15 Seconds Read online

  “Yes, I see . . .” Steadman said. He ran his fingers against Vance’s bunched skin. “Okay . . .” He went back around his desk and began to type into his computer. “We can perform what they call a rhytidectomy . . . It’s basically a tuck. Just like a face-lift. Same principle. I can pull it up on the screen.”

  Vance put his fingers against his neck and smoothed out his skin.

  Steadman went on: “It’s not a spot I generally work on. But I can see how it might bother you. What kind of work are you engaged in, Mr. Hofer . . . ?”

  “I used to work for the state police,” Vance said.

  “A cop?” the doctor asked him, scrolling.

  Vance nodded. “Fifteen years. Before I had to move. Since then I ran a lathe machine in a die factory.”

  “I see . . . And what brings you all the way down here?”

  “Your reputation,” was all Vance said, picturing how Steadman would be with the barrel of a gun shoved into his mouth.

  Like them all.

  “Well, thanks; always nice to hear. Ah, here we go . . .” Steadman spun the screen around. There were two photos side by side on it. “My guess is that your skin texture seems fully pliant enough for surgery. If you’re interested, I’d like to take a shot of you, do some tests . . .”

  A fury began to build in Vance’s chest. Steadman seemed like a nice guy, but he was the same as those others who had profited from his daughter’s fall. Worse, he hid behind all his big-shot degrees and this fancy office. He would never have to pay. Never. Not unless Vance did what he was here to do.

  Now . . .

  “I saw you have these clinics . . .” Vance said.

  “Ah, pain remediation, yes . . .” Steadman spun the monitor back around.

  “I was there . . .”

  Steadman’s look shifted a little, like he thought Vance was really only here for some kind of pain matter, and not what he’d said at all.

  “My daughter . . .” Vance felt behind him for the gun. “Back in Georgia . . . She’s—”

  All of a sudden the intercom came on. “Doctor . . . Sorry to interrupt, but I have someone who says you’re expecting his call and that he’s traveling—”

  “Who is it?” Steadman asked, over the speaker.

  “Michael Dinofrio,” said his assistant. “He says you know him.”

  “Yes, tell him to hold on.” Steadman turned to Vance. “I’ll only be a second,” he said apologetically. “I’m heading up to Jacksonville for a medical conference in a couple of weeks and I just need to iron this one thing out . . .”

  Vance nodded, his rage starting to recede.

  “Thanks! Mike . . . ?” Steadman picked up the phone and swiveled his chair around. “How are you, guy? I’m with a patient, so I can only speak for a second. Yes, I’ll be up there on the nineteenth as planned. Three weeks from tomorrow. We’re on . . . ! Fantastic! I’ll be practicing my putting starting this afternoon! I’m looking forward to it more than I am my own presentation . . .”

  While Steadman spoke, Vance noticed the photographs on the credenza behind him. Some of the doc with some celebrities Vance thought he recognized; others . . . One was of a pretty young girl. Looked like a teenager. In a denim jacket with flowery embroideries all over it. Her head was tilted onto Steadman’s shoulder. The two of them beaming. Looked just like him. Real nice . . .

  And the other—that same girl in a riding outfit and cap, on a horse, captured in midjump. Beautiful . . .

  “Mike, that’ll be perfect,” Steadman finished up. “You can e-mail me directions to your house in Avondale. I’ll be flying up that morning. I’ll send you my travel details soon as I know them. Thanks again, buddy. And I can’t wait to see you and Gail . . .”

  Steadman shifted back around and put down the phone. “Sorry about that. I’m giving a speech up in Jacksonville at a Doctors Without Borders conference in a couple of weeks . . .”

  “Jacksonville . . . ?” Vance said, blinking.

  “Yeah. An old college buddy of mine is a member of this new Jack Nicklaus course . . . Impossible to get onto, know what I mean? So I’ll pop up early and we’ll get to play a few. You a golfer, Mr. Hofer?”

  Vance shook his head. “No.”

  “Lucky for you!” Steadman leaned back in his chair. “You would think the human race would have evolved enough than to whack a little white ball as far as possible, chase after it, and call it fun! Dogs maybe.”

  Vance pretended to laugh, his mind off on a new path now, at its own fork in the road— something new formulating inside him. Even more satisfying.

  “Your daughter . . . ?” he asked the doctor, pointing toward the credenza.

  Steadman looked behind him and nodded proudly. “My little girl . . . Not so little anymore; that was taken a while back, she’s actually nineteen. Just started college last fall. You say you have a daughter yourself . . . ?”

  “Yes. ’Manda,” Vance replied.

  “Then you know what it’s like, right?” Steadman shrugged wistfully. “Always our little girls . . .”

  “Yes. I guess you’d do just about anything,” Vance said, nodding, “to keep ’em from harm.” His blood began to throb again, but this time with a rush of delight at the plan he was forming. Far better than this.

  Jacksonville.

  That was near Yulee, where Vance used to live when he was on the force.

  And he knew someone there. Someone who owed him a favor.

  A real big favor, Vance recalled.

  Three weeks. That would give him time. Things began to take shape in his mind. I mean, the object is to make Steadman suffer, right? Just like Vance had suffered. Just like the ball of misery and ill-fatedness that had come to Amanda’s door. He could make this greedy doctor see, Vance suddenly realized, just what a chain of woes he had set in motion. To end it here, he now realized, would be far too easy.

  “I think I’m gonna have to think about all this,” Vance said, rubbing his neck. “Maybe I will take a name from up there. How about I let you know?”

  “Of course,” Steadman answered, easing back upright. “You know how to reach us. Maryanne will be happy to answer any further questions you may have. As well as the costs.”

  “Perfect.” Vance nodded, looking at him.

  Steadman came around the desk. “We’ll be happy to print off any information about the procedure to help you in your decision.” He walked him toward the door. “In the meantime, it’s been a pleasure . . . Very nice to meet you, Mr. Hofer . . .” He extended his hand.

  Vance took it, and looked back into Steadman’s unsuspecting eyes. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  Chapter Forty

  It all began to take shape for Vance, on his way back to Acropolis, and he felt a renewed sense of purpose and life.

  What he had to do to make Steadman properly pay.

  Jacksonville. He had three weeks to make it happen.

  It was all starting to come alive!

  He spent close to a day driving around in his blue Mazda, hashing out the details. Simply killing Steadman now would be far too easy. He had to make him feel pain. The same pain Vance had felt. How it felt to have everything taken away. Everything he had built up in his life. Everything he loved. Cherished. Taken away.

  He had to rob the man of everything he once held dear.

  Because ultimately, Vance realized, Steadman was no better than any of the others, no better than Wayne, Dexter, or Schmeltzer. All those fancy degrees and accomplishments . . . put a gun to his mouth and he would shit in his pants like all the rest. Beg. Offer up everything he had.

  How else could you make a man like him ever feel remorse? How else could you make him be accountable for his actions?

  Vance knew that someone like Steadman felt that the way he was perceived by the world was just as vital as whatever he’d accomplished in his life.

  His reputation. His prestige. Take all that away, and he was no better than a shit pile in a dust storm. You had to cut out his he
art to make him bleed.

  And that’s what Vance would do: cut out his heart.

  Like Amanda’s had been cut out.

  And he knew exactly how to do it.

  Near Atlanta, he stopped and found one of those Internet cafés. Vance didn’t know a whole lot about computers, but the waitress helped him. He looked up Doctors Without Borders and located the meeting in Jacksonville that Steadman had spoken of to his friend. At the Marriott Sun Coast there. On March 19.

  And he saw Steadman’s name on the list of speakers.

  Everything knitted together. There was only one piece he had to add, and he thought he knew just how to do that. He needed some help to fully carry it out. And he knew where to find that help.

  He’d waited years to use it.

  Near his home, Vance stopped at a diner and found a phone. He dialed 411 and asked for a name. A name from deep in his past.

  In Jacksonville.

  Once, their lives had come together in a moment that could never be undone. It was more than a bond; it was a debt. A debt that had never been called or forgiven. Or even asked to be repaid.

  Until now.

  The line rang, and to his delight, a man picked up, kids shouting in the background. “Hello.”

  Vance said the name that would unleash it all. “Robert Martinez, please.”

  The Jacksonville cop hesitated. “Who’s this?”

  Vance felt himself hurtled back in time. For a moment all the quiet mediocrity and held-in futility of his life fell away.

  “It’s Vance. So what do you know, old friend . . . ?”

  Silence.

  Vance leaned his elbow against the wall. “Been a long time, huh?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Herbert Sykes.

  Vance brought the image of the black man’s face back into his mind as clearly as if he were standing in front of him now.

  Slim and wiry. Around forty, Vance had guessed. Reminded him of that comedian, Jimmie Walker, who was popular back then. Skin like blacktop, and those big, wide eyes. Slippery like an eel, Vance remembered thinking when he first came upon him. A water moccasin, slithering through the mud, looking for prey.

  Except this time the snake bit him.

  It was ten years ago.

  Vance had just gotten off his four-to-midnight shift, and was finishing off a steak at a diner off the highway, about to head home, when the call came in.

  “All available units, ten–twenty-four.” A home break-in. In Deerwood. Dispatch said the husband and wife were locked in a closet while the intruder ran through their house. Their young daughter was severely beaten. Possible sexual assault.

  The suspect was spotted heading west on Southside in a black SUV. Suspect could be armed and dangerous.

  Vance could have ignored it; he always knew this. He was done for the night, and on his way home to Yulee. But it was the part about the little girl that got him going.

  Until that moment, Vance’s life had been going in a steady, if undistinguished way. And that was fine with him. He had joined the local force straight out of the reserves. Never more than a high school degree, but he knew how to do what he was told and he didn’t back down from trouble when it faced him.

  Amanda was nine, and Joyce was working at the county clerk’s office. They had a two-bedroom home. Paid things off. Maybe he drank a stage. Maybe he used the back of his hand when his frustrations built up. He was never very good at controlling them.

  But they had a life, a good life, simple as it was. They even went away on trips together back then. Myrtle Beach once, and another time to Elvis’s home in Memphis.

  Vance threw on the lights and siren, tracking the chase on the radio. On a side street, he came upon them, second on the scene.

  Martinez was on him first, and already had the guy spread up against his car. A black Land Cruiser.

  “Sonovabitch claims he was nowhere near Deerwood,” Martinez said, recognizing Vance, a state trooper, but whose beat was local. “But lookie here what the boy had on him.”

  Martinez held up a black handgun, his thumb and index finger around the trigger guard.

  “Sumbitch is a goddamned liar,” Vance said, coming around the car with his nightstick. He could smell a piece of shit from a mile away, and this one, with those scared, buggin’ eyes and multipocketed North Face jacket, driving a car Vance couldn’t afford in ten years, had the smell all over him.

  “You like to rob houses?” Martinez asked the guy, shoving him in the back with the stick. “You like to beat up on little girls . . . ?” he pressed. He let the stick slide down to the guy’s ass. “Maybe do other things. Put your hands where they don’t belong?”

  “I didn’t do shit to anyone,” the guy turned and said. Scared, but still indignant. “I was at my cousin’s. I—”

  Martinez kicked out the suspect’s feet and made him fall to the ground. “Don’t you be talking back to me,” he told him. Laughing. “I simply asked you a question, boy. So that’s how you get your rocks off, playing with twelve-year-olds, you piece of gutter shit.”

  He kicked him. Hard. In the stomach.

  The dude curled up with a loud ooof. Then Martinez went after the legs and near his groin. Over and over. The suspect attempting to cover himself up and curling into a ball.

  “I didn’t do shit!” he yelled out. “I want my lawyer.”

  “ ’Course you didn’t do shit.” Martinez kicked him again. He pointed to the guy’s gun. “This is all just fun and games! Right? You lying bastard . . .” He kicked him yet again. “Don’t you worry, you don’t need no lawyer, rat filth. You ain’t ever gonna make it that far, boy, understand?” Martinez kicked him again, and the guy moaned. “So what’d you take from there? C’mon, we know where you were. We know what you were up to.”

  This time he lifted his boot and stomped on the guy’s head.

  “Oowww!”

  Vance felt his temperature start to rise and his hands squeeze around the club. He leaned over and peeked through the SUV’s windows. “I don’t see anything in the car.”

  “Don’t you worry about the car,” Martinez said to him. He put his boot on the black dude’s skull, pressing it against the pavement. “So that’s what you like to do . . . Put them slimy, little fingers up a twelve-year-old girl’s nightgown?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the guy moaned, scared shitless, eyes wide. “I wuz at my cousin’s. In Westside. Call there! Ask!”

  “He didn’t do it.” Martinez turned to Vance. “What do you think about that? Says he didn’t do it. You didn’t do it, huh?” He stomped on the guy’s head again, the guy rolling over in pain. “Fucking piece of shit!”

  That was when another car came up. Lights flashing, radio crackling. Martinez went around to meet it, leaving Vance alone, his blood pressure rising, alone with the pathetic, cowering animal who’d just put his soiled hands all over a twelve-year-old kid.

  Slimy, black eel, he remembered saying.

  He could smell it. What the guy had done. It was all over him. He could just smell the sick filth all over that eely skin.

  “Lemme see those hands?” Vance told him, his fingers wrapping around the stick. At the station, the guy would probably lawyer up. Plead it down to nothing. That’s the way it all worked today. Justice, whatever there was of it, had to be administered out here . . . Here, you still had to pay up for what you’d done.

  “I said show me those hands!”

  The guy curled up, not quite understanding. “Look, man, I—”

  “I told you to show me those hands! And don’t be looking around. No one’s gonna help you out here.” Vance bent over and whacked him across the back with the stick. Just to let him know he was there.

  The slithering eel let out a loud grunt, air rushing out of him. Ribs cracked.

  Vance hit him again. This time up on the neck, his head rattling against the pavement. “I said, show me those hands!” He reared back and hit him again. Vance wasn’t
sure what had made him so damn angry. He’d arrested people all the time. People who’d done far worse. Martinez just seemed to open something in him. Things he’d kept inside for a long time. This sonovabitch eel just seemed to bring it all out.

  “You don’t seem to hear me, son . . .”

  The guy was bloodied. Not answering back now. But Vance stepped on his right shoulder, pinning the guy’s arm, and brought the club down on his extended hand, hard as he could, bone and knuckle cracking.

  The eel yelped and started to whimper.

  “This’ll teach you where to put those hands, son . . .” Vance did it again. With the other hand. The water eel howling like a baby now.

  Two uniforms ran around to see. “Jesus, Trooper,” one of them said, “what the hell you done?”

  “Motherfucker reached for something,” Vance said, staring into the guy’s eyes. “You did reach for something, didn’t you, boy? So I boxed his hands.”

  Didn’t matter what he said—in Jacksonville back then, no one was going to buy the story of a black man who was carrying a gun over a state trooper’s.

  Of course, Vance didn’t plan on the whole thing being caught on camera either, some kids who, hearing the commotion, had come to the window of a nearby apartment house, their camcorders catching every second of what went on.

  Every second except the part when Martinez took the guy down and kicked the fucking daylights out of him, insisting he was the one.

  And how after it was all over, there turned out to be nothing in the car. No loot at all. And it being a Land Cruiser and all, and the car they were after turning out to be a Jeep. And how the sonovabitch had been at a cousin’s birthday party not a half hour before, just like he said.

  The real suspect was apprehended after a shoot-out around the same time, three miles away.

  “He’d done something,” Vance said at the inquiry. “I could tell.”

  But Vance never said a word about what Martinez had done. Throughout the inquiry that followed, when all that footage was shown, including the testimonies of the officers who’d arrived on the scene, Vance just sat there, taking the rap. Immediate dismissal from the force. Loss of benefits.