I was already exiting the other side of the truck, arm up to shield my face and head from the hail of mud and gravel, which suddenly stopped. The SUV’s door flew open, and Nolan jumped out.
I started to go for my weapon, but even through the driving rain, I could see he was unarmed as he took off toward the paved road. I tried to sprint after him, but almost immediately my right foot submerged in the mud up to my calf and I went to my hands and knees.
I fought my way back to my feet, losing my right shoe when I pulled my leg free, but I was buoyed by the fact that Nolan had fallen into a low spot in the road filled with mud that looked like pudding. He’d gone in face-first and was wallowing around, trying to find his footing, while I took a wider stance and made short chopping strides toward him.
I came around the front of the vehicle. Nolan was up and staggering. Sampson was abreast of me and also charging Nolan.
It felt like old times. John and I had played high-school football together, both defensive ends. Each of us knew what the other was going to do without either of us saying it.
My feet found the far edge of the bog, and I drove off it, hurling my head and shoulders low toward the back of Nolan’s legs. Sampson aimed high.
We hit the Kyle Craig lookalike at the same time and slammed the dirtbag down so hard he made something of a man-shaped crater on impact. And his flimsy knapsack tore open, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.
Chapter 86
Nolan claimed we’d broken his knee, separated his shoulder, and cracked his ribs when we tackled him. He demanded a doctor and an attorney and then clammed up, as was his right. Mahoney took him into federal custody, and we parted with plans to meet again in the morning.
Bree drove us home. The storm had passed by the time we’d dropped Sampson at his house and parked in front of our own. I peeled myself off the passenger seat. My clothes were torn and caked in that thick copper-colored slurry.
“You look like an extra in a zombie movie,” Bree said, and she chuckled.
“Feel like one,” I said, rubbing my sore ribs. “I hit something hard.”
We started up the porch stairs, and I barely gave the scaffolding between our house and the Morses’ a second thought.
“You think Nana Mama’s going to let you walk on her clean floors with you looking like that?” Bree said. “Go on around to the basement shower.”
I sighed. “All right. And I’ll hose off my pants before I go inside.”
“Even better,” she said.
I leaned to kiss her. She jumped back and laughed. “Not on your life.”
“Kiss of the zombie!” I said. I threw my hands up Frankenstein-style and chased her a few feet.
Bree shrieked with laughter and then scrambled up the stairs and across the porch. She opened the front door, looked over her shoulder, grinned, stuck her tongue out at me, then went inside.
I loved seeing Bree light up like that, more girl than woman, more regular person than cop, and all because I acted like a little boy. It made me feel pretty darn good at the end of a long and complicated day that had gone sideways more than once.
But all in all, we’d made serious progress. If we didn’t have M in custody, we had someone who knew him. Nolan had said as much. To me and to Marty Forbes.
The shower was long, hot, and wonderful. Dinner — roast chicken in a citrus-mustard sauce, a recipe Nana Mama had gotten from the Rachael Ray Show — was on the table when I entered the kitchen, feeling like a new man.
“You clean up nice,” Bree said.
“Every once in a while.”
“Bree said you were covered in mud,” Ali said.
“Head to toe.”
“I wanted a picture.”
“That wasn’t happening.”
“Dad?” Jannie said. “Aren’t you going to ask me how my first day back went?”
I’d completely forgotten. “School. Yes. How are you feeling?”
She sat up straighter and smiled. “Pretty good, actually. Those vitamins really do work after a while.”
“No tiredness during the day?”
“Just once, in study hall. I put my head down and took a ten-minute nap. When do you think I can start training again?”
My grandmother said, “I know you’re champing at the bit, but the last thing you need is a relapse.”
Jannie looked glum.
I said, “Nana’s right, and you know it. So, let’s say the rest of this week, you stay on that vitamin regimen and stretch all you want while we see how you do at school. Things go well, you can start to run next week.”
My daughter chewed the inside of her cheek before saying, “So, right now, I’m, what, twelve weeks from the first of those meets?”
“Sounds right, but you have to take it easy, no pushing hard out of the gate.”
“But I like to push hard out of the gate,” Jannie said with a playful moan.
“And you will,” Bree said. “In twelve weeks.”
Jannie held up both palms. “I officially surrender.”
“Sometimes you have to surrender in order to fight another day,” Nana Mama said.
“Who said that?” Ali asked.
“I did,” my grandmother said. “Just now.”
“You should write that down, Nana,” he said.
“No, you should write that down,” she said.
Ali stared off into space for a second and was about to say something when his phone dinged. He pulled it out and looked at the screen, and a smile bloomed softly on his face.
“See?” my grandmother said. “They can’t keep their attention off their screens and on real life. I say write that down, but then — ping! — off he goes.”
Ali stuffed his phone back in his pocket, got up, and grabbed a notebook and a pen. “No, Nana, I’m going to write down all the stuff you say, and we’ll put it up on Twitter once a day. You know, like, hashtag-crazy-good-stuff-my-great-grandma-says.”
There was dead silence for a moment and then Jannie started laughing. “That could work!”
“Right!” Ali said, holding up his fist in triumph. “Nana Mama goes viral!”
My grandmother stared at both of them as if they’d lost their minds, which caused Bree and me to start laughing. It took only a few moments before Nana started to chuckle with us. “Honestly, I have no idea what’s so funny,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. A good laugh will keep you from going toes up and six feet under.”
“Write that down!” Jannie cried, and we started laughing all over again.
Chapter 87
The following afternoon, William Nolan’s attorney notified us that her client was willing to talk. Bree, John, and I were cleared through FBI security at the Bureau’s downtown headquarters soon afterward.
As we rode the elevator and walked the length of several hallways, I was still hearing the mental echoes of how hard we’d laughed the night before. We’d stop and then Nana Mama would say something else, and we’d yell, “Write that one down!”
I couldn’t remember having that much fun at dinner in a long time. It was all Ali had talked about that morning at breakfast before school. He was going to write down at least thirty good Nana-isms before he “launched the hashtag.”
“You get the feeling the mountain-biking bug might be over?” Bree asked now.
“I was thinking the same thing. Especially after he said he was skipping tonight’s Wild Wheels ride to work on Nana Mama’s social media presence.”
Sampson laughed. “The kid does jump from one thing to the next.”
“He’s exploring,” I said. “It’s what kids do.”
Ned Mahoney stepped out of a doorway near the end of the hall. He gestured at me, said, “Alex, you were his target, so you are observing today. If you have something you want asked, we’ll hear you over the earbuds. Chief Stone?”