Sunken Graves, Alan Lee [all ebook reader .txt] 📗

Jennings brought his head back, catching the other officer in the nose. The man’s septal cartilage broke and the impact rang his skull.

“Stop it! I’m recording this!”

The officer released and sweet oxygen inflated Jennings’ lungs. The man fell into him and they toppled. Landed awkwardly on the pavement in the nook of the open door, Jennings underneath him.

Blood from the officer’s nose smeared onto Jennings’ shirt. He slammed Jennings’ head into the blacktop with his forearm. Jennings experienced the pain in the back of his throat, like swallowing copper. Jennings struck back with his elbow, not his fist, catching the nameless officer in the eye socket.

The officer howled like a child and raised up—his left eye wouldn’t open until next Wednesday. One hand fumbling for his pistol, the other holding his face.

“Stop it! I’m recording this! We’re live. We’re LIVE on Facebook!”

Hathaway’s tone took on a new note of meaning. Enough to penetrate the adrenalin myopia. The officer above Jennings looked at her, his face wrecked.

Hathaway’s phone was pointed at them, the little LCD bulb on the camera bright and shining like a searchlight.

“That’s right. This is live. We’re live on Facebook.” Her voice quavered with fear. “I’m broadcasting and people are watching you, Officer, right now. We have nine viewers so far. Ten. Twelve! This is Daisy Hathaway and we were just pulled over by two Roanoke County police officers. They pulled Daniel Jennings from the car without provocation and started hitting him.”

The officer above Jennings had already slunk out of view, wary of his career being in the spotlight. Hathaway half crawled onto the driver’s seat, trying to follow.

“If you’re watching this, please send help to the…to the Jiffy Lube on…where are we, we’re on 419. We’re the victims of police brutality. Twenty-five viewers so far, Officer Asshole!”

The officer with the wrecked face had retreated back to the bright squad car, afraid of exposure. Hudson was crawling on his knees.

The sudden comedown of the fight left Jennings queasy and raw. The loudest sound was the humming of car engines. He shifted the socket of the prosthesis on his left knee and climbed to his feet, his abdomen protesting.

“Daniel! Are you okay? Speak to me. Let’s go!”

“One sec.” Wobbling. He squeezed his eyes against the throb in his head. Got his license and registration and tossed them into the car. Walked to Hudson and fought down the warm impulse to slam the man’s face into the blacktop and gravel. Instead he nudged the cop with his left shoe. “You’re off duty, Hudson. Aren’t you. No car cameras, no body cam, no radio.”

Hudson, on all fours, didn’t answer. Pain still radiated from his crotch and he was drooling.

“We got you on camera, Hudson. I got your partner’s blood on my shirt too. You show up again, you’ll be in front of a magistrate quick. So back down. That’s as polite as I’m gonna be. Besides, you suck at this.” He pushed harder with his foot and Hudson had to shift his hands or fall. “Tell Lynch you failed.”

Jennings returned to the car. Ducked in, wincing, closed the car door. Dropped into gear.

21

Lying in his bed that night, Jennings watched the video again on his phone. It started as he was being hit and it ended a mile from Jiffy Lube when Hathaway remembered to press stop.

Hudson was never visible. The other officer (Jennings didn’t see his name tag) was a grainy blur in poor lighting. There was a moment as Hathaway shouted, “This is live! We’re live on Facebook,” that his face was partially visible over the car seat. It wasn’t enough, though. Jennings paused it and slowly worked through the frames but the image would only be good for eliminating suspects, not for conclusively identifying one.

Earlier, sitting in the car outside Hathaway’s house, she shot him a coy smile. “I lied about Facebook. We weren’t broadcasting. I…I was scared, Daniel, and panicking and I couldn’t make it work fast enough. So I faked it.”

“You saved the day, Daisy.” He grinned despite the adrenaline tremors wearing off. They were both shaking. “Although I think I had them.”

Hathaway smiled back, relief bonding them closer like glue. “You totally did, Daniel. There were TWO of them and they ambushed us, but you were amazing.”

She insisted he come inside to have his injuries examined but he declined. He was feeling jumpy and violent, not fit for company, so he came home and popped Tylenol and two benzodiazepines—Xanax. Jennings had managed to stay off SSRI medication, instead working through depression with cognitive behavioral therapy and exercise. But he found short-term anti-anxieties useful for spot treatment.

Jennings clicked off the phone and set it on the bed beside him. The medicine was settling in, smoothing his edges. Even so, he laid his arm across his face and cried into it.

A good, healing cry. He’d grown to like them.

The next morning, Thursday, he was woken not by his alarm clock, which he forgot to set, or by nightmares but a knocking at his door. He’d slept in—thirty minutes before class began.

Hathaway stepped inside, carrying Starbucks and a bulging grocery bag. “I brought you get-well supplies.”

It was a cold day. Her blue turtleneck reached her chin and she wore slacks, thankfully—otherwise seeing her in his apartment would’ve been unbearable.

Think risqué thoughts?

Not wearing a robe in the morning with a woman already engaged. And his abs hurt.

He eyed the to-go cups. “Praise the Lord. And you. I accept.”

“Did you sleep?”

“You didn’t?” He sipped the coffee black.

“Barely. It took me hours. I was upset.” Hathaway unpacked the grocery bag. “I brought you a bagel and breakfast sandwich from Starbucks. A muffin and apples from Kroger, plus a refillable ice bag, Ibuprofen, Aspirin, and Neosporin.”

“Thanks, Daisy. I didn’t get you anything.”

“I…” Her voice cracked and she took a deep breath, shaking her hands at her side. She stared at a spot over his head. “I was worried about you. I’m sure you’ve been through scarier