Fighting Conviction by Greer Rivers
Chapter Twenty-Four
Neal stabbed his hands through his thinning hair and screamed at the top of his lungs. It’d been too long since he last shot up and this time the wait would kill him. Ever since that little blonde bitch saw him weeks ago, he’d been extra careful about going to dealers. Unfortunately, the ones he trusted most worked for the Russian. They’d all been instructed to cut him off. Thankfully he’d kept a stash, but rationing it out was a goddamn bitch.
“It’s fine, Cici. I’m fine. We’re fine. Look.” He stumbled through the room to the piles of files he had surrounding his chair. “I’ve got all this dirt on everyone. I’ll make them give me the meds. They can’t do anything to me after I show them all this.”
He twirled around in the middle of his living room, uncaring about the piles of paper he tripped on, or the used paper towels and various bits of trash that had accumulated around him. He laughed loudly and slapped his hand against a large file he’d packed in his briefcase from the precinct. No one there was trustworthy, so while he ultimately kept all the files hidden away in various parts of his office, he had to work them up at home with his corkboard. The only truly safe place was his house. There were eyes everywhere else and no one fucked with him in the neighborhood. They were all too afraid of the cop.
It didn’t used to be like that. When he and Cici first bought the house, police officers were revered across town. Now he was lucky to get a smile, let alone a first responder discount.
“But this… this will change everything, Cici. I just need to get better. Just one more dose and I’ll get well. This will do it.” He waved the file at the woman in the mirror above the couch before turning and muttering so she couldn’t hear. “All this’ll damn me one way or the other.”
“Don’t say that, Neal.”
“Why not?” Neal whipped around to yell at her, pointing his drink in her direction, but she was gone. He staggered back, pivoting with each step, trying to find the embodiment of the voice that was becoming more and more real to him every day. She was nowhere to be found so he leaned against his side table and tipped the glass back and patted the last remnants of the ‘shine down his mouth. He swiped the back of his hand against his mouth and yelled at nothing. “Why the fuck can’t I say things like that, Cici? You sure fuckin’ did!” He threw the empty mason jar against the wall, shattering it into thousands of little pieces before he mumbled. “You said ‘em ‘n left.”
He walked into the kitchen to get another jar to take the edge off. The first one had only dimmed the edges of his memories. He needed full obliteration.
Before the Russians cut him off, he hadn’t had a proper drink in years. But the time between hits made it hard to think of anything besides getting his next doses and getting well. He’d decided to trade one demon for the other. A sip of his cousin’s moonshine here and there did the trick. They’d been Christmas gifts for decades, and Neal never had the balls to tell him he’d quit.
“Good thing I never threw this shit out.” He pulled more moonshine from the pantry and unscrewed the wide mouth aluminum top for a large swig. It burned, but he’d gulp down the delicious heat as long as it promised oblivion.
Neal slammed the mason jar on the kitchen counter a little harder than he meant to. He picked up the glass and examined the bottom, making sure he hadn’t cracked it. Wouldn’t do to waste a good batch of hooch.
Seeing no cracks, he shrugged before taking the few strides to the entryway between the living room and the kitchen. From where he stood, the profile map on his corkboard stared back at him from the living room, mocking him with all the answers he couldn’t share. Not yet.
As he was about to cross the threshold into the living room, a shadow passed on the mirror above the couch. A sharp chill rattled through him and he shivered.
“What was that? W-was that you, Cici?”
For the first time in months, only silence answered back. Neal whispered a silent prayer of thanks that he always carried his holster with him now that people were following him. He gripped the butt of his gun and swiveled his head to scan the perimeter, making sure he was flush against the kitchen wall beforehand so any intruder who came in wouldn’t catch him from behind. A drumbeat echoed in his mind until he realized it was his labored pulse, filling his body with its own adrenaline high.
Leaning against the doorjamb between the living room and kitchen, Neal’s eyes flicked around to try to find the shadow he’d seen.
“Cici?” he whispered, even as he knew it was pointless. She only came to him on her terms. Neal couldn’t blame her though. He was a sorry SOB now, but he’d never been good enough for her to begin with. Hell, Cici had suffered the pain of her body constantly fighting against her, and she’d still stayed a saint. If the tables were turned, Neal would’ve gone batshit.
He shook his head. He was being stupid. Whatever he’d seen was a figment of his imagination. Cici wouldn’t play tricks on him. He just needed his medicine. Everything was better when he had medication running through his veins.
He brought the glass up to his lips, only to find his hand empty. He whipped around to the kitchen where the ‘shine still sat on the counter.
He stared at his empty hand and the counter before doing another double take. “How the fuck did you get there?” he mumbled. He shoved his hand in his pocket and retrieved the lighter that calmed him with its consistent flicker. Every time he ignited it, it followed through. There were few things in life that reliable.
He trudged to the kitchen and got the jar, shoving it up to his lips and clipping his teeth on the mouth of the glass. It was heavier than he’d remembered but it didn’t matter. He walked back to the living room, kicking at the wads of trash that had collected.
“Need to clean up,” he mumbled as he rubbed his aching head. “Cici will have my hide when she gets home.”
He swigged the moonshine and swished it around his mouth. The more it burned, the less he noticed. Neal gazed over his hard work over the last year. The red strings illustrated a map to nowhere if you didn’t know your destination. But he knew exactly where each red vein led, and he was thisclose to figuring out who was at the heart of it all. Once he did, he’d decide who to take the information to. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t be caught with his pants down again. Hell, if he got well in the meantime, it’d be a no-brainer where to send the files to.
“We can only hope, ain’t that right, Cees? Just dial it back, one step at a time. We’ll do it together.” Neal mocked the last slurred word as he spat it from his mouth. She definitely wasn’t going to like that. The last time they’d gotten into it, she’d said it was her or the alcohol. He’d taken a swig just to spite her. He thought he’d won when she didn’t say a word back.
Maybe if he’d looked closer, he would’ve seen her quit in that moment. Maybe if he’d listened, he would’ve realized the silence afterward wasn’t the same thing as peace.
“You know… I imagine it sometimes. When we fought last. If I hadn’t been such an ass. If I’d been lookin’ right at ya instead of thinkin’ about my next sip. If I’d had—” He waved his hand up to the board in front of him. “If I’d had little red lines to show me what road you went down after that fight… maybe I could’ve stopped myself. Maybe I could’ve stopped you.”
“We can’t change the past.”
“I know…” Neal sighed and lay back in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankles and once again following the red trails with his eyes. The lifeblood of Ashland County was implicated before him. He flicked the lighter in his hand and leaned back, holding it straight out in front of him. He was far enough away that the flame encompassed the entirety of the board. He couldn’t see the fucked-up history of his town. The town he’d sworn to love and protect. The town he’d failed.
“It’s like you, Cici.” The monotone of his voice sounded odd and tinny in his ears. Like a man he no longer recognized was speaking through him.
The heat of the flame burned at the pad of his thumb, but he didn’t care. The burn peeled away at the layer of shame he’d carried with him for eight years.
If he’d listened to Cici. If he’d listened to anyone. Stopped drinking when she’d asked. Paid attention when she’d begged him to notice her. Not have been so damned selfish. Maybe things wouldn’t be so fucked up. Cici might be alive. That girl from last year… the dozens of women he’d lost under his watch…
“You didn’t know.”
“Exactly.” Without the hit to take away his thoughts they ran rampant in his mind, running at a pace he couldn’t keep up with but the ideas were all the same.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
They died.
Because of me.
Finally the heat grew to be too much and he dropped the lighter. It fell inert on his lap and he swiped it away to make sure it didn’t burn through his trousers.
Another small burn mark formed on aged green carpet. He imagined it spreading up to the edges of the board, across his shoes, up his legs, deep in his gut, all the way to ravage the empty hole where his heart was supposed to be. He’d been so empty, so cold, for so long. It was nice to feel something again. Even if it was all in his imagination.
