15. That Happy Feeling

Harrison called when I was speeding down Western Gateway.

"Hey Dad!" he said. "Where are you, can you pick me up? I'm done with those tests. Kinda."

"Okeydoke, just sit tight. Be there in half an hour. How's the results?"

"Yeah… You better talk to the Headmistress chick, I guess. Can you maybe…"

"Harrison, I'm sorry, I'm driving right now. We'll talk soon."

"Okay, bye Dad."

'Dad'. My new favorite word. It took me a lot of effort to get this Jacob fella to call me that, and for Harrison the Second, it's natural. Does this mean he's the real one? Or is a real teenage son supposed to act wary by default?.. Ah, the more you know about parenting, the less you know about parenting.

You've been abstinent for ten years, thanks to your routine. You felled trees, drove a truck, took care of animals… What do you know bro, perhaps parenting is exactly the kind of routine you need to return to abstinence now.

Perhaps. I have had some experience with parenting, don't you remember?

Harrison was a toddler then. That is, before you abandoning him. A teenage son could be a game changer. Think of it.

This kind of game can change not only for the better.

What is it, brother, you suddenly gone neurotic?

No screaming, no swearing… You are calm again, Deb. What's the matter?

Are you calm?

"I'm most certainly not," I said, turning at the crossroad. The day behind the wheel couldn't go without toll, my arms and shoulders began to hurt more and more, my spine arched under the weight of all the sorrows of the world. And I can't even speed in the city limits, risking my provisional license…

Nah, Harrison'll be fine, he's in the protected environment, he's fed… I hope. He definitely can care for himself, if something happens to me.

Shit. Deb's right: I'm going neurotic. Does this mean I feel more blood kinship to this Harrison? However small my notions of normality were, they include the protection of the family.

First thing first. Even if we're not going to stay in Albany, Mrs. Strode is right, we need to enroll Harrison in school as soon as possible. With his near perfect grades, this will definitely not be a problem.

[***]

"What do you mean, 'one point eight'? I don't…"

"This means that your son's integral level of grades does not allow him to be placed. He scored 3.6 in Spanish, 4.1 in English, and, well, 2.8 in math. The rest of the results are even lower. Basically, he'd failed every single one of them."

"Yes, I can read," I said. "But what exactly… Your scoring system must be very different from what he's used to?"

"Harrison's a wonderful young man, truly, Mr. Lindsay. But with his current performance he is a year or even two years behind our standard curriculum."

"How is this even possible, I have his recent tab, and the reference letter from his Principal in Iron Lake High. It's in the car, Ms. Glasson, I can bring it right here."

"We could sign Harrison up into the provisional class, if you want to."

"What, with retards?!" I screamed so loudly I almost had to stick my fist into my own mouth to dampen down the dramatic intensity of the outburst.

"Intellectual disability would be the politically correct term, Mr. Lindsay. And no, while West Albany High School is completely committed to the principles of total inclusiveness, we don't have those set of classes here. Our provisional classes are dedicated for students who, for whatever reason, would have difficulty attending regular educational facilities. Children of immigrants; recently adopted children; those who missed a year due to illness… And it's free, the municipal program covers all costs."

Bummer, huh? What, Big Brother, you expected all your 'offspring' to be equally brilliant, did you?

"Stop scoffing, you Evil Queen," I muttered, entering the hall.

Harrison lifted his head and stood up to meet me, putting away his cell.

"So, I'm retarded?" he asked, proudly resigned to whatever fate life had in store for him.

"It's all my fault, son… What?! No, you're not!"

"You said it yourself, Dad. I've heard."

"Do you take every word you hear personally?"

"Aha! You didn't answer…"

"You are not retarded. Just spleeny, and annoying like a mosquito, you slacker!"

"What, that bad on the tests?" he asked, losing all his fuse in an instant.

"Walk me to the car, son, and drive me home. I'm exhausted."

[***]

Home is where you can let yourself fall into bed and pretend to be dead. After all the adventures of today, I was frazzled out much more than expected. Couldn't even go to the restaurant, so Harrison brought me some food. He was firmly intended to stay vigil over me, but, of course, I sent him to his room to get some healthy sleep, and to morally prepare himself for the provisional class. He left upset, doubly so.

I almost passed out when Hoopman called.

"Jimmy, mah man!" he shouted. The voice on the speaker sounded so loud, as if the meaty lawyer was residing right in my head.

However, the news he brought was good. After all the mandatory greetings, questions, and extremely dubious witticisms, Hoopman told me the State was unable to clear 'the officer responsible for the shooting' of wrongdoing – our negotiating position was becoming even stronger than we could have imagined.

"What does it mean, exactly?" I asked, "Six figure sum?"

"Seven, Jim, seven. In the shooting, you didn't die, we probably can't go eight figures like Justine Damond or Floyd, realistically."

"Oh. Pity."

He neighed heartily:

"Always an optimist, Jimmy! We-ell, as your lawyer, I'd rather get my teeny-tiny percents from eights. But as your friend – seven is good enough for me as long as you're still alive."

"You know, Hoop, I must admit I appreciate our friendship more than money."

"Great! Can I have all of it then?"

"Nope. But I'll buy you a doughnut."

"Bestie, you're breaking my heart."

"Two doughnuts."

"Oh, okay. Now, to the details…"

The details were as plenty and straightforward as it gets. Angela Bishop has had literally nothing to support her claims. Tribal land, whole lotta out-of-jurisdiction issues, non service weapon used in the shooting, no eyewitnesses, no body camera footage, not a single piece of evidence incriminating the victim, highly alleged collusion with her fellow officers… Textbook case, mah man, truly.

Because of her knowingly violating the law, they couldn't even grant her qualified immunity, although it all looked like they couldn't should have been rephrased as they preferred not to.

"She's so deep down the bunghole now," Hoop said, "she's no chance meeting magic rabbits anymore. And those crazy Bee-Hee-Bee allegations? She's got the FBI hate her, too. Remember 'the Domino effect', Jim?"

"Jenga. Per se."

"Whatever. They want to pinch her on both sides: for the Caldwell case scandal and for the shooting. No one's swimming up with two stones that heavy around their necks, get my drift?"

"So, what now?"

"Angela goes to jail, that's what now! Unless…"

Ah, I thought, there's always an unless.

"You and Fitz want to abandon the civil suit while upping our settlement?" I asked in the affirmative.

[***]

The next morning I drove Harrison to West Albany High, made sure all the necessary paperwork was in order, shook hands with Miss Glasson – and, pure of heart, boldly went where no monster has gone before.

At Tryon Street, I pulled over and went to check the trunk. My yesterday findings were laying neatly hidden under a rubber mat.

Lucky me, I though, re-examining Jacob's sportswear. If the school would throw it all out, I'd have to poke around in my greenhouse where the kid was working, or in the ashy remains of the cabin, or even try to get to the evidence on Ethan's case – like the knife Jacob's stabbed himself with. An undertaking of this caliber could've become a problem, especially in my current status and condition.

But these drops here, they are keys to the truth. Blood doesn't lie even when it intends to. You only need to ask it intimately enough.

I tapped Maps app on my cell. Okay, 'Albany Police Dep…'

Not a good idea, Big Brother.

Shit. You're right, Deb. All the mobile searches could be logged and analyzed if necessary. It's the modern-day Big Brother – literally.

Your lizard brain is getting apathetic. Smell of dough?

Could be. People tend to loose guard when they hear money.

You're not 'people'.

I spent so much time around humans, got infected too.

Don't get caught, Deb said vanishing.

"I won't… this time."

Fine, let's take a less direct route.

I just scrolled the map in seemingly random way, here and there and everywhere. After the location of the PD station caught my eye, I still moved the map for some more time.

Better dumb than sorry, huh?

Shut up, sis!

I turned off my cell to get off the grid, started the sneezing Impala, and pulled out onto Coach Bob. Western Avenue was within walking distance, but I wanted to do some laps. Law enforcement folk tend to stick together, including during meals. Yeah, just like teenagers: against the rest of the world. All I needed to do was surf the shops and restaurants around the PD of interest – sooner or later I'm destined to stumble upon the 'copper place'.

Albany is not Miami, few people are ready to eat outdoors, everyone wants to go under a roof. It took longer than I hoped, but the idea worked out – I've spotted the site. Constanza Cafe, the sign said. Uniforms were coming in and out in a pattern and manner that were very familiar to me from my own days. The street looked like a typical seating area, so I chose a small restaurant across from Constanza, ordered al dente pasta with coffee, and got ready to exercise my patience.

Mr. Damian Church might work in a separate building. Mr. Damian Church might prefer having breakfast in his lab. Mr. Damian Church might prefer patronizing another fine establishment. Mr. Damian Church might has been retired a week ago and left for Aruba with his new trophy wife.

All sorts of different mights could have interfere with my plans.

But in forty or forty-five minutes of pumping myself up with coffee, through the restaurant cloudy window, I spotted Mr. Damian Church who was heading from Western Ave toward Constanza.

I would appreciate this fact for yet another success, but…

They're-coming-to-take-you-away-haha, Deb whispered in my ear.

Strutting beside Church was Lieutenant 'So It Goes' Harken, in an unbuttoned jacket and a loose tie. Both men were chatting, laughing, and were very clearly on friendly terms.

[***]

With a pounding heart, I made my way to the car.

Harken and Church were good pals! Well, yes, I knew from experience how willing cops are to make friends with high-level forensic experts. What are the chances that I can swiftly ingratiate myself with Church without Harken and the rest of the pack knowing about it, instantly?..

Shit. Shit, shit, shit!..

Shit is right.

Just think of it, everything was going so smoothly so far.

Too smoothly.

Nothing 'too' about it, but I was coping.

You were coping because you didn't really have to cope. No action, no risk.

Now I need to act.

Then at least cover your ass. 'Cause it's about to get bit. Hard.

Thanks Deb, I said, barely keeping myself from banging my head against the steering wheel.

Okay, skip it. What would the old Dexter do? He wouldn't fall into such a self-made trap, definitely. Maybe there's a way to talk to Damian somewhere away from the station?..

By the way, I'd better get away from here, I thought as I started the car. There are places in this world that are so much better suited for intense thinking.

For a while, I drove without any particular purpose. It wasn't until I was near Our Lady of Angels that I caught myself and turned on my cell.

Two missed calls – Lucy. I hesitated a little and called her back.

"Hey you!"

"Jim…"

"I'm sorry I never called, Lu, crazy days. Just charged the battery, are you okay to talk now?"

Twenty five minutes later, I was standing on the doorstep of her house on Fuchs Road with a box of Ferrero chocolates in one hand and a lone tea-rose in the other.

"Sorry," I said, kissing Lucy gently, "They were all out of scarlet ones."

She took the flower:

"You are adorable, Jim. Come in."

"Thanks. Nice house!" I said, picking up my cane and entering the inside.

On a nurse's salary. It's like in Hollywood flicks where some janitor always lives in a mansion, or…

Shh, Deb. Not now.

My restless sister grunted and disappeared. I followed Lucy into the living room.

"Tea, Jim? Oh, but you're a coffee person…"

"Nah, I'm already full. Been downtown, shopping, sightseeing…"

"Oh yes," she smiled as she poured water from a big decanter into a flower vase. "Albany's a true tourist paradise. Bought some souvenirs?"

"Nope, money's tight," I smiled back. In her short dressing gown, Lucy looked even prettier than in a nurse uniform. It was unusual to admit: I felt that I needed human connection. I needed simplicity. I needed to hide from the constant pressure.

Lucy set the vase on the mantelpiece and carefully placed the flower in it.

"Want me to lend you some money?" she asked.

"I'm good. Come sit with me."

"You are a dangerous man, Jim Lindsay," she said as she sat next to me on the couch. "Well, what were you so busy with you couldn't think of me these days?"

"Adapting, hanging out between the motel and the hospital. Going to Iron Lake for Harrison's papers. Keeping myself properly hydrated. Routine," I pointed to the cane, "New priorities."

"Priorities. I see."

"Hey! But you – you are always on my mind."

We chatted for a while. Lucy's alienation seemed to be slowly thawing away. Communication were becoming more and more intimate, things were going in the pleasantly certain direction.

"Lu, stop," I chuckled, breaking away from her kiss. "I mean, are we alone? Where's you son, if he sees us like this…"

"Jacob? School. We're all alone, silly, for at least an hour."

She straddled me face to face and resumed the broken kiss. From behind her, my dead sister looked at me mockingly.

Jacob, Deb mouthed, what a freakin' coincidence, yet another one.

I moaned.

"What?" Lucy pulled away, "What's wrong?"

"It's my back. Still hurts sometimes. Shit, I'm so sorry."

"No prob," she quickly got off me. "I'm a nurse, remember? Need me to…"

"No, no! Just let me stay still for a couple of minutes…"

"Rest, Jim. I'll bring you coffee."

She's nice. Juicy. And everything is so calm. Why don't you want to fuck her, Big Brother?

I don't know. Somehow my thoughts are not… impure enough.

What are your thoughts, exactly?

I'm trying to remember if…

"Hey Jim," Lucy came with a couple of coffee cups and a packet of Mint Oreos on a tray, "Miss me?"

"I do. Sorry again. It's just, there's so much of, well, everything that's going on. My son failing tests, and us zeroing in on the settlement… Hoopman called yesterday. Remember Hoop?"

The tray in Lucy's hands trembled slightly. She threw a barely perceptible, involuntary glance toward the mantelpiece.

"Yeah," she said as she put down the tray. "Well, refuel a bit? You need to refresh yourself. What's that you're saying with the settlement?"

[***]

Oh yes, I fueled myself up. And forced myself to do Lucy, right there on the couch.

When she happily flew away into the bathroom, I got up and hobbled over to the fireplace. Of course it wasn't a real one, but I didn't need a fire. Noticing the sound of the bath water, I sniffed the rose and then examined the mantelpiece.

Nothing of interest. In one spot, there was less dust.

To the right of the fireplace, closer to the curtained window, there was a small cupboard. I pulled out the top drawer. A framed photograph with a small support stand were laying there face down.

I picked it up and turned it over to the light. It was the recent picture of a seemingly happy family.

Lucy, with wide coquettish eyes and a generous smile on her lips.

A well-fed little boy, eight or nine maybe, with a Dum Dum stick in his hand.

And a bulky man in an expensive suit, hugging his family with one arm, and V-signing with his free one.

This man was Mr. Hoopman – the favorite lawyer of mine.

I carefully put the photo back, closed the drawer, and turned to Deb.

Now you get it, you Big fat idiot? she screamed in my face. You're still being hunted!