Jack Dillon's acne-scarred face remained still as the detective pulled the morgue drawer open. The metal track moaned. Dillon looked at the wrapped body as a mist of chilled air touched his cheeks. The detective unzipped the body bag and exposed the dead man's face. Dillon moved more of the bag aside to reveal the jagged lightning bolt tattoo on the dead man's left shoulder. He tilted his head to the side and said: "That's Harry." A slight Irish accent filtered his words.

"You're all broken up."

Dillon eyed the detective. "What do you expect? You asked me to come and identify the body. I've done what you've asked. Now I'd like to go home."

Detective Mike Callaway shoved the drawer closed. The gold ring on his finger twinkled in the overhead light. "Okay, you did what I asked. Let's go talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about." Dillon turned for the door, pushed through. The fluorescent lights reflected brightness off the tiled floor and Dillon squinted. The air conditioning didn't make the hall as cold as the cooler but Dillon felt a chill up his neck which irritated him. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he made a left turn and headed for the exit ahead.

The detective caught up and said: "Harry Ames corresponded only with you and his girlfriend the five years he was away. On the day he's released somebody shoots him on the sidewalk. Why?"

"I was wondering that myself."

Dillon reached for the exit door and Callaway grabbed his arm. "I'm serious."

Dillon twisted out of the grip and put a hand on the cold metal crash bar. "What do you want to know? Harry and I were pals from way back. He did some things I wasn't involved with. Repeat, things I wasn't involved with. I don't know who shot him and I don't know why he was shot."

"How did you know him? You have no record in this town and no residence in the U.S. until ten years ago. Where do you fit in?"

"Harry and I were in the Boy Scouts together. Or we were in the Army together. Maybe the Peace Corp. I forget things."

"The F.B.I. once looked at Harry for smuggling guns to the I.R.A. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Dillon pushed the door open and started down the outside steps. The bright sun made him squint, too, but the fresh air felt good, and his skin warmed under the sunlight. When his feet hit the sidewalk, the detective called out, "I'm not through with you. Record or not I know trouble when I see it."

Dillon didn't turn around. He said, "Good luck," and kept walking.

He locked his car at the curb beneath the humming street lamp, in front of his apartment building. A few cars rumbled up the road. Dillon looked up at the half moon. When he lowered his gaze, he saw a black sedan parked down the street. Two men sat inside, watching him. Dillon shook his head and went up the steps.

In the quiet vestibule he checked his mail slot, found it empty, hustled up the steps to his second floor apartment, unlocked the door and went in. The place still smelled of fried eggs and sausages from breakfast. On the dusty table to his left he placed his wallet and keys and flicked a light switch.

"'Bout time you got back."

Dillon turned. Two men sat in his living room. One occupied his worn plaid recliner and had a fat mole on his left cheek and wore a shirt too tight for his round belly. The other lounged on the couch with Dillon's copy of Scuba with the front cover folded back. The second man had a mop of red hair. Both looked at him with dark eyes.

The man with the mole had spoken, and raised his arm to show Dillon a gun.

"We were just about to leave," he said. "Frankie said five more minutes. I think he just wanted to finish whatever he was reading."

"I'm going to have to visit Monterey," the redhead, Frankie, said, holding up the magazine. "Looks really nice."

Dillon grunted.

"Take off your jacket," Mole Man said. Dillon removed his coat and dropped it on the carpet. He raised his arms, rotated, faced the two men.

"I don't have a gun," Dillon said.

"And I give to Make-A-Wish."

Frankie put the magazine down and came over to Dillon and clamped one hand on the flesh between Dillon's neck and shoulder, pressing hard. Dillon winced, stiffening, and the redhead ran his other hand up and down Dillon's body. He stepped away. "Clean, Mal."

"Good," Mal the Mole Man said. He stood up. "So where are they?"

"What?"

"The letters. We want the letters."

"And I'd like to get back the money I lost tonight."

"The cards weren't good to you? That's too bad. Texas Hold-'em or Stud?"

"Stud," Dillon said.

"I like stud poker," Mal said. "I think Texas Hold-'em has ruined the game. Everybody and his uncle is playing Texas Hold-'em."

"Are," Dillon said.

"What?"

"Everybody and his uncle are playing Texas Hold-'em."

"Oh, you're a grammar queen, is that it?"

"What's the rumpus?"

"We want the letters."

"I told you I don't know what you're talking about."

"Frankie?"

The redhead moved his upper body and Dillon braced for a punch but the other man lashed out with a kick instead. The redhead's leather shoe smashed into Dillon's belly. Breath rushed from Dillon's mouth; he hit the floor hard. The redhead took a step, slammed another kick into Dillon's side. Dillon couldn't breathe, started to roll. The redhead bent a little and punched Dillon in the face.

Dillon lay on his back, curled, sucking air. Spots filled his spinning vision. His body throbbed. He clenched his teeth and groaned.

"Ask him again, Frankie."

The redhead stepped closer. His foot came back. Dillon uncoiled his body and grabbed the redhead's ankle, twisting, and the redhead thudded down. Dillon crawled over and pumped his fists into the redhead's body. The man had hard muscle beneath his clothes. Dillon punched harder. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

Mal the Mole Man said, "Hey!"

The redhead's coat fell open, revealing a shoulder-holstered Browning automatic, and Dillon snatched out the gun. He sprang to his feet, snapped back the Browning's action, and covered the Mole Man. He kept his teeth clenched, holding his side.

"Stop."

The redhead started to get up. Dillon put a foot on his face and pressed hard. The redhead made a hurt sound.

Dillon said: "I don't know what you want and I don't have any letters so you and your boyfriend better scoot before I decide to stop being nice."

Mal the Mole Man smiled. "Okay." He put his gun away.

Dillon stepped back and Frankie rolled over and pushed to his feet. He eyed Dillon without blinking. His eyes went to the Browning. "I want my gun."

"I'll give it back after show-and-tell tomorrow," Dillon said.

The Mole Man and Frankie reached the door.

"Hey, Frankie," Dillon said.

Frankie looked back.

Dillon said: "I see you in Monterey, I'll kill you."

He leaned against the wall a moment, and then set the Browning on the table with his wallet and keys. A flash of gold on the back strap caught his eye. There were words engraved and inlaid with gold. TO FRANKIE FROM FIFI WITH LOVE. Dillon laughed. He turned and surveyed his apartment. Nothing seemed out of place or damaged.

He picked up the scuba magazine and shoved it in the trash. He took a bottle of beer from the 'fridge and sat at the kitchen table, planting a foot on one of the legs to keep the table from wobbling. He drank some beer. What letters? Who shot Harry? Dillon's brow furrowed and he took the bottle into the second bedroom, which he'd set up with a desk and bookcases.

From a desk drawer he removed a folder and sorted through letters post-marked from the state prison. Harry's letters. He read through them. None of Harry's jabbering provided a clue. They all mentioned Maggie, his girlfriend, whom Dillon had met once or twice but didn't really know. Dillon found the last letter, scanned the words, and noticed what looked like part of a map drawn in the margin and the word Emerald above the scribbles.

Dillon folded the letter and left the others on the desk. Back in the kitchen, he drank the beer and looked at the map. He remembered seeing it when the letter arrived. The post-date read six months ago, but he hadn't asked what the drawing meant. Obviously it was something Harry wanted when he was finished his sentence, and asking a question like that in a letter prison officials read prior to distribution wasn't smart. So what was Harry trying to say?

Dillon sat on a soft leather couch in the Starbucks and watched the thin blonde behind the counter. She and a young man with metal studs in his bottom lip made coffee and cracked jokes. Dillon read a newspaper front to back and again and shifted every now and then because the butt of the Browning kept digging into his side. When he wasn't looking at the thin blonde he glanced through the front at the dark sedan parked outside. The two men in the car were different from the night before, but they'd followed him from the apartment. He hoped Callaway enjoyed their nothing updates. He wondered if the detective was bored yet.

Presently the thin blonde ended her shift and headed for the exit sans apron. She wore dark slacks and halter; each seemed a little baggy, too big for her. Her bony arms swung at her sides; the small purse in her right hand was missing some of the plastic faux diamond studs. Dillon put the newspaper down and opened the door for her. She frowned at him. He said, "Maggie?"

"You're Jack, right?"

"Come with me."

They climbed into Dillon's car and talked about Harry for a few minutes. Once she dried her eyes, Dillon said, "Anybody pay you a visit? A redhead and a guy with a mole on his face?"

She shook her head.

"They want something and they think I have it," Dillon said. "I may have part of it. I think you have the rest of it and if that's what I think then they'll think it, too."

"What are you talking about?"

"Did you keep any of the letters Harry sent you?"

"Sure."

Dillon started the car.

"I don't know why anybody would shoot Harry," Maggie said as they drove.

"I wasn't in the country when they put him away," Dillon said.

"What did he do?"

"He never told you?"

"I never asked."

She said: "He stole the wrong car."

"That's it?"

"He was part of a ring that stole cars to ship them overseas," she said. "The car he stole had one of those tracking things and the cops found that and a whole bunch of other cars at the shop they were using."

"Who was he working with?"

"I don't know. It's not like we talked about it every night. They'd be long gone anyway. Those that got away. Some went to prison same as Harry."

Dillon stopped for a light and tapped the steering wheel. When they reached Maggie's apartment, Dillon sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. The automatic dug into one side of him and the stool's backrest jabbed into his lower back and after a while his back started to ache. His whole body remained sore from the beating.

He sat in a slump and tapped his fingers while Maggie rooted around in another room. She returned with a shoe box and emptied it onto the counter. Harry had written Maggie more than Dillon but he wasn't surprised. They sorted through the letters. Dillon told her what to look for. Presently she found the drawing. The lines ended without forming a picture. The word Lake had been scrawled above it.

Dillon took his letter from a pocket; put the two pieces of paper together and the words Emerald Lake and the drawing made sense.

"It's a map," she said.

"Sure. To Emerald Lake. What's there?"

"Maybe Harry hid something before he was sent away? Those two guys used to work with him and they want it?"

"Could be. He's marked a spot near the water. Twenty paces from the dock, looks like. Guess he buried it."

She said: "Let's go find whatever this is and see how much it's worth."

"It'll be dark by the time we get there."

"We need to go now."

"Why are you driving like this?" Maggie said as Dillon completed another sharp turn.

"Shaking the cops."

"If we have cops following us—"

"Not anymore." Dillon gave the rearview a confirming glance. "Callaway thinks I know more than I told him and he's had babysitters with me since I identified Harry's body."

"This is nuts."

"Quiet now."

"We better find something."

Dillon didn't respond and they said no more as he drove two hours outside the city limits to Emerald Lake. A posted sign said the lake closed at ten p.m. each night, but no gate barred their entry. Dillon eased his car onto the dirt parking area and stopped. He and Maggie exited. She looked around the darkened area, zipped her jacket.

Crickets chirped and the nearby water lapped the shore. Dillon scanned for any other visitors amidst the rustling trees while he checked the Browning nine-millimeter. He had also brought a second just-in-case weapon, a two-shot Derringer, and kept it in his left pocket.

Maggie said: "So?"

Dillon popped the trunk and pulled out a small shovel.

"Let's find the dock."

Dillon had redrawn Harry's map and shined a pen-flash on the page. He turned his back to the dock and pointed the flash back the way they came.

"Twenty paces," he said.

"Are you sure we're at the right starting point?"

Dillon began counting steps. His shoes sank into the soft ground. A twig snapped somewhere. Dillon continued counting and stopped a few feet from a tree. A bare patch in the bark of the tree had a jagged lightning bolt carved into it. The carving matched Harry's tattoo.

Maggie said: "Here?"

He handed her the pen-flash. "Hold this."

Dillon pushed the shovel into the dirt. After four scoops he heard a clank. The crickets, so faithful earlier, quieted to near silence as Dillon started digging around the metal box he'd struck. He tensed for action.

"Almost there?" Maggie said.

"Better believe it."

Dillon dug around the box, using the shovel blade to pry it out of the ground. He reached down, unlatched the lid, and stared at the cluster of red rubies winking in the moonlight.

"Nice," Dillon said. "I wonder when he got these."

"Who cares?"

Another voice said, "I care."

Dillon said, "Down!" and rolled into the dirt as single-shots split the night. Maggie, flat on the ground, looked wide-eyed at moving shadows in the trees.

Dillon swung the Browning behind him and fired twice. He told Maggie to stay put and crawled to the tree as two shots smacked it, shards of bark pelting Dillon's face. He flinched. Shadows moved again. Dillon charged forward, fired twice to the right, to the left, then hit the ground. His chin gouged the dirt.

Return fire crackled over head. Another pair of shots—sounding different from the others—snapped; a man screamed.

Dillon lay still, his gun trained to the left of his position. The shadow he'd fired at broke cover, started forward.

"Frankie?" The Mole Man's voice.

The figure stepped closer. Dillon raised his aim a bit.

"Frankie?"

Dillon inhaled a breath, let half out, held; the figure took another step. Moonlight flashed on the Mole Man's face and before he could see Dillon, the Browning automatic spoke once.

Mal the Mole Man took the round in the neck. He stood a moment, frozen, stunned, making choking sounds. Dillon fired again and the man's head snapped back as he dropped.

Dillon stood, breathing again, and brushed the dirt from his shirt, jeans and face. He found Maggie back at the hole. She, too, was rising, but made no effort to get rid of the dirt on her clothes. She said, "Are you hurt?"

"No." Dillon tucked the nine-millimeter into his belt. He picked up the metal box; then he saw Maggie had a gun pointed at his face.

"Toss your pistol, Jack."

"Wow. I never saw this coming."

"Get rid of your gun."

Dillon threw the box to the dirt and it landed hard, contents rattling, but Maggie's eyes did not leave Dillon's. He took out the Browning and dropped it. "Killed Frankie, yeah? I thought those two shots sounded different."

"Put your hands up."

"You shot Harry, love. Why?"

"It was over between us years ago but he wouldn't leave me alone. He told me about the rubies but you had the other half of the map."

"So Mal and Frankie were working for you? No wonder Frankie let you get close enough to kill him."

"Get back."

"Uh-huh."

Dillon stepped back and to one side; Maggie grabbed the fallen box, glancing for one second at the handle. Dillon's hand flashed to his left pocket and the Derringer hidden there. Maggie turned too fast, stumbled from the weight of the box as she tried to adjust her aim. Dillon fired once, twice. Maggie pitched forward on top of the box. With a foot Dillon shoved her body aside, grabbed the box, and retrieved the tossed nine-millimeter.

He went back to the car and drove away.

"I didn't think you were one for funerals, Dillon," Detective Callaway said.

Dillon ignored the intrusion. He faced a stone wall with sections carved out for urns, and placed Harry's ashes in one of the slots. Hands clasped in front of him, he kept his head bowed slightly while the detective stood behind him. A breeze ruffled Dillon's shirt collar.

"I don't suppose you know anything about three bodies found at Emerald Lake near a hole in the ground, do you?" Callaway said.

Dillon didn't reply.

"One of them just happened to be Harry's main squeeze."

Dillon took a deep breath and said: "I came here for peace and reflection, Detective. You're disturbing me."

The detective stepped in front of Dillon. They looked each other in the eye.

"You cover your tracks well. But you're not untouchable. I'll figure out where you stand someday."

"Sure you will."

"For now, I'm not exactly weeping over the loss of those three at the lake."

"Fancy that."

"Keep your nose clean, Dillon."

"See you in church."

Callaway walked away. Dillon looked up at Harry's urn. He let a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Brian Drake