Wow! I am back! I don't think I've written anything here for about a year. I don't know why. My muses left after Sickness ad Death, methinks. Ah well. Onwards and upwards.
This is KIND of the sequel to Heated Shot, at the very least it's in the same 'dimension'. You don't have to go back and read it, all you really need to know is that Max died, James came back and the two of them tried to find his killer, and Jordan herself was accused and cleared. Poor ole James is still a fugitive!
Chapter 1: A Helping Hand
Had anyone other than Garret Macy cared to stare out of their window on that cold, January evening, they would most certainly have burst out laughing at the sight to meet their eyes. People – scores of them – all rugged up in so many layers of clothes that their body shape was completely warped, their eyes beadily peering out of their many hats and mufflers, their steps shuffling but rapid, bags and briefcases clutched with a certain responsibility that only came with extreme domestic narcissism. It seemed to Garret that all the philosophers and poets and artists that must exist in Boston were sensibly inside, or maybe searching for inspiration on some cold, stormy outcrop or some equally as inspirational mountain or something, because he was sure that none of them were shopping on the street below. Surely, had they been among the consuming population , they would be screaming at the shoppers to throw their shopping bags in the Charles and think about mysteries greater than the where the stationary isle is in the supermarket, or what size shoes to get little Johnny at home. Garret knew that's what he felt like doing, and he wasn't even an artistic genius.
He turned from the window, the view somewhat disheartening, and sat, swimming in his thoughts, not noticing the time racing past him like a greyhound on speed.
"Fire!" a voice yelled from the direction of his door and Garret nearly jumped in alarm.
"What?" he asked slightly groggily and his eyes came into focus on a smirking Jordan.
"Man that just never gets old," she laughed, devilish eyes flashing a look in his direction while he got his bearings. He was too morose to see the funny side, to lethargic to get annoyed. He waved her in.
"Is it too "holier than thou" to have contempt for people?" he asked. She thought about it.
"Do you feel too self righteous?"
"When?"
"Now."
"No. Just sombre."
"Well I don't think there's a problem," she concluded surely. "Everyone wishes they could chuck down a stink bomb now and again to watch their reactions. Like a line of ants who go mental when something blocks their path." She chuckled inwardly at the imagery.
"How was your day, anyway?" Garret asked of his colleague.
She smiled. "Well, these twins had a heart attack within minutes of each other, which was strange enough in itself, but Nigel topped it off by spending the better part of the day taking bets and asking everyone to 'spot the differences' between the two bodies."
Garret smiled weakly. "Did he win much?" he asked, not even bothering to pretend to be annoyed anymore.
"Plenty," Jordan reported, pleased.
"I'm done in this place for another day," he said, standing up.
"Everyone else has gone, I think," she said, looking down the corridor to where the night crew were setting up for their brush with the madness of the Boston morgue, of any morgue.
"Snow isn't too bad out," Garret commented as the two made for the elevators.
"Let's hope it stays that way."
Garret saw Jordan to her car and watched as she drove away, then squinted through the dim light to where his own was parked. As soon as he took a step, a voice rang out.
"Wrong way, doctor, go back."
Garret looked around for the source of the voice, and a man stepped out from behind the pillar right near his car, holding a gun casually in his right hand.
"Yep," the man said. "The signs never lie. Go back."
Garret took in the somewhat dishevelled appearance of the figure. The archetypal beanie sat lopsided on his head, the light blue shade clashing horribly with the carrot coloured hair that was poking out rebelliously from under the haphazard hem.
It was too weird.
"I am going to get into my car, then I am going to drive away," he said, eyeing the gun coldly, daring it to challenge him.
The gun took the challenge, rising, rising until it was level with the man's shoulder.
"C'mon man," the man said, almost in a whiney tone. "Don't make me do all that gun-toting get-in-the-car routine."
"Well I'd say you've done the first half," the irritated doctor snapped.
"Van's over there," the red-haired man said. "Come and I'll take you for a drive. You can leave your bag thingy there."
Garret hesitated. The gun wobbled precariously in response. He sighed and dropped his briefcase to the cemented ground, before resigning himself to a somewhat inconvenient night, and following the strange man to his black van.
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The moment her door closed behind her, Jordan felt better. She had been on edge all day, for some reason. She got like that sometimes, they all did. Constantly being around dead and sometimes rotting corpses tends to do that to a person. She stopped to wonder at that last thought, how could corpses be anything but dead? She shrugged and in a few movements, removed her heavy overgarments and shoes. She picked up her phone, dialled a number and ordered Thai, before slouching on her lounge and flicking on the TV. She'd missed the news, not that she really cared. She never understood why people were so drawn to it. Vicarious living, now why can't these people go out and get lives of their own? She stopped at once, amending the thought. She hoped people would stay right away from the lives of those who made it to the television news; usually they were involved in a murder or something equally as sinister. She stopped her channel surfing at repeats of Rescue 911, and laughed at the image of the dog being crane-lifted from a sewage hole.
A scratching at her door caused her to look around for her wallet, before realising that not enough time had elapsed for her food to have arrived. She waited, watching the door. A piece of paper slithered its way through the small slot between the door and the ground. She was instantly on her guard, jumping up and snatching the sheet, before moving right away from the vicinity of the door.
"Don't be alarmed," it read, which naturally made her three times more alarmed than she already was.
"Who's there?" she asked in a hard voice, disliking games at the best of times. During Rescue 911 – it just wasn't on.
"It's me," a male voice called.
"Her heart descended into her stomach as the recognised the voice. Her last meeting whirled through her head at a million miles an hour.
I guess I'll see you around then. His last words rang through her head, and her pain from that whole incident hit her again. She hadn't thought of her father in a while, it was too painful. She was still pretending that he was still off somewhere hiding from her, hiding from the world. Like she wished she was. But she was stronger than him. Damn it, she screamed in her head, if he'd just stayed in Boston, with her, he may have been safe.
She opened the door, and her clean-shaven, presentable brother stepped into her apartment.
"Hey sis," he said.
She closed the door. "The paper was a nice touch," she said dryly, waving it under his nose. He smiled.
"Well I knew if I just knocked, you'd open the door and have a heart attack to see me, and to see me not looking like a devious murderer!"
"Yes, a shock on both accounts," she said, trying to compose herself. "You're lucky I ordered enough Thai for three."
"Why three?"
She shrugged. "I like Thai."
"Gone off pizza?" he asked.
"Never," she said stoically.
She stopped then, and searched James' face. His eyes were dark, the circled etched in deep under them.
"What's wrong?" she said, sending the storm behind his clean shaven face.
He let out a heavy sigh. He'd travelled far through many hoops to get to her, and now that he was here, he was in no hurry to let her know why.
"In time," he said. "How are you holding up?"
She smiled. "I'm okay," she said. "Wow, how long has it been?"
He thought about it. "At least a year and a half," he said. She nodded.
"Sounds about right," she agreed.
"How long are you staying?"
There was a silence between them, then. Jordan mused, last time they were together, they were united by a common cause, one that consumed them. There wasn't much time for sociability or trivialities. Plus, she figured they'd transcended them. Now she didn't know why he was here, he didn't want to tell her, though she sensed trouble was forthcoming. But the point was, there was no crusade for the soldiers, so they were forced to sit around the campfire and exchange stories, unfamiliar territory for those used to shooting and being shot at, metaphorically and literally.
A legitimate knock at the door broke the silence, and she reached for her wallet and opened the door, retrieving her food and paying the girl who had delivered it.
She chucked a box at her brother.
"Tell me why you're here or I'll make you eat that with chopsticks."
He stared into his box.
"It's a long story," he warned, still reluctant to speak.
"They always are."