It happened only about every 6 months, but it was always same dream. He would miss an angle; a blindspot in his trajectory. The most important thing in the world, but he would miss it, and the shot would come from that missed spot; some dark corner of a room. It always hit her full in the chest and she would slam into a wall. He could hear the noise as plain as day. There were times when he would hear a bang walking down the street, and he would have to hold his breath until his heart started beating again.
He was usually sitting upright in his bed trying to slow his breathing by the time she got shot in the dream. But sometimes there was little more. Sometimes, he would sit next to her and watch her die or he would suddenly be at her funeral watching them lower her casket. There was only one constant. Every time he had this nightmare, he would feel deep in his bones this wrenching sense of regret that he'd missed the one blindspot; she died because he didn't do his job.
………………………………………………………
He liked the Onion, newspaper satire at its best. The one he had literally howled at once was an article about juvenile delinquents, and there was a picture of a wolf next to the article, and the caption says, "We're tired of raising your children." He sometimes would chuckle when he thought about that because the other picture he could imagine beside the wolf was a picture of Mary. She would be wearing one of those expressions with one eyebrow raised; the kind of look she had that made a guy check to make sure his wallet was still in his back pocket. Yes, Mary had definitely been raised by wolves.
A grin started as he thought about it.
"What!"
He blinked, startled by her ferocity. He scratched his head. "Ah, nothing."
"You were staring at me with the weirdest look." She narrowed her eyes at him.
Marshall leaned back in his chair, trying to stay cool. "I was most definitely not giving you a weird look."
"Then what were you smiling at, Dork?"
He shrugged. "I was just thinking of wolves."
"Wolves!"
"Did you know that the northern Timberwolf only mates—"
"No! I don't know, and I don't want to know. Please keep your geek-formation to yourself."
"At your command, my sweet little kumquat."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "You must have been the biggest dork in high school."
"Hitting below the belt this early in the morning? Doesn't seem like your style." He winked at her and returned to his computer screen. He was Mr. Cool; Marshall Mann, 5th generation U.S. Marshall, first in his class at the academy, best sharpshooter the feds had in five states including Texas and a service record that was as shiny as a new pair of shoes. He would be as cool today as he was every day; the only difference being the extra two cups of joe he would drink to make up for the fact that he had been up since 3 a.m., soaked in sweat and terrified, because he had another nightmare where his mistake got her killed.
He watched her stride away from him, blonde hair swinging across her shoulders. She was strong as a draft horse and yet oddly delicate. Most days, she didn't possess the tact for the most simple of interactions, and yet he'd seen her rock a witness crying in her arms like a new mother. The contradictions were myriad and complex, and they gave him headaches on his best days. She ambled into Stan's office and he could hear nasal whine in her voice as she rained abuse on their boss for any number of issues he had failed to right for her. Five minutes later, she would probably be sitting across from Stan, her boots up on his desk while they talked baseball. It was maddening. Marshall rubbed his tired eyes and reached for his coffee.
……………………………………………………………………
"You've changed since you got shot."
Marshall looked up from his paperwork, puzzled. "What does that mean?"
"You're weirder."
He sighed. "I don't think so."
Mary shook her head. "There's no denying it. You're different."
"Well, I can't do any long distance running for another year. Doc says the lung tissue needs time to regenerate. That is the only change I can report."
"That's not it. You're quiet, more thoughtful…weirder."
Marshall made a face at her. "I'm quiet because I'm working. I am completing the duties of my employment unlike others in this office."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're just different."
"Maybe you're different."
She scowled. "I don't think so."
"You used to let me do my work. Now, you bug me with…all this."
"You don't need to get all prissy about it."
"Mary! Leave me alone!"
She raised an eyebrow. "This is exactly what I was talking about."
Marshall slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. "You're right. I've changed. I'm weirder. The bullet brought out all the weird in me. It must have pierced the center of my weird. Sorry."
"Exactly."
……………………………………………………………
Marshall liked to learn. It was fun. It was relaxing. As he was sitting at Bonita's diner, he was thinking about learning and chilaquiles. Learning to make chilaquiles would be a worthy learning experience. He started to lay out his learning plan of attack. He could take a class or he could go online and read about it or he could ask the lovely Consuela behind the counter if she wanted to give him a chilaquiles lesson. It was clear he was leaning toward education that would involve the voluptuous Consuela and chilaquiles. He had to figure out how to phrase it so that it didn't sound like chilaquiles was a euphemism for something a gentleman should never say.
He pondered the possibilities in his head. "Would you like to make chilaquiles with me?" He shook his head. "Could you show me your chilaquiles--definitely not. I think you and I would make great chilaquiles together." He groaned at this last line, and Consuela looked up from the register. He grinned sheepishly. Before he could proceed with this rather dubious plan, a man slid onto the seat next to me.
"Damn it, Marshall. Do you know how hard it is to find you?"
Marshall furrowed his brow at the man.
"Christ, has it been that long? It's me. Bart Preston. Come on! John Connolly High School. I used to give you wedgies."
Marshall winced. "Ah, Bart Preston: John Connolly's own junkyard dog. How you been? And better yet; why are you here…talking to me?"
Preston shook hands vigorously with him. "I need a favor."
"Geez, Bart, high school was a long time ago and I don't exactly remember us being friends."
"I know. I was a shit to you. I'm sorry, but I'm a homicide detective now in Dallas. No more wedgies now. I catch bad guys."
"Too bad you weren't around when you were a kid…or something."
"Come on, Marshall. This is serious. I'm in big trouble."
Marshall gave him a sleepy look. "I have to admit that I am more than a little curious about what would bring you here from Dallas to seek out your former punching bag."
"Remember Mark Pipher. He was a grade ahead of us. U. S. Marshall. Dallas office. He mentioned you were down here doing WitSec."
"And?"
Preston hesitated for a moment as if he couldn't corral all of the details in his head. "All right, Marshall. Do you remember that movie, Witness with Harrison Ford?"
"Yes. Directed by Peter Weir, co-starring Kelly McGillis, Lukas Haas, and Joesf Sommers."
Preston stared at him. "Whatever. The thing is that I am Harrison Ford, and I need your help. You're like the Quakers."
"Amish, Bart. They were Amish."
"Right. You're the friggin' Amish, Marshall."
Marshall frowned. "I really don't understand this, and I know that I am not going to be the Amish for you, no matter what you've gotten yourself into."
"It's like the movie, don't you see?" Preston was on his feet. "I swear on my granddaddy's grave that this is very very friggin' real."
Marshall put a hand up. "All right, Bart. Slow down. Take a seat." He nodded at Consuela. "Could you rustle up some of your wonderful chilaquiles for my friend here?"
Bart slumped onto the stool. "I got her out in the car."
"Who?"
"The friggin' witness! You know, like the little Quaker boy."
Marshall rubbed at his tired eyes and looked for Consuela. "Consuela, we're going to repair to one of your booths now. And we're going to need a pot of your blackest brew."
Marshall grabbed him by the arm and pulled him over to the booth. "All right. From the top and no more movie references. No Amish. No Quakers. Got it?!"
……………………………………………………………..
2 a.m. and Marshall Mann was wondering if a person could really fall asleep in the middle of a conversation because he was almost there. It had taken awhile but Bart had finally brought in his witness, a young Latina woman equipped with knockers the size of ripe grapefruit. There were few circumstances where a young girl with a good body would get plastic melons at this age, and it didn't take long before she admitted to being an exotic dancer.
"Bart, you've got to be kidding me."
"I'm as serious as a heart attack. We've got three girls dead and now a witness. This girl is the only one able to make a positive ID for the grand jury."
"There are channels for this. I don't freelance."
Bart looked at the girl who sat between them with a rather bored expression on her face. "It's in the department, Marshall. It's a Captain. Captain Briggs. He runs the 3rd precinct. We know it but we don't got the juice yet. My partner and I went to Internal Affairs, but they wouldn't bite. Said I had an ax to grind. I used to work for this Captain and we didn't get on. Our Captain won't touch it 'cause he's a friggin' wuss. We went to the Feds. They won't even talk to her until we have an indictment."
"So stash her until she testifies."
Bart threw up his hands. "Which is why we are here."
Marshall narrowed his blurry eyes. "Stick her in hotel in a suburb with good cable and room service. Don't tell anyone. Then pick her up in two weeks and drive her to the courthouse."
"They're looking for her. You think someone isn't going to notice a guest who checks in and then doesn't leave the room for two weeks. We lost our other witness a week ago. Shot right in the chest in the hotel room we stashed her in. They want Rosita here under wraps, but we can't trust the friggin' chain of command. Come on, Marshall. This is a slam dunk for you. You must got access to safehouses. Just stick her on your friggin' route. There's no cell phone trail. Nothing. I get in my car. Drive straight back to Dallas and report that she isn't hiding out at her Auntie's in Amarillo. In two weeks, put her on a plane and pat yourself on the back."
"Right. What about the material witness warrant you've failed to mention 'cause I know she probably has one. That would look great on my record; hiding a material witness from Dallas PD for two weeks. I'll be applying for jobs at Blockbuster after that one."
Bart reached down and pulled a manila folder out of his bag. He flipped it open to a woman sprawled on a hotel bed, a red stain covering her chest. She was young and blonde, a look of infinite surprise on her face. He fanned the photos and it was the same scene from different angles. Marshall felt bile rise up in his throat, and he had to remind himself that it wasn't Mary.
"Take a good look at her, Marshall. She was a dancer, and she dated Briggs a few years ago. Not publicly of course, Man's got a wife and kids. After they broke up, she quit the life, went back to school for social work, and was working weekends at a homeless shelter. We found her and she told us stories about Briggs' proclivities. Said she was scared for her life. She was sure he was going to kill her. That's why she left her job. She was willing to talk about how he liked to use his gun during sex. She talked about how he threatened to kill her over and over. We told our Captain, stuck her in a hotel, and three days later, we found her like this. We can't trust anybody, Internal Affairs, the Feds, not even our own Captain…that is, except you."
Marshall let out air and stood up. "I need a minute."
"She was a good kid, Marshall. She turned her life around. She didn't deserve this."
Marshall didn't respond to Bart. He walked out the café and began pacing the sidewalk out front.