Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (i can read book club .txt) 📗

Susan didn’t know what to make of that so she nodded and smiled again. “Took me a while after coming over here to understand how big a deal the Fourth of July is. Parades and fireworks, the whole nine yards.”

McNulty smiled back at her. “The whole nine yards? You really are an all-American girl now.”

Susan looked at her brother, this alien from a foreign land. “I can hardly remember any English phrases. They’ve all gone. Wiped away with all those other memories. Almost.”

She was aware of sounding downbeat so she sat up straight. “They can’t do bacon or fish and chips, though.”

McNulty softened his eyes. “Or treacle pudding.”

Susan laughed but McNulty thought he could see a tear in her eye. The smile looked a little forced. “Vince. They don’t even know what treacle pudding is.”

As if to prove the point Tilly came out from under the bed. “What’s treacle pudding?”

Her mother gave her a hug. “I’ll get one and show you.”

McNulty looked at these girls he barely knew, a sister who’d grown up without him and a daughter he’d never have. He tried to keep the conversation light. “And Bird’s custard.” He lowered his voice as if telling a secret. “You could make it a Fourth-of-July treat.”

Tilly jumped up and down. “Yes, yes. July Fourth treat.”

McNulty took another sip of water before broaching this next subject. “Your man at the orphanage is giving some treats of his own, isn’t he?”

Susan nodded. “Biggest ever this year.”

McNulty put his cup on the bedside table. “Yes. We need to talk about that.”

Susan sent Tilly out of the room with a whisper and a giggle. Amy was waiting outside and nodded through the door with a promise to look after her until they could come back in. McNulty settled himself against his pillows and spoke for ten minutes solid. He didn’t go into detail because he didn’t have any details, but he told her his suspicions and what he thought they should do about them. Susan listened in silence until it was time to respond.

“You finding another dangerous situation to put yourself in?”

McNulty shook his head. “This isn’t about angry-man survivor guilt.”

Susan showed more sense than her brother. “So tell the police and let them do the dangerous stuff.”

McNulty told his sister how it was in reality. “The police think I’m involved.” He waved a hand toward the door as if the detective were standing there. “And Harris doesn’t believe a word that comes out of my mouth.”

Susan pursed her lips. “After you tackled him on camera and searched the dead guy’s room? You don’t make things easy for yourself, do you?”

McNulty frowned. “Easy doesn’t get it done. Getting down and dirty is what you need.”

Susan didn’t defrost. “And you want me to tell that to Harlan DeVries?”

McNulty put a little bit of pleading into his voice. “I want to tell him myself. If there’s no million dollars, there’s no robbery.”

Susan proved she’d gone native. “And there’d be pretty much no Fourth of July.” She snorted a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “You might as well try and cancel Christmas.”

McNulty sat up and leaned forward despite the pain. “This isn’t about presents under the tree. People are going to get hurt.”

Susan breathed slowly and nodded her head. “And you’re still about protecting the people.”

McNulty kept steady eyes on his sister. “It’s what I do.” He shrugged. “When I’m not making actors look like cops.”

The room fell silent. There was no bleep of a heart-rate monitor or hiss and puff of a breathing machine. McNulty was no longer hooked up to either of those things. Even the clock above the door didn’t tick, the hands just gliding around the clock face in silence. The only sounds were the rush-hour traffic on Washington Street and the hubbub of hospital life outside the recovery room. The shafts of sunlight had moved across the floor. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. There was nothing left to say. Eventually Susan leaned forward and looked at her brother.

“I’ll ask him to come see you.”

McNulty nodded his thanks. “That’s okay. I’m checking out so I can go see him.”

Susan looked sceptical. “Against the doctor’s advice, I suppose.”

McNulty hid the pain. “The doctor’s done all he can. I’ll live.”

“Not forever at this rate.”

“Long enough to get the job done.”

Susan sat upright. “You see. There you go again. Angry-man survivor guilt.”

McNulty kept a straight face. “You’ve got to survive to feel guilty. I’m a survivor.”

Susan sighed. “Well, just in case you don’t make it. I’d better give you this now.” She clapped her hands and the door opened.

Some gifts simply pass the time but then there are presents that change the future. Nobody knew which one Tilly’s gift was going to be until McNulty unwrapped it. Susan watched her daughter with pride swelling her chest. Amy just watched. The five-year-old handed McNulty the six-inch package and giggled. Gifts always made her giggle, even ones for other people. McNulty tore the paper off and looked at the cellophane wrapper.

“Battenberg cake.”

Susan raised her eyebrows. “You have no idea how hard it was to find Battenberg in Waltham.”

McNulty smiled at Tilly then looked at his sister. “My favorite right after treacle pudding.”

Susan nodded. “I remember.” She shifted in her seat. “Good memories always last longer than bad ones.”

McNulty peeled back the cellophane and looked for a knife to cut off a slice. The squares of yellow and pink sponge cake were tightly wrapped in marzipan, the part McNulty liked the best. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sickly-sweet smell.

Then he stopped.

His mind raced back to the last time he’d smelled that distinctive sweetness. A half-eaten cake in the cabin under the overpass. But that wasn’t what gave him pause. There was something else that had the same smell—marzipan was the reason tracker dogs often got a false scent when looking for explosives.

FORTY-ONE

The junkyard was dark and quiet in the shadows of the