Table of Contents

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What This Book is About...

Epigraph

Title Page

Night Watch

Author Notes

About the Author

Also by Josh Lanyon

Copyright

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Three years ago investigative reporter Parker Davidson barely survived a brutal attack by his psychopathic ex-boyfriend. It’s given him a dim view of romance.

When Parker’s ex escapes from a maximum security prison, LAPD Lieutenant Henry Stagge is tasked with making sure that Parker doesn’t end up a victim a second—and final—time.

Most cops believe Parker got what he deserved, but over the course of a few very tense hours, Henry begins to wonder if there’s more to Parker than he thought.

Second chances happen in the strangest places—and at the strangest times.

Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

Mark Twain

NIGHT WATCH

Josh Lanyon

How could you not know?

That was the question everyone asked. Friends. Family. Reporters. The cops. I think even Ricky may have said it the night he tried to kill me.

It was the question I continued to ask myself three years later.

How the hell could you not have known?

Because I didn’t want to know?

Because by the time I began to wonder, it was already too late?

A sudden gust of wind hit the unmarked police sedan, shaking me out of my thoughts. I took note of the distant snow-dusted mountains. Sharp-edged blue silica and granite outlined against darker blue skies. Not much farther now.

I glanced in the side mirror. Caught a slice of my own reflection: dark hair, dark sunglasses, dark and unshaven jaw. The road behind us was empty except for the small speck of an RV we’d passed minutes earlier.

“That’s the turnoff up ahead?” Lt. Stagge asked, double-checking the directions recited by the mechanical voice of the GPS.

“Yeah.”

A flash flood had taken out the faded, bullet-riddled sign over a year ago. The road department never got around to replacing it. Nobody lived out this way. Not even the deer that Deer Lane had been named for.

“Beautiful country,” Lt. Stagge said, and I laughed.

He looked away from the road, a trace of surprise on his face as he met my disbelieving gaze. “I grew up in Lompoc. I like the high desert,” he said.

“Sure.” I stared ahead at the worn and fading highway. Grayed and pitted asphalt, edges crumbling away to sand and sagebrush. The morning sunshine cast luminous golden light over the stark and unforgiving landscape.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Lt. Stagge. Not that I suspected him of anything; it was just hard to tune him out.

He was about my age. Late thirties. Medium height, compact build. Light eyes that could have been blue or maybe green. Gray? Square shoulders, square jaw. The kind of haircut that only looked good on a marine. Which, he’d probably been before he’d joined LAPD.

He had that kind of blunt, serviceable attractiveness you see in a lot of those Died in the Line of Duty photos.

I did not want Lt. Stagge dying in the line of duty protecting me.

Enough people had already died thanks to me.

That’s what happens when you fall in love with a psychopath.

The first time I ever saw Ricky Barbour, he was testifying in court against another inmate who had assaulted and nearly killed a prison guard.

Ricky was in his early twenties then. Blond and bearded, with soft brown eyes. In addition to being handsome, he was polite and well-spoken. A very different animal from the predators he was speaking out against. I was impressed by his courage.

Pretty white boys don’t do well in the prison system, and his guts and integrity made me curious about his case.

What I learned was not encouraging. Ricky was starting a life sentence for second degree murder. The woman he’d been living with had come at him with a broken beer bottle, and in the struggle, he’d accidentally killed her. His lawyer failed to get the charges reduced to self-defense or even manslaughter because the girlfriend had placed a couple of domestic violence calls previous to the fatal incident. Worse, Ricky was strongly suspected in the death of his girlfriend’s ex-husband.

There hadn’t been enough evidence to charge him in the husband’s death. And there was a good chance that if he was guilty, he hadn’t acted alone. If he’d had an accomplice—assuming he’d been involved at all—she was dead now. In the case of Mariah Evans, the evidence against Ricky was mostly circumstantial, but there was a lot of it. Enough to convince a jury.

You get cynical covering the crime beat. But I kept thinking of how Ricky had acted to save that guard—and then how he’d spoken up in court against vicious offenders he still had to live with. He had to know he was risking his own safety, but he had done the right thing. I couldn’t forget the quiet dignity he’d displayed despite the way the defense had tried to discredit him.

I went to see him at the Central Men’s Jail in Orange County.

“You want to stop?” Lt. Stagge asked, breaking the silence. “You need to stretch your legs?”

“No.”

No, I just wanted to get to where we were going. I did not want to admire scenery or make conversation. I did not want the lieutenant feeling like he had to be courteous, to pretend this was anything but an unwelcome assignment.

What was his story?

Not that I really cared. It was just my natural curiosity.

Or maybe my unnatural curiosity.

My mother was a big fan of the TV show The Hardy Boys when she was growing up. Particularly of Parker Stevenson, which was how I ended up with the first name Parker.

Being named for a prime-time sleuth might even explain my unhealthy interest in other people’s business. During the trial—the second trial—some clever asshole at the Times had referred to me as “Nosy Parker,” and the other papers, including my own, had picked it up.

Anyway, aside from a tendency toward small talk, Lt. Stagge seemed professional and competent, and that was all I needed from him. That was all I had needed from any man for a long time.

Joshua trees, twisted and spiked silhouettes, flashed by in the bright spring sunlight. Despite the ongoing drought, gold and purple wildflowers supplied startling bursts of color in the otherwise bleached landscape.

Another jackrabbit darted out across the road. The last time, Lt. Stagge had veered slightly, and the rabbit lived to endanger other motorists. This time a jeep was coming from the opposite direction, and Stagge never swerved. The rabbit hit the tires with a grim thump, the jeep zoomed past, and we sped on our silent way.

Initially, I think I amused Ricky.

He was bored, he was lonely, and I offered good entertainment value for the money. A do-gooder journalist looking for a big story. Or even a little human-interest story.

I was someone to talk to, and he needed someone to talk to. I don’t think he expected anything more to come out of it than a few magazines and a little cash applied to his commissary account.

I didn’t expect anything to come out of it either, but he knew how to spin a yarn. He was convincing, and the more I listened, the more I began to wonder if maybe, by some chance, he really was telling the truth about having been set up.

If I closed my eyes, I could see him as clearly as if Ricky sat next to me and not Lt. Stagge.

“Why did you do it? I understand why you went to the aid of the guard. But why did you testify against your fellow inmates?”

Ricky shrugged, drew on his e-cigarette. The knuckles of his right hand were tattooed with the word free.

“You had to know it was going to make things tougher for you in here.”

He gave me a sideways look and smiled. It was a rueful, unexpectedly appealing smile. “No.” He shook his head. “You’ve got me wrong. I’m not a hero. But I didn’t get on the bus either. I’m not looking for a reduced sentence.”

“Then—”

“Yeah, some of these fuckers have it in for me, but they already did. The difference is now the hacks look out for me. A little.”

I was taken aback by his honesty.

“I’d like to come back and talk with you again, if you don’t mind?” I’d said at the end of that first interview.

Ricky had looked startled and then pleased. “I don’t mind.”

I came to see him the next week. And the week after that.

I didn’t tell Ricky I was digging into his case, didn’t make him any promises. Not at first.

But the deeper I dug the more obvious it became that not only was the evidence against him largely circumstantial, the cops had cut more than a few corners gathering it.

There was a strong possibility some of the evidence had even been manufactured.

Eventually I realized he’d been railroaded. That Ricky was innocent.

Innocent. Funny to think of that now. The innocent one had been me.

Except the correct word was stupid.

It was just before noon when we reached the cabin.

The white box-like wood frame had been built in the twenties and was less than nine hundred square feet. Two bedrooms and one bath. It had a couple of picture windows and wood floors. There were ceiling fans to alleviate the blazing hot summer. There were propane tanks to alleviate the freezing cold winter. The best thing about it was the panoramic view from the front room of the wild, open desert and snow-tipped Mt. Whitney. That, and the fact that no one knew about it.

There was no garage. No other structure for as far as the eye could see. Stagge parked behind the cabin, and we got out. April in the high desert can be cold, and despite all that dazzling sunshine, the breeze rearranging the pale sand into fresh piles was chilly. Clean, though. After the hours of recycled air, it was invigorating.

Bees hummed industriously into the wind-scoured silence.

I spotted a rattlesnake skin beneath the yellow blossoms of a desert senna shrub. Funny how all threats are relative. The possible nearby presence of a rattlesnake seemed trivial at the moment.

Stagge drew in a deep breath of the crystal clear, sharply cold spring air. Approval gleamed in his pale eyes.

“Perfect.”

I didn’t think he meant my landscaping, which consisted of rocks, tumbleweeds, juniper bushes, and a bleached coyote skull beside the front porch steps.

He glanced my way. “How often do you come up here?”

“A few times a year.”

“How much of this is yours?”

“Four acres.”

“A nice little spread.”

“Yeah. Day or night, you can see anyone coming from miles away. Plus sound carries out here. You can hear a rockslide clear across the valley.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And as far as you know Barbour isn’t aware of this place?”

“I bought it after we split up.”

Split up. A euphemism for after he tried to carve me into pieces and was sent back to prison for good.

Not for good, though, because as of that morning he was loose again. Which was how it came to be that Lt. Stagge and I were having our little sleepover on the prairie.

At seven o’clock, I’d opened my front door to two uniformed police officers and Stagge.

Good news doesn’t come with a police escort.

Stagge had showed his ID, giving me plenty of time to look it over. “Can I speak to you, Mr. Davidson?”

I’d stepped back without a word, and Stagge walked past me. The unis waited on the porch, pulling sentry duty. That alone alerted me as to what was coming.

“He’s out, isn’t he?” I’d said to Stagge. “He escaped.”

I waited for Stagge to say no, of course not. This was something totally different. Suspicion of cutting the tags off pillows or jaywalking or tossing beer bottles in the nonrecyclable trash.

Stagge sighed, which struck me even then as a slightly odd response. Like he was tired of the whole situation or maybe he was pained to have to be the one to deliver the news.

“Yes,” he said. “Barbour escaped sometime before five a.m. this morning.”

“Sometime before five? You mean he’s been out all night?”

“No. There’s surveillance footage of him just before the five a.m. headcount.”

“How could he get out? It’s supposed to be a maximum security facility.”

Stagge gave another of those weary sighs, like he couldn’t believe he had to say this.

“An investigation is underway, but it appears Barbour slipped out unnoticed right after the guards finished their initial morning headcount of prisoners.”

“But how the hell could he get off the premises? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” Maybe that was more frank than Stagge had intended. He was using his press conference voice when he added, “It appears that Barbour cut through steel bars, crawled through the plumbing tunnels, and then used linens to rappel off the roof of the jail.”

I felt… Not a lot. Not at first. I had been expecting this for three years, so there was no shock. I was ready. I had my own escape plan. But I felt no instant rush of adrenaline, no firing of synapses.

It had finally happened. And mostly what I felt was numb.

Stagge was still explaining. “He almost certainly had help, and that accomplice likely picked him up after he hit the streets.”

It seemed a long time and a lot of effort before I could form words. “You think he’s coming after me.”

It wasn’t a question. I knew Ricky was coming after me. He had said he would. He was a firm believer in revenge. No wrong, whether great or small, should go unpunished in Ricky’s opinion. And my refusal to die on schedule was viewed by him as a deliberate wronging.

Something flashed across Stagge’s face. Some complicated emotion, though he didn’t look like a guy who would have time for complicated emotions.

“No. I don’t. He’d have to be pretty stupid. And I don’t think Barbour is stupid.”

“He’s not stupid,” I said. “But when he’s angry, that’s all that’s in his mind.”

“Maybe. But he’s had three years to cool down.”

Like all cops, I’m sure Stagge thought I was getting exactly what I deserved, but the gruff note in his voice indicated something that might have almost been sympathy. Or at least commiseration.

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t believe him, and that must have been obvious.

He said, “In any case, that’s why I’m here.”

I looked at him without comprehension. I was mentally running through my options. It was roughly three hours to Lone Pine. I could be packed in thirty minutes. Half that. Grab my toothbrush. Grab my pistol. Throw a pair of jeans and a couple of shirts in a backpack. Call the post office to put my mail on hold. I could buy supplies on the way.

Stagge said, “The department is offering you police protection.”

It took a moment to register. “Police protection?”

“Correct. Of course. If you want it, you’ve got it.”

I said sardonically, “That’s pretty generous. Considering.”

“It’s standard procedure in a case like this. Not that we have a lot of cases like this. Anyway, I strongly suggest you accept the offer.”

“Why? Didn’t you just say Barbour is not coming after me?”

Stagge said, “I don’t believe he’s coming after you. But why would any of us want to take a chance on that?”

I knew why I didn’t want to take a chance. Stagge seemed to have missed a memo.

I said, “I think, under the circumstances, I’ll be better off on my own.”

Stagge did not take offense. “That depends. Are you planning to leave town? Do you have some place to go that Barbour doesn’t know about? Friends or family out of state that you could stay with?”

There was something reassuring about his impersonal, practical approach.

I said, “No. I have a place near Lone Pine. Nobody knows about it. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be fine on my own out there.”

“Under these circumstances I don’t think you’d be better off on your own. As I’m sure, if you’ll think for a minute, you’ll realize.”

“Then what? Are you suggesting a safe house? Protective custody?”

“Protection detail,” Stagge said. “I’ll accompany you to the residence in Lone Pine and stay with you until Barbour is recaptured.”

His light, steady gaze challenged mine.

I’ve got as much ego as the next guy. I don’t like depending on anyone else or admitting that I can’t handle everything on my own. I also know what it means to be stalked by a psychopath. To nearly be killed by someone you used to love and trust. As I stared into Stagge’s eyes I could feel the scars on my chest and back twinge and tingle with phantom pain, a reminder that survival sometimes comes down to knowing when to cry for help.

Stagge read my silence correctly. He nodded, glanced around the room, and asked, “Just to verify. You live on your own? Do you have a spouse? A partner?”

“No. It’s just me.” I said, “These days I take a dim view of romance.”

“Keys?” Stagge requested now.

I tossed him my keys, and Stagge disappeared into the cabin.

It was unnecessary. There were no tire tracks on the road or in the yard. No reason to believe anyone had been here in months. But I didn’t mind his thoroughness. In fact, I appreciated it.

I continued to watch the empty road while he made sure the cabin was uninhabited. The wind kicked up dust, but nothing else moved.

After a few minutes Stagge appeared in the doorway. “All clear.”

I grabbed my backpack from the backseat of the sedan and went up the porch steps.

“You’ve got a comfortable hideout.” He spoke absently, checking his cell phone for service. “No television, no landline, no distractions. I bet you sleep like a baby.”

No. I didn’t sleep like a baby here or anywhere else. Life with Ricky had activated my reptilian brain, and it was always active, always scanning the darkness, waiting for a dinosaur to show up. Or maybe that was the lingering PTSD.

“One of these days I’m going to write the Great American Novel at that kitchen table.”

Reassured that cell towers were within distance, Stagge dropped his phone in his pocket and turned his attention on me.

“Here’s how this is going to work. I’ll sleep during the day and keep watch during the night. You’re free to go about your normal business, of course, but I’d ask that if you leave the house for any reason, even just to go for a short hike or a quick run into town, you tell me. You already know not to communicate your whereabouts to anyone, friends, family, colleagues.”

“Yes. I know.”

“I don’t think Barbour will manage to elude capture for more than a day or so. But if he does, if indications are we’re going to be here for any length of time, I’ll requisition additional personnel.”

I nodded. His certainty was convincing. Plus I wanted to believe him.

My decision to launch the crusade to overturn Ricky’s conviction wasn’t fuelled by any personal consideration. I had no inkling that he might be gay. From the point I knew he’d been set up, I was a man on a mission.

But we were talking one day, discussing his arrest, and he said, “The real reason they wanted me behind bars so bad was because they think I offed Mariah’s old man. I guess I could have shot ’em down if I would have just told the truth, that I’m gay, but back then I was more afraid of my family finding out than of going to jail.” His smile was sad.

I hadn’t been able to hide my astonishment. “You’re gay?”

Ricky’s expression had grown wary. “I hope it doesn’t make a difference.”

“No. Of course not. For God’s sake, I’m gay.”

His face lit up. “Is that— I mean, I wasn’t sure. I hoped. That is—”

We smiled into each other’s eyes.

Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me that I was lonely too.

What should have occurred to me—but didn’t for several years—was that while I had been busy researching Ricky’s case, Ricky had been researching me.

I was unpacking in the bedroom—had just pulled my pistol out of my backpack—when Stagge appeared in the doorway.

I met his gaze and said, “I’ve got a permit.”

“Just don’t shoot me by mistake. That’s all I ask.”

“I passed my firearms safety training. I go to the range for target practice once a month. I won’t hit anything I don’t intend to hit.”

I could hear the hostility in my voice. So could Stagge. He said mildly, “Okay, Parker.”

Hearing him speak my name brought me up short. Why was I getting mad at Stagge? None of this was his fault. Frankly, I didn’t love the idea of other civilians carrying either. The truth was, there was a time I’d never have considered having a gun in the house. That was just another way Ricky had changed my life.

I had a gun safe and a state-of-the-art alarm system at home. I never went anywhere or did anything without considering my personal safety. I tried not to let fear dictate my life, but…being a victim of violence, becoming a statistic, had definitely altered me. It was hard to remember that there had been a time when I had been confident in my ability to handle anything that came my way.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If Ricky does show, you can do the honors.”

Stagge’s straight brows rose. “Sure. If you’ll do the washing up.”

I stared at him, not sure how to take that, not sure if he was kidding or not. Not sure if I had been kidding.

Staring back at me, he said, “Bad joke. That was supposed to ease the tension.”

I said, with an attempt at lightness, “Is it tense in here? I thought it was just me.”

“Yeah. Well.” He gave me a little nod, like acknowledging a point, and left me to my unpacking.

Not that there was much of it. A couple of changes of underwear. A ball of T-shirts, jeans, and a flannel shirt. I plugged in my laptop. With no internet, maybe I’d be able to start the Great American Novel this afternoon.

Every cloud has its silver lining. Even tornados.

I left the pistol in the nightstand, stacked a couple of paperbacks beside the bed.

I found Stagge in the kitchen making tea.

We’d stopped at a Subway in Lone Pine and stocked up on sandwiches—his idea, not mine—and he had placed two wrapped loafs on plates at either end of the table.

“Roast beef as requested,” Stagge said. “But if you want to try the chicken Caesar melt, I’ll trade with you.”

I shuddered. Just the idea of food was enough to turn my stomach. “No thanks. Are there any suspects as to who Ricky’s accomplice was?”

“A nurse at the medical facility was questioned. There appears to be a close friendship between herself and Barbour, but they’re still investigating.”

I snorted.

“Sure,” Stagge agreed easily. “But like I said, they’re still investigating. She might not be involved. She couldn’t have picked him up after he escaped because she was on duty all morning.”

“I see.” I moved to the window and studied the empty sweep of chaparral and rock and sand. The highway was clear of traffic all the way to the horizon.

“We weren’t followed,” Stagge said.

“I know.”

I also knew all about the maximum security prison where Ricky had been incarcerated. I had made it my business to know. It was an older facility with a linear layout that made it harder to secure and police. Cells stacked in rows made it more difficult for deputies to monitor every prisoner at all times. That linear layout also made it easier for inmates to circulate through other parts of the facility on a regular basis, which could create opportunities for coordination and planning. Escapes—certainly attempted escapes—from any facility were a fact of life.

As though following my line of thought, Stagge said, “It’s been over thirty years since anyone has broken out of that facility. And you can bet it’ll be another thirty before anyone tries again.”

I nodded.

“Relax. He’ll be back in custody within twenty-four hours.”

I smiled, not bothering to look at him. Stagge was looking at me, though. I could feel his gaze.

He said, “You’ll feel better if you eat something.”

“Will I?”

“You will, yes. This is something I know about.”

I nodded politely. I didn’t want to hear it.

Stagge didn’t waste further breath. He ate his chicken Caesar sandwich and washed it down with a couple of cups of tea.

“Too bad we didn’t pick up any lemons,” he remarked as he drained his final cup. “I like lemons in my tea.”

When I laughed, he looked surprised. “Tea is very therapeutic. Much better for you than coffee.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

I was unwillingly amused. Stagge seemed like an odd guy. Well, maybe not odd. Unexpected. It was a long time since another man had sparked my interest as anything but a potential news story. I found myself curious about Lt. Stagge.

After his meal Stagge retired to the guest bedroom to nap so he could be ready for the night watch. I returned my sandwich to the stockpile in the refrigerator, rinsed Stagge’s plate, and considered working on a story I was doing about LAPD’s controversial internal inquiry into the shooting of an unarmed teen earlier in the year.

Yep. That was going to do a lot for my popularity downtown.

I considered beginning work on that Great American Novel.

Instead I took the chair by the front window where I could keep an eye on the road and used my phone to surf the web and find out how the manhunt for Ricky was progressing. Obviously if Ricky had been recaptured, Stagge and I would be among the first to know, but still, I wanted to learn everything possible about his escape.

Not that it mattered. Not that it changed anything.

There wasn’t much more information than Stagge had originally shared with me. At some point before the five a.m. headcount, Ricky had crawled behind a bunk and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

Managing to make his way undetected past three security points, he had wriggled through the narrow tunnels of the plumbing system, cutting through multiple layers of steel, metal, and rebar, and finally emerged on the roof. From there he had rappelled down four stories with a makeshift rope and escaped.

It was impressive. And terrifying.

Ricky was nothing if not resourceful.

But I already knew that. All I was doing was skyrocketing my own anxiety.

I turned my attention to Lt. Stagge, surfing the web to learn whatever I could about my designated protector.

There was not much to know. As I’d surmised, Stagge’s background was military. I was wrong about the marines. Stagge had been an army ranger. He’d enlisted right out of high school. After leaving the military he had joined LAPD where he enjoyed a successful if unremarkable career. I could find nothing about his personal life and very little about his professional life.

Granted, sometimes no news is good news.

It took five years to get Ricky’s conviction overturned. He was retried on the reduced charges of involuntary manslaughter, found guilty, and sentenced to seven years—a term automatically reduced by the years he’d already served. Early release was secured on the basis of his good conduct and my willingness to supply him with a home and financial support.

I never worked so hard on anything in my life. Saving Ricky was my life.

I had help, of course. Sometimes willing, sometimes unwilling. I couldn’t have done it on my own, but everyone agreed I was the driving force behind getting Ricky out of prison.

At first that made me the hero. Later… Later people said I got what I deserved. That I was as much to blame for everything that happened as Ricky was.

I wasn’t sure anymore whether that was true or not. But that first year—even after I discovered Ricky was sleeping with our neighbor, even after he left me—I was proud of the work I’d done on his behalf. Through my determination and hard work I had saved someone from being wrongly imprisoned, from spending decades in prison. According to Ricky, I had saved his life.

It was the most difficult and most important achievement of my own life—and I was pretty sure it always would be.

But life is full of surprises—and so was Ricky.

I wasn’t sure whether I should wake Stagge for dinner or not, but the question was resolved when he reappeared at five thirty looking rested and unfairly relaxed.

He had removed his tie and sports jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal tanned and muscular forearms. I guess that was his idea of getting comfortable. He wore his shoulder holster, of course. Wore it with complete lack of self-consciousness—used to living in it.

I couldn’t help noticing he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

“As regards…what?”

“Dinner. You want me to cook something?”

The options were limited. We had picked up a loaf of bread, a jug of milk, a box of cereal, and a six-pack of beer at a convenience store when we’d stopped for gas. It was tempting to see what he thought he could do with that.

I shrugged. “We’ve got sandwiches, right?”

“Sure.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He smiled. It was a slow smile that lightened his strong features. His teeth were white and even, his eyes warm. It was an attractive smile, and it seemed genuine. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“I’m guessing you will either way,” I said. It was surprisingly hard not to respond to that smile.

“You need to keep your strength up. Physically and mentally. This could all be over by tomorrow. Or it could take a week. You need to eat. You need to sleep. That way you’re ready for whatever happens.”

It was none of his business, but he was right, which was sort of irritating. He was also so matter-of-fact and pleasant about it that I felt like I ought to at least try to do the smart thing.

“Okay. I can’t say I’m hungry, but what’s left in the sandwich safe?”

I followed him into the kitchen, and we studied the contents of the fridge in silence. Cool, if slightly stale, air wafted out. I could smell Stagge’s aftershave. Something simple and masculine. Gun oil and bay rum?

“We’ve still got steak and cheese, classic tuna, two oven-roasted chickens, Black Forest ham, and a now once rejected roast beef.”

“Roast beef,” I said.

Stagge handed over the sandwich, and I sat down at the table. “Can you actually cook?” I asked, unwrapping the waxy paper.

“Sure. Can’t you?”

“Sure. If I have to. I usually just grab something on the run.”

“Me too.” Stagge sat down and unwrapped what smelled like classic tuna. “I like cooking. No point cooking for one, though.”

I took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as I observed him. “You don’t have so much as a change of clothes,” I said. “You didn’t think I’d accept protection, did you?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I thought you would accept. From what I know, you’re an intelligent man. The decision for me to take this assignment was…”

I waited, watching him choose his words.

“I was angry. There was discussion as to whether or not to offer you police protection, and I lost my cool. There have been enough screw-ups where Barbour is concerned. I volunteered to take the bodyguard detail myself.”

I was shocked. Not that there had been discussion whether to offer me protection. I did not have many friends left on the force. I was shocked that this man I didn’t know, had never met, had been angry enough on my behalf to put his life on the line.

Okay, Stagge had made it clear he didn’t believe he was putting his life on the line, but I could see that if the peril had been both enormous and imminent, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Here was a guy who did the right thing simply because it was the right thing.

I had to clear my throat of unwanted emotion before I could say, “Thank you. I’m sure you’re right and it’s not necessary, but thank you.”

“They’d have assigned you security whether I spoke up or not.”

“I know.” Probably. I’d made a lot of people angry. Some of them were still angry. But even so, the downtown brass were not going to let me come to harm—if only because of the additional horrible press they’d get.

He said almost apologetically, “I get impatient with the…the analysis paralysis.”

I smiled faintly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to spare my feelings. A lot of the brass still hates my guts. I made the department look foolish and incompetent—and then in the end Ricky killed two more people. Or nearly. So I understand sympathy for me is limited at best downtown.”

Stagge gave a short laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re not what I expected.”

I couldn’t help a sour smile. “I know that’s not a compliment.”

He lifted his broad shoulders. “It’s not not-a-compliment.”

“So what did you expect?”

He considered. “You’re younger than I thought you were. You looked older in the trial photos. I don’t know. I thought you’d be…more self-righteous.”

“I am self-righteous.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t think you are.”

“If the police had done their job correctly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. None of the rest of it would have happened.”

“You won’t hear me arguing with you. You won’t hear a lot of cops arguing with you.”

Once again, his calm and candid answer defused my anger. I found it—him—confusing.

Stagge continued, “I thought you’d be harder. More…narrow? Maybe. I don’t know why because I read your articles. I like them. You’re very coherent.”

I laughed. “Coherent? Now that’s a compliment.”

Stagge looked sheepish. “I like your work. I was curious to meet you. So there’s your compliment.”

“Yes. And thanks.” I grinned. “I like your work too.”

Stagge offered me another of those very attractive smiles.

“Now you’ve met me. I’m sure you have a question or two you’d like to ask?”

Stagge gave it his consideration. “I do. Partly because you’re the only one of Barbour’s victims to walk away, which is interesting.”

“That was luck. Nothing else.”

“Partly because you’re a smart guy, but he took you in completely. That’s my question. How did that happen? What the hell it was about Barbour that suckered you in.”

“I’ve always wondered the same thing.”

But I knew, of course. I’d had plenty of time to think it over. It was a combination of circumstances. The perfect storm of my own fucked-up needs and desires. Ricky seemed to need rescuing, which appealed to my inner knight in shining armor. The justice system had genuinely failed him, which outraged me, again triggering my inner knight in shining armor. I was at a loose end emotionally and more vulnerable than I’d realized, especially to a master manipulator like Ricky. And finally, he was exactly my type. Physically slight, boyishly blond, and wide-eyed, almost angelic looking—but earthy and virile. And gay.

In other words, I was an idiot.

“So?” Stagge asked, yanking me back to the present.

“What?”

“What was it about Barbour that convinced you to get involved in his case?”

I gave him the Man on a Mission version. He listened politely, nodded as though maybe some of it confirmed his own thoughts. He didn’t comment, which, imagining what he probably thought of the whole debacle, naturally put me on edge.

I finished up sarcastically, “I wanted to make a difference. And you can’t argue with success. How about you? Why did you become a cop?”

“Same thing,” he said gravely. “I wanted to make a difference. But I decided to fast track and skip the learning phase with the psycho boyfriend part.”

I laughed. I was starting to catch on to his deadpan style of humor. Also…his easy acceptance of a man having a boyfriend. It made me wonder.

“What’s your first name?” I asked.

“Henry.” His brows rose at whatever he saw in my expression. “What’s funny about Henry?”

“Nothing. I like it. It’s very…solid.”

The brows went higher still.

I grinned. “It’s not not-a-compliment, Henry. How’s your…wife?...feel about this kind of gig?”

His smile faded. “My partner passed away four years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I was. And my curiosity was increasing.

Henry nodded acknowledgment of my sympathy.

So…gay? It was looking that way, though most couples living together while unmarried referred to their “partner.”

I said tentatively, “Was…he in law enforcement also?”

“No. Jared was an architect. He died of cancer.”

“That’s…again, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. He was way too young. That fucking disease. It was pretty much the worst thing that ever happened. To either of us. That was Jared’s joke.” Henry’s smile was rueful. “Anyway. I didn’t mean to turn this into my pity party.”

“No, of course not. You didn’t.”

“Life goes on. It’s a cliché, but things become clichés because they’re true. Right?”

“I—yeah. To some extent, yeah.”

“At first you don’t think you can make it through a day. But you do. And eventually, one day at a time, it’s four years later and you’re going out on blind dates.”

“You’re going out on blind dates?”

He nodded grimly. So grimly that it struck me as funny, but this time I swallowed my smile.

“The tough part is meeting people. Police officer has a way of scaring off a lot of potential dates.”

“Yeah? Try telling them your ex is a suspected serial killer. That’s a real romance turn-off.”

Henry chuckled. “I can see it would be tricky trying to pick the right moment. Before the breadsticks or after dessert?”

“Always after the first drink,” I said. “And make it a strong one.”

I didn’t know if finding out your partner was a murdering psychopath was worse than losing a beloved spouse, but it did make it hard as hell to trust again. The truth was, I hadn’t dated anyone since before Ricky. I admired Henry’s courage and resilience. I couldn’t imagine going through the normal, civilized ritual of asking someone out, learning about him over a meal, deciding whether to bring him home—or let him bring me home. I was never going to bring anyone home again. I couldn’t imagine ever sharing a bed with anyone now. No, not true. I’d shared a couple of beds for sex. Never for sleep.

And not very often for sex. There’s nothing like attempted murder for promoting celibacy.

To my relief, Henry changed the subject. “What are you working on now?”

I told him about my article on the dubious findings in the officer-involved fatal shooting investigation.

Again, Henry listened without comment.

“I bet you’re second guessing your insistence on my getting police protection.” I thought I was kidding. I hoped I was.

He frowned. “Are you serious? Do you really think the majority of cops approve of shooting unarmed civilians? Of shooting kids? Do you really think guys like me want to see a departmental cover-up?”

In the face of his quiet scorn I felt a little ashamed. “No. Of course not.”

“There are some bad actors. We all know it. And there are some guys and gals who would be better cops if they had better training. We all know that too. But most of the men and women I work with are out there cleaning up the human garbage the best they can with the tools they’ve been given—and putting their life on the line every single day to keep people like you safe to write the truth however you see fit.”

“I do know that. I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

His eyes were alight with emotion. Not anger, not animosity. A cool and direct challenge. The strange thing was, I liked it. I didn’t like being wrong—I didn’t think I was completely wrong—but I liked the fact that he was ready and willing to argue with me without turning it into something personal. He was as direct and straightforward as a punch—but a hell of a lot more civilized.

“I think I was joking,” I said. “But obviously it’s a sore subject.”

“For both of us.”

“Yes.” I met his gaze. “In case I haven’t made it clear enough. I do appreciate what you did today. And are continuing to do.”

“You’ve made it clear. Like I said earlier, if I hadn’t volunteered, you’d have got your security detail anyway.” He balled up the sandwich wrapper and tossed it neatly and accurately into the trash bin at the end of the sink counter.

Henry pushed back his chair. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in thirty.”

I figured it would take him more than half an hour to work off his irritation.

I built a fire in the front room fireplace and unearthed a jar of ancient popcorn. I dumped the kernels and oil into a pot and was semi-successful at making a batch of popcorn.

Henry arrived twenty-nine minutes later as I was uncapping a beer. He seemed calm and courteous as ever, declining a beer but helping himself to slightly scorched popcorn. We ended up playing checkers, and he turned out to be a good-humored and utterly cutthroat competitor.

“Remind me not to gamble with you,” I muttered, having lost two games in speedy succession.

He grinned. “Aren’t you already gambling with me?”

“Handsome and smart.” Well, that was three beers in. I was trying to guarantee a good night’s sleep.

Henry’s smile curved into something like self-deprecation. Handsome and smart and modest. It wouldn’t be long before one of those blind dates snapped him up.

“I’m feeling lucky.” I waved at the carnage on the board. “Set ’em up, Joe.”

Henry made a sound of amusement but set the board up again. He won that game too, though it took him a little longer.

We had one moment of excitement when Henry, facing the picture windows, spotted a pair of headlights skimming along the distant highway. He rose and went to the window. In profile his jaw looked like a rock, but his expression was thoughtful, calm.

I watched him. Watched the headlights. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could probably hear it.

Now? Was this it?

The headlights glided slowly, steadily past the turnoff and vanished into the night.

Henry turned back to me. “False alarm,” he said cheerfully.

I turned in just after midnight, changing into an old pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt, making up the bed, and climbing between the chilly, slightly musty sheets.

The beers were doing their job, and I felt relaxed and sleepy. I didn’t let myself think about where Ricky was tonight. Tried not to wonder if those headlights had pulled off the road a mile or so up and someone had got out of the car.

The cabin creaked and groaned in the wind, like a giant floorboard beneath an intruder’s foot.

What if Henry falls asleep?

He was not going to fall asleep. That had been the point of having a nap.

He might. He doesn’t believe there’s any real danger.

Maybe not. But I already knew enough about Henry to know he would do his job to the best of his ability, regardless.

He smiles with his eyes…

Yes, he did. And what the hell did that have to do with anything?

I let my own eyes fall shut.

The nightmares were tough, but the worst were the dreams where I forgot that Ricky had tried to kill me. Forgot all of it and dreamed that everything was still okay between us. In those dreams I loved him and he loved me and we were going to live happily ever after.

That forgetfulness on the part of my subconscious hurt in a way the nightmares never did. Waking meant remembering that it had all been a lie.

The personal loss was the least important aspect. I’d figured out fast that I was grieving for something and someone that had never existed except in my wishful imagination. The painful part was that I had used every tool at my disposal, called in favors, sacrificed friendships and alliances within the department and without, stepped on feet and feelings in my determination to see that Ricky received justice.

That night, thankfully, it was just the normal terror of a nightmare. Ricky stabbed me over and over while I fought for my life. His brown eyes blazed with fanatical hatred, and crazy, vicious words spewed from his mouth.

Why. Won’t. You. Die?

The usual. Yes, it had actually happened that way, but in the nightmares I did die. In real life, I’d managed to topple a bookshelf on top of him. The police had arrived before I bled out or Ricky regained consciousness.

I came to bathed in icy sweat, heart thundering in my ears, throat raw from shouting…

“Parker,” someone was saying from a short distance. “Parker, can you hear me?”

I opened my eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar darkness. The room was cold and smelled dusty.

“Parker? You’re okay,” Henry said from the doorway. “You’re dreaming.”

I rasped, “I’m awake.”

I could tell he’d been calling my name for a while. And I appreciated the fact that he had kept a prudent distance. No doubt remembering the pistol I’d pulled out of my backpack. The pistol was still in the nightstand drawer, but for all he knew I was stupid enough to sleep with it under my pillow.

“Everything’s okay,” Henry told me. “It’s all quiet out here.” He spoke with reassuring certainty.

“Yes.” I had to chop out the words. My voice still sounded shaky. “Sorry. I’m fine now.”

The shadow in the doorway hesitated.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Henry asked. He sounded doubtful. Kind but doubtful.

“No.”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Good night.”

His shadow moved away, leaving a gray emptiness of doorway.

I rolled over, found my phone, peered blearily at the numbers. 3:08 in the morning. Still a long time until dawn and daylight. I rolled onto my back and sighed, staring up at the blur of the ceiling.

The dust tickled my nose, and I sneezed.

The floor squeaked outside the doorway. I raised my head.

“Talking can help,” Henry’s shadow said. “At least, I’m a talker, so I think it helps.”

“You’re a talker?” It sounded sarcastic—that was the effort of controlling my voice—but I was actually relieved Henry was back. I didn’t want to be on my own.

There was a humorous note in Henry’s tone. “You haven’t noticed?”

I didn’t answer. I was thinking that I had already noticed too much about Henry.

“Anyway, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

The floor squeaked again as he moved away.

Don’t go.

That was stupid. He had to go. He had to keep watch.

I swallowed the words.

Minutes passed. Something scraped against the side of the house, and I shot upright, reaching for the nightstand drawer.

The sound came again; through the curtains I saw the twisted silhouette of a manzanita bobbing in the breeze, branches scratching the window.

I let out a long breath and fell back against the pillow. I did not feel like I could lie here staring into the darkness for the next two hours: remembering the stuff I tried hard to forget, worrying about what the next day might bring.

I shoved back the knot of sheets and blankets. It was cold in the cabin. I felt around for my socks, slipped them on, padded out to the living room.

The front of the cabin smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke and toasted steak and cheese. In the haze of the firelight I could see that Henry had shifted the few pieces of furniture so that he could sit comfortably on the sofa and watch the road through the large picture window. There was a half-eaten sandwich and cup of tea on the table beside him. He held a pair of night vision binoculars and was watching the road through them.

At my entrance, he lowered the binoculars. “All quiet. Nothing to worry about.”

I can’t explain why, but the sight of him—so solid and already starting to seem familiar—attentively scanning the road even though he didn’t think Ricky was coming for me, caught me in some soft and vulnerable place, a place I’d believed too scarred over and nerve-damaged to ever feel again.

I sat down beside him on the sofa. “Henry, did anyone ever tell you you’re a really nice guy?”

“Sure.” He sounded amused. “I’ve heard that a few times. It’s code for dull.”

I shook my head. “Anyone who thinks decency and reliability and kindness and courage are dull is an idiot.”

“You sure woke up on the right side of the bed. Don’t worry. I know who and what I am. I’m okay with being dull.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing my forehead. I muttered, “Maybe I have a different perspective, but I can’t think of anything more attractive than a boy scout.”

We both listened to the silence following my words. I said, “Er…let me rephrase that. I don’t literally mean a boy scout.”

Henry laughed. “I should hope not.”

I straightened. “You want more tea?”

“I’m good.” I could feel him watching me in the gloom.

I said, “I won’t be able to go back to sleep now. But if I’m bothering you—”

“Hell no, you’re not bothering me.”

We were sitting close enough that our knees were almost brushing.

I said finally, “He was afraid I’d get him sent back to prison. He told me once he’d do anything to avoid going back, and he meant it.”

As though my history with Ricky had also been on his mind, Henry said, “But he’d know he couldn’t be retried.”

“Not for the Evans case. Ricky knew I suspected him of murdering Jamie Gertz. The woman who lived behind us. He believed I was going to go to the police with my suspicions—and he was right.”

“You weren’t still living together by then.”

“No.” I said bitterly, “He only stopped by when he needed cash.”

For a talker, Henry was good at keeping quiet.

“Two months after he got out, Ricky told me it turned out he wasn’t gay. That he’d mistaken his limited options in prison for something else. He was grateful for what I’d done for him, but he didn’t want a relationship with me. So he moved in with Jamie for a while. Then when that didn’t work out, he moved in with Lucetta Johnson.”

“She’s the one currently on life support at County?”

“Yes.”

“But you continued to supply him with money and gifts.” There was no judgment in Henry’s tone, but I could imagine what he thought. What everyone else during the trial had thought.

“Not exactly. A couple of times he helped himself to cash or things of mine that he could pawn. Until I changed the locks on my house. Of course that pissed him off too. When he found out the bank was closed.”

So weird letting myself remember that period of my life. Usually I tried very hard not to remember. Initially I’d continued to help Ricky because I’d promised to be responsible for him. And because, as he grew more aggressive and hostile, not helping him had become increasingly complicated. It wasn’t like I could easily go to the police, having made an enemy of just about every cop I knew.

I’d forgotten a lot, though.

For example, long before Ricky had informed me that he wasn’t gay and didn’t love me after all, I’d begun to suspect that it wasn’t going to work out for us. My idea of who Ricky was, who he would be if he just got the chance, wasn’t just wrong, it was ludicrously misinformed.

Ricky spent his days smoking, drinking beer, and watching TV, or going out and getting high with his old friends. That wasn’t boredom or depression—that was what he enjoyed. His preferred pastime. He had no interest in going back to school. He had no interest in getting a job.

He had no interest in me.

I had still loved him, but I didn’t like him. And maybe I only thought I loved him because I’d invested so much in that relationship that the idea of it not working out was unthinkable. Until Ricky spelled it out for me.

And after that I still resisted the idea that he’d been lying, using me all along, that I’d been taken in by a sad story and a pretty face. I hadn’t understood what I was dealing with until it was almost too late.

“You’re used to being the one who does the rescuing,” Henry commented. “You didn’t know how to ask for help.”

“It’s not that. I burned too many bridges,” I said wearily.

How was it possible that I’d known Henry for less than twenty-four hours and I already knew him better than I’d known Ricky after nearly seven years?

Yet it was true.

Henry reached over and put his arm around my shoulders. An easy, companionable gesture. I let myself be drawn to him, even went so far as to rest my head on his very broad and capable shoulder.

“That’s right, Parker,” Henry said. “Close your eyes. Rest. You don’t have to worry. You’ve still got a bridge or two left.”

Of course I had to worry. If I didn’t have real reason to worry, Henry wouldn’t be here. All the same there was something seductive about the easy strength of his arm around my shoulders, his low voice speaking words of reassurance as though he absolutely knew for a fact what he was talking about. I wanted to surrender my fear and anxiety and uncertainty to Henry. Even if it was just for a little while.

His breath was warm against my face. I could hear the steady pound of his heart.

I whispered, “I hate myself for being afraid.”

“Everybody is afraid sometimes.”

I kept my eyes closed. “What are you afraid of, Henry?”

He was silent. I realized I was going to hear the truth.

“I’m afraid that I had my turn at loving and being loved, and now it’s over and I won’t ever have it again.”

The unvarnished honesty of it made my heart ache. “That’s not going to happen to you.”

He moved his head. Maybe agreement. Maybe disagreement. To me, it felt like nobody can know for sure.

Which was true.

I half turned in the circle of his arm, wrapped my arm around him, kissed him. Even in the darkness and with my eyes shut, I found his mouth unerringly in a sweet, uncomplicated kiss. It was the lightest of pressures, hardly more than a brushing of lips. As if we’d been kissing each other for years, been there for each other for years.

We could be real friends, I thought. Good friends.

Then the kiss changed, mouths growing harder, hungrier. It had been a long time. A long time since I’d been in anyone’s arms. A long time since I’d kissed anyone. A long time since I’d shared the darkness, since darkness had been a lovely and pleasurable thing.

The placid rhythm of Henry’s heart had sped up to match my own. His breathing sounded as rough and erratic as mine. He stroked my back, and though we were both fully clothed, I could feel his touch as though his hand rested on my bare skin, setting nerves alight as though an electric current ran from the base of my skull to the base of my spine. I was turned on and tingling.

“I want to fuck,” I gasped, tearing my mouth away from Henry’s hot one. “Do you want to fuck?”

Henry made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “I want to fuck. Yes. And no. Not on my watch.”

“Not on your—”

“I’m on duty.” Henry gulped for breath. “This is my watch. We can’t. Later we can. Later we should. I want to. Later. Right now we can’t.” He sounded desperate, like he was hanging on to his resolve by his fingernails, which helped defuse my extreme disappointment at the fact that he was turning me down.

“Right. True. Or we could tr—”

Henry’s mouth latched on to mine again. We kissed…kissed… Henry’s fingers dug into my shoulders and pushed me back. His eyes shone in the dim light.

“Hold that thought.”

“Yeah. Yes. You’re right.” I sat back. Let out a very long breath, trying to deflate a bit. Zero to sixty and then back again. I had the definite sensation of whiplash.

Henry picked up his binoculars. The blurred outline seemed to waver.

I shoved the hair out of my eyes. Willed myself to calm down. Given the number of pup tents on the sofa, this faded bit of real estate was beginning to resemble Twentynine Palms.

“Still okay if I sit up with you for a while?”

Henry said tersely, “Fine.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

When I woke it was daylight and I was snuffling peacefully into Henry’s neck.

I blinked slowly back to confused awareness. Henry’s arm was around me again. He was speaking quietly into his cell phone, which was probably what had woken me.

“Mexico,” Henry said.

That jolted me back to reality, and I sat up, moving out of the comfortable circle of his arm.

Henry’s gaze slid to mine. He looked grave, but then he nodded at me, which was presumably reassurance.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to hear the other side of the phone conversation. I was too nervous to stay still. I rose, shaking the kinks out of my shoulders and back, circling the room as I continued to watch Henry.

“And the ID is confirmed? No margin for error?”

The barely audible voice on the other end grew animated.

“Then that’s good news,” Henry said. “Best case scenario.”

My hope rose. Best case scenario?

“Roger. We’ll head back this morning,” Henry said.

Oh.

That.

No more Henry.

But no. As I met Henry’s light eyes again, I relaxed a fraction. This part of it might be okay. It all might be okay if it really was the best case scenario.

There were a few final comments before Henry disconnected. “It’s good news,” he told me. “Barbour was apprehended at the border. He was trying to get into Mexico.”

My heart sank.

“Apprehended,” I said.

Henry was nodding. “He’s already back at CMJ. His identity has been confirmed. There’s no mistake. Barbour is back behind bars.”

“I see.”

“They got him.”

“That’s great.”

Henry’s brows drew together at my lack of enthusiasm. “He was not coming after you,” he said, in case I had missed the significance of Ricky heading to Mexico.

“It seems not.” I made an effort. “Do they know who his accomplice was?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed as though I was slipping out of focus. “Yes. The nurse at the medical facility.”

“But I thought she was on duty when Ricky escaped.”

“She was. Her brother picked him up. Ricky stayed at his residence until she was off-duty, and then the three of them left for Mexico in the brother’s vehicle. An alert border patrol agent recognized Ricky, and they were taken into custody.”

“He—Ricky—didn’t try to resist?”

“No. It doesn’t sound like it.”

I thought it over. Not that there was a lot to consider. “Okay,” I said. “That’s great.”

Henry was frowning. “Parker—”

“I think I’ll just— I need some air,” I said.

Sweat trickled down my back, though the morning was still chilly. The air was thin, the sun was almost painfully bright. It bounced off the sand, shimmering into nothingness. Adding to the apocalyptic feel of the day, a few yards away a roadrunner appeared to be eating a rattlesnake. The limp and dangling snake vanished in beaky gulps.

I closed my eyes to that vision.

This vision inside my head was not so easy to tune out.

Mexico? Ricky had not been coming for me. There had been no danger, no need for protection, no need for Henry.

That was it. It was over.

It had been over for a long time.

What a relief.

Why then did I feel so…let down?

Cheated.

Henry gave me ten minutes and then followed me outside. I heard the crunch of his footsteps and then his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

I could feel him studying me. “No,” he said finally. “You’re not.”

No. I was not.

I said, and I could hear the edge in my voice, “If I were you, I’d let sleeping dogs lie.”

“What does that mean?”

I stared at him. Such a decent, kind man. Such a nice guy. Such a shame I hadn’t met Henry first.

“Come on, Parker. Talk to me.”

I said, “The truth?”

“Yes. The truth.”

“I wanted him to come here, and I wanted you to kill him.”

Henry didn’t speak, didn’t move a muscle. His grave eyes never wavered from my own.

“I want him to be dead.” It was almost a relief to say it. To confess. “I want to be able to forget him. To move on. To stop being afraid. To have a life again.”

Henry nodded, as though encouraging me to come to the point, as though all this was not the point.

I tried to make him understand. “I thought—” My voice cracked. I had to stop.

“You’re doing fine.”

I gaped at him—and then started to laugh. “I’m doing fine? I just told you I wanted you to kill someone for me—”

Bewilderingly, Henry hauled me into a rough embrace. It was a hard, bracing hold. His forehead rested against mine, his ear slightly turned to whatever I was going to say.

“Go on,” he ordered. “Get it all out.”

I shook my head, struggled to hold it back…the things you could not, should not speak aloud. To anyone. Certainly not tell someone you wanted, maybe needed, to care for you.

The words came anyway, tore out in dry, shuddering gulps. It was like being sick. Like trying to expel a poisonous substance.

“He took everything from me. The only thing I had left was the belief that I had done the right thing. That at least I had done the right thing.”

“You did do the right thing.”

“And now he’s taken that from me too.” I didn’t realize I was crying, but wet burned in my eyes. Spilled down my face. Tears for whom? Why? I wasn’t sad, I was angry. The tears made it hard to get the words out, and I wanted Henry to understand. “Because I regret it. All of it. Which makes me no different from the cops who planted evidence on Ricky the first time. I know why they did it. Because if I could say the word and he would be dead…” My voice shook. I steadied it. Said fiercely, “I’d say it.”

My throat closed, and no more words were possible. Maybe that was for the best, judging by Henry’s silence.

Now you know.

Now we both know.

The last time I could remember crying had been the night Ricky told me he didn’t love me. That night the tears were because he’d betrayed me. Today they were because I’d betrayed myself.

Everything I’d ever thought I believed in was a lie.

So what was the point?

What did any of it matter?

Henry’s arms were still clamped around me. It was startling. I stopped crying. Waited for him to say something. He didn’t speak. Our breathing gradually fell into unison. I grew calm.

I felt empty.

But calm.

“Can I say something?” Henry sounded tentative.

I assented.

“The first thing is, Ricky’s not getting out again,” Henry said. “He’s going into solitary, and that will be that.”

“He’ll find a way.”

“No. He won’t.” Henry pulled my face to his. Not to kiss me. To look me straight in the eye. “He won’t. You know what solitary entails. He won’t get another shot. That’s not what this is about. The second thing, well, you’ve already said it, the thing that scares the hell out of you—and you think it should scare the hell out of me too?”

I stared at him.

“He frightens you, and you hate him. You wish he was dead. Do you think that’s a surprise? I don’t. After everything he did, you’d have to be a saint not to feel that way.”

“Even if he hadn’t come after me—”

“You’d think the world was a better place if he was dead? You could be right.”

I had no answer.

“And because of that you’ve decided you’re no different, no better than the cops who locked him away when they didn’t have anything more to go on than suspicion and gut instinct. You think you know why they did it.”

“I do know why they did it.”

“We all know why,” Henry said. “It doesn’t change the fact that they failed to uphold the law they were sworn to protect. What they did, however good they thought their reasons, was a form of preemptive vigilantism. Okay? And everything that followed, everything that happened to you—and his other victims—stems from the fact that they failed to do their job.”

“Henry—”

“It’s not a black and white world, Parker. Which you ought to know since you’ve spent years writing about all those shades of gray. I can’t tell everything that’s going through your head, but one thing you’re thinking is you wasted five years of your life trying to free someone who belonged behind bars. Maybe some people would agree with you. What matters to me, and I think it should matter to you, is you did the right thing.”

I laughed. “Did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

“You fought to save someone who had been wrongly imprisoned. You showed courage and compassion and tenacity. Personally? I admire that. You wasted it on the wrong man. But Barbour is the one who should feel shame. Not you.”

Yeah, maybe. But so what? What did that change?

I was uncomfortably aware that the sun was getting hotter, beating down on our bare heads, that my eyes were swollen and sore and my beard itched with tears and worse. Henry’s face was flushed, and his eyes were unexpectedly bright.

He said, “You say you regret helping to free Barbour. But do you really think you did the wrong thing?”

A few minutes earlier, I had, but now…a lot of what Henry was saying were the very things I had held on to through the bleakest times. I said slowly, “I don’t know.”

“I do. Here’s what I think. I think there’s a little bit of darkness inside all of us. I think there are times every one of us has to fight to keep that darkness at bay. And I think part of how we keep the dark at bay is by looking out for each other, taking care of each other. Loving each other.”

“That doesn’t sound like a cop.”

He held my gaze. “I’m not just a uniform or a badge, Parker. I’m a man. And I try to do the best I can. Which is all any of us can do.”

It was hard to meet his eyes. I nodded.

“Maybe that’s corny, but I’ve seen the worst people can do to each other, and I still believe in love and all the rest of it. I still believe in the light. Whatever you want to call that. I don’t know if what scares you is inside you or outside, and I don’t know if you want to hear this or not, but what I’m saying is…” He sucked in a deep breath as though preparing to dive into cold water. “You don’t have to fight on your own.”

Once, a long time ago, I’d said something similar to Ricky. You’re not alone anymore.

Henry was still looking me straight in the eye. His expression was stern—mouth firm and a jaw like iron—but there was something uncertain and hopeful in his light gaze.

His eyes were blue. Not gray. The tender blue of a true spring morning.

Maybe the universe was having a little laugh at my expense. But for the first time in a long time I remembered that even on the darkest night, even when you couldn’t see them, the stars were still out there.

Author Notes

Lately I seem to be borrowing heavily from true crime. Though inspired by certain real events, the characters in “Night Watch” are entirely fictional.

Thank you as always to Keren Reed.

About the Author

Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure, and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called “arguably the single most influential voice in m/m romance today.”

Today Josh’s work has been translated into nine languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first Male/Male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. The Adrien English series was awarded the All Time Favorite Couple by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group. Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads All Time Favorite M/M Author award.

Josh is married and lives in Southern California.

Find other Josh Lanyon titles at www.joshlanyon.com

Follow Josh on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

If you enjoyed this story, check out the following titles, also by Josh Lanyon:

Novels

The ADRIEN ENGLISH Mysteries

Fatal Shadows

A Dangerous Thing

The Hell You Say

Death of a Pirate King

The Dark Tide

Stranger Things Have Happened: A Write Your Own Damn Novel

The HOLMES & MORIARITY Mysteries

Somebody Killed His Editor

All She Wrote

The Boy with the Painful Tattoo

The ALL’S FAIR Trilogy

Fair Game

Fair Play

The ART OF MURDER Trilogy

The Mermaid Murders

Other novels

This Rough Magic (A SHOT IN THE DARK Series)

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

Mexican Heat (with Laura Baumbach)

Strange Fortune

Come Unto These Yellow Sands

Stranger on the Shore

Winter Kill

Jefferson Blythe, Esquire

Murder in Pastel

Novellas

The DANGEROUS GROUND Series

Dangerous Ground

Old Poison

Blood Heat

Dead Run

Kick Start

The I SPY Series

I Spy Something Bloody

I Spy Something Wicked

I Spy Something Christmas

The IN A DARK WOOD Series

In a Dark Wood

The Parting Glass

The DARK HORSE Series

The Dark Horse

The White Knight

Snowball in Hell (DOYLE & SPAIN Series)

Haunted Heart: Winter (HAUNTED HEART Series)

Mummy Dearest (XOXO FILES Series)

Other novellas

Cards on the Table

The Dark Farewell

The Darkling Thrush

The Dickens with Love

Don’t Look Back

A Ghost of a Chance

Lovers and Other Strangers

Out of the Blue

A Vintage Affair

Lone Star (in Men Under the Mistletoe)

Green Glass Beads (in Irregulars)

Blood Red Butterfly

Everything I Know

Baby, It’s Cold (in Comfort and Joy)

A Case of Christmas

Short stories

A Limited Engagement

The French Have a Word for It

In Sunshine or In Shadow

Until We Meet Once More

Icecapade (in His for the Holidays)

Perfect Day

Heart Trouble

In Plain Sight

Wedding Favors

Wizard’s Moon

Fade to Black

PETIT MORTS (SWEET SPOT Collection)

Other People’s Weddings

Slings and Arrows

Sort of Stranger Than Fiction

Critic’s Choice

Just Desserts

Merry Christmas, Darling (Holiday Codas)

NIGHT WATCH

July 2016

Copyright (c) 2016 by Josh Lanyon

Cover by Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

Edited by Keren Reed

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-937909-49-9

Published in the United States of America

JustJoshin Publishing, Inc.

3053 Rancho Vista Blvd.

Suite 116

Palmdale, CA 93551

www.joshlanyon.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.