Bloodman by Robert Pobi

pulls me over and has me get out of the truck. I can’t even stand. He can arrest me. Have my truck towed. You know what he does? He gets in my Ford and parks it in a field off the road. Then he drives me home. It was one of those light-bulb moments you hear about; I realized that not everyone in this line of work is out to get people. Some of them—guys like Hauser, I mean—just want to make the place a little better. So a week later I wrote the police exam and did pretty good, well enough that they contacted me to see if I needed any encouraging to go to the interviews. After the interviews they went at me with a background check, psychological profile, polygraph test. I did the twenty-eight-week program, and Hauser hired me right out of the gate. Now here we are.” A lifetime summed up in a few sentences.
    They stopped speaking for a few minutes, both listening to the sound of the ocean. Jake finally asked, “What can you tell me about Hauser?” He pulled out a cigarette, brought it to life.
    “Born here, played ball for Southampton High. Football scholarship to the University of Texas. First string quarterback for three seasons. Went pro. Number six draft choice for his year in the NFL. Played four solid games for the Steelers before he had his right knee bent ninety degrees against design. You’d probably like him if you got to know him. He’s a capable guy, it takes a lot for him to go green like last night.”
    “Last night would be tough on anyone.”
    Spencer mulled the statement around for a few seconds, then held out his mug for a refill. “You seemed to be fine with it.”
    Jake heard it coming out in his voice. The worry. “It’s what I do.”
    Spencer nodded like that had answered it all, but his face was still playing around with a few questions. “History? Wife? That kind of stuff,” he said, changing the subject.
    What could Jake say to that ? Heroin, a cardiac resynchronization therapy defibrillator sewn into my chest, drinking problem. NA, AA. Somehow got through it. Met Kay. Makes me laugh, makes me horny. A boy, Jeremy. “Her name’s Kay.” I figure out the event cascade at a crime scene faster than a team of battlefield anthropologists. “I’ve been with the bureau for twelve years now.” Half of them clean. “A son, Jeremy.” W ho I call Moriarty because he thinks it’s a cool name and I am terrified he will someday find out that I don’t know if I am a good man. “Live in New York. Kay plays with the orchestra—cellist.” I am on the road eleven months a year. “I’m back because my father set himself on fire and smashed through the front window.” And pissed off that the bastard didn’t have the courtesy to die.
    “I wish you would have said good-bye. Or sent a letter. Something. Anything. I went into the city to find you a couple of times.”
    Jake stared at Spencer, wondering if he was supposed to say something here because Spencer had paused, like he wanted some sort of dialogue. Jake rinsed his mug under the faucet and placed it in the rack beside the sink. A few drops of water beaded on its surface.
    “Everyone figured you’d come back some day. And here you are. More than half a lifetime later.”
    Jake shrugged, as if that was some sort of an answer. He hoped Spencer would let it go.
    “What’d you do when you got to New York?” Spencer pushed.
    Jake remembered his visit to David Finch—his father’s art dealer. Jake had asked for thirty-one dollars, so he’d be able to stay at the YMCA while he found a job, got on his feet. He promised to pay it back when he could. Finch had said no. That Jacob wouldn’t approve. That he was sorry. And then he had closed the door in Jake’s face.
    Two nights of no meals and no place safe to sleep later, Jake had sold a little piece of himself—the first of many. And learned, with an odd mix of horror and pride, that he was a survivor. The next part of his life had faded and been forgotten. The drugs helped. For a very