Slow Burn. Heather Graham Pozzessere
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other nostalgia about growing up, certain music, the sight of bougainvillea, the salt scent of the sea on a balmy day. It was just his bad luck that they’d all been friends forever.
David jogged farther and found himself looking down the street where he’d first lived when he’d come here. God, what an awful year that had been. Spanish had been his first language, and the only thing he could remember being called for years had been “refugee.” Not boy, just refugee. He’d had it better than most, though. His father had been in the Cuban prison where he was destined to die, his mother had passed away soon after Reva’s birth, but his mother’s father, old Michael MacCloud, had managed to swoop down right in the middle of the crisis days to help them. He had taught David and his sister, Reva, English. At least then David had been able to understand the Americanos who looked down their noses at him, though what English he did speak he spoke with the old Scotsman’s accent. His folks gone, thrown into a world that didn’t want the upheaval coming its way, he’d started off fighting. That was when he’d met Danny Huntington. Danny had left his pristine public school to walk over to the yacht club to meet his folks, but he’d been stopped by a group of toughs. David had seen it from the small park where he’d been playing, and there had just been something about Danny that had gotten to him. He’d been a skinny kid, and he’d obviously known he was about to take a beating, but he’d stood his ground. Then David had moved in. He’d taken a black eye himself, but he’d still managed to come out on top. The fight had been one of those “you should see the other fellow” occasions, and when it was over, Danny had just stared at him as if he was some kind of hero.
“Hey, thanks, man!”
David had shrugged, determined that no one was going to see that he was hurting like hell himself. “You’re just a skinny little rich kid. I could see you needed help.”
“Jeez, that’s some shiner!” Danny had told him, taking no offense at his comments. “You’d better come with me and get it taken care of.”
That had been the first time David had entered Danny’s world, and it had been a strange time for him. Bloodied, ragged, he had been drawn into the club with its spotless windows looking out on the bay, its rows and rows of sleek, beautiful boats. Everyone had stared at him. The ladies in their pristine white, the gentlemen in their leisure suits. He hadn’t been able to look at the people, the men and the women talking about how the riffraff and the refugees were bringing down the neighborhood. He’d looked out at the boats, instead, and decided he wanted a boat right then and there—more, even, than he wanted a life where he could eat all the mouth-watering food being served around him, play tennis on the perfect courts or dive into the pool. Just a boat, that would have made him happy.
He hadn’t been too fond of Danny’s parents, but he’d met Sly that day, and though he’d had a few opinions about the rest of the lot at the club, he’d known right off that he liked Sly, just as he’d known that one day he would buy a boat.
Sly knew something about politics. He’d heard of David’s father and even knew his grandfather. He’d bought David a meal, and when he’d seen the boy’s eyes, huge and a little overawed, he’d told him, “America, boy. This is America. Trust me. You reach out and get what you want here. The only difference between you and these folks is that their folks got here and did it for them!” And then he’d winked.
When David left that day, he’d thought he would never see Danny or Sly again. But two weeks later out of the blue, he’d gotten a scholarship to Danny’s prestigious grade school, and Michael MacCloud had insisted he take it. When he’d been on the outs, an object of fun for some of the rich kids, Danny had been there, stuck to him like glue, his best friend. Luckily he’d been a damned good athlete, and it was amazing what that could do for a poor boy. A refugee. Soon after David’s strange scholarship had come through, David’s younger sister, Reva, had received one, as well. And Danny had been just as great to Reva.
Spencer had come…later.
He glanced at his watch again and thought about jogging to Danny’s, then decided to jog home, instead. He would call Danny rather than appear. It would be easier to talk to Spencer on the phone. But maybe Danny would answer himself—still there for some reason—or the housekeeper would be in.
It was a strange situation. Danny, the kid born into a world of wealth, was a cop. A homicide detective. That was where they had met up again, after years of going their separate ways after high school. Danny wanted to be D.A. someday. Actually, he wanted to go much higher, but he wanted to take the long route into politics. He wanted to know how the working stiff on the street managed; then he wanted to buck the system all the way, not just catching the criminals, but managing to put them away. Spencer had been upset at first about Danny going into homicide, but Danny had been quick to tell her that it was all right. “The cases I’m called to are really safe. Spence. What are the victims going to do to me? They’re already dead!”
Spencer had reminded him that they had gotten that way through the ill will of others, but it seemed that Spencer really did love and support her man, because Danny was still working homicide. And sometimes the thought that she was there for someone else, not for him, brought a little twist of bitterness to David’s heart. Maybe he hadn’t been quite fair to Spencer Anne Montgomery all those years ago. Or maybe Spencer had changed; he didn’t know. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. She was Danny’s wife, and theirs was a good marriage. She and Danny had come from the same world. They knew how to live in it, and also how to fight it. Everyone had probably expected the two of them to wind up together, just as they had shaken their heads at the thought of Spencer Anne Montgomery winding up with David Delgado.
It was the past. Ancient history. David had his own life. He lived it. But sometimes it seemed that no matter how fast he ran from times gone by, they still caught up with him in the end.
Hell, where was Danny? The sun was beating down mercilessly on his head. He gave a final look around and started jogging to his own house.
A good house. Modern, three bedrooms, on the water, his boat docked in the back. He pushed open the front door and strode to the phone.
“What’s going on? What the hell are you doing here?” Danny demanded.
The answer came quickly in the form of three hastily fired bullets. One burned by his ear. The other two sank into his middle.
The figure raced on as Danny Huntington opened his mouth to protest. No sound came. He fell to the ground.
He didn’t lose consciousness. Not then. He started to crawl. Blood trailed from his wounds, over the dark earth, over tree roots, fallen leaves. Over dirt and pavement.
He kept crawling. David’s house was straight ahead. The door was open. Sweet Jesus, but he was in pain. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, how could one person lose so much blood? His life, oh, no, not yet, he couldn’t die yet….
Spencer…
“Danny!”
David dropped the receiver he’d just lifted and raced to the doorway. Danny was there, crawling toward him, covered in blood. David started to pick up his best friend, registering almost blankly that Danny had been shot. Years of training sprang into his mind, and he ran for his phone again, dialing the police dispatcher.
“Three-fifteen!” It was the code for Emergency! Officer needs assistance. “It’s Danny Huntington, and he’s been shot.” He gave his address, then added, “Hurry, damn it!” He’d already said enough, he knew they would hurry for any officer, but this was Danny. In his heart he kept pleading. Christ-oh-God-please-get-here-it’s-really-bad.
He raced to Danny and cradled his friend in his arms, trying to discern just where the injuries were. Shot, oh, hell, Danny had been shot twice, and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he still had a pulse, his heart was beating, and his lungs were still laboring. If the trauma unit could just get here and get him over to Jackson, they worked miracles there.
Staunch the blood, you asshole, staunch the blood. You’ve got to keep him alive, David told himself.
But the bleeding wouldn’t