moonlight. He watched the car turn onto his road and creep toward him, slowing as it approached.
He was unarmed. Trapped. His back ached. His knee hurt to run. He stumbled off the road and into the trees. He shivered as the sweat congealed on his skin. He’d become a feral shadow of his former self.
The car was a dark red SUV. Maybe a Honda. It stopped along the side of the road. Vega crouched behind some bushes. He couldn’t see the figure that got out on the far side. The driver was alone. Could he outrun the person? Overpower them? Did they have a gun?
“Good Lord, Detective! Bad enough you don’t return phone calls and I have to hunt you down in person. Don’t make an old lady like me go running through the woods after you.”
Isadora Jenkins. She pushed back the hood of her jacket. The moonlight caught her white hair. Vega parted the bushes and stumbled forward. He felt like an idiot. He was shaking all over.
Jenkins stepped around the car and frowned. “When did you last shave? You look like some mountain man who just wrestled a bear.”
“I was running and I took a fall.”
“You’re running and falling, all right. And most of it ain’t in your legs.” She blew into her gloved hands and studied him a moment behind her big round glasses. “The first night after is the worst, you know. The adrenaline wears off and everything gets real scary real fast.”
“I’m fine.”
She tossed off a laugh. “And they say cops are good liars. What on God’s green earth were you thinking going to the Bronx today and stepping into that protest?”
“I was trying to reach my truck,” said Vega. “It’s my mother’s birthday and I wanted to visit her grave.”
“Her grave is in the middle of the Grand Concourse?”
“I went to see a priest I know. Is that against department policy?”
“Unless he was giving communion on the center divide, I’d say so,” said Jenkins. “Captain Waring wants to see you ASAP. So get cleaned up and, for God’s sake, shave. You want people to treat you like a cop? Start looking like one.”
Chapter 16