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riptide_asylumTitle: Three Times Nick Saved Cody (And One Time Cody Saved Nick)
Rating: PG
Summary: Just what the title says.
1.
“Nick! I’m in here! Nick!”
Roaring, Nick threw his shoulder into the door. It popped open and slammed into a filing cabinet on the other side. Smoke billowed out into the corridor of the cheap construction trailer, seeping into Nick’s eyes and nose, filling his throat. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, blinking wildly, eyes stinging.
“Nick!”
Flames licked the polyester curtains and danced on the desk of Multinomah Limited, a cheap scam run by cheaper crooks. But the thing Nick was finding out about the detective business was that cheap crooks spared no expense when it came to trying to shut down private investigators.
Flames exploded from a nearby trashcan, joining the fire on the desk. There was no sign of a fire extinguisher. Or Cody.
“Nick! In here!”
Nick’s mouth and throat were coated with oily-tasting polycarbons, but through the black, tarry smoke, he could make out another door, on the far side of the room. Nick wiped his stinging eyes and charged over to it, trying the knob. Hissed in pain as it burnt his palm. Wrapping his shirt around the knob did no good, it was still too hot.
“Nick?” The yell was punctuated by coughing.
Nick gave up on his shirt and pulled a .38 from his waistband, clicked off the safety and shot the lock. The heat in the room was unbelievable.
The door swung lazily open, admitting more smoke and sprawled legs in gray jeans. White sneakered feet. “Cody!” Nick ducked his chin into the neck of his t-shirt and lunged for Cody, dragging him out of the supply closet.
“Nick,” Cody answered woozily. His head lolled woozily and his chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath.
Nick looked around the burning office wildly, spotting the only remaining answer.
He bent and hoisted Cody to a sitting position, then lifted him up and onto one shoulder. Flames crawled toward his feet across the carpet. One, Nick thought. They’d done this before once, in Da Nang. Two. They’d made it out of that okay, so it would work again. It had to.
Three.
Nick charged toward the window and leapt, putting his shoulder into it and turning so his back and Cody’s ass took the glass.
The window shattered and the two of them tumbled through space for a few seconds, then crashed to the dirt outside, rolling crazily.
For a few moments, Nick’s head rang and he lay in the dust, staring up at the clear night sky. The stars, the pale-pale moon. Sirens blaring in the distance. Then he fell back into himself in a rush and, ignoring the pain in his back and neck, struggled to his knees. “Cody,” he said hoarsely. “You okay?”
A few feet away, Cody lay on his back, surrounded by glittering broken glass. He raised gingerly up on one elbow and looked around cautiously, face smudged with soot and sweat. “Jeez, Nick,” he said. His beautiful voice was thick with smoke. “You always gotta make such a mess?”
Nick glared.
Cody grinned back, teeth white in the moonlight.
2.
Nick hated boats. He hated the way they rocked, and the way saltwater got in the engines and corroded all the parts. He hated the way they didn’t have doors that locked.
But most of all, he hated the way one of them was shooting across the ocean, carrying Cody away from him.
Jim Harrington had hired the Riptide Detective Agency while Nick and Cody were grocery shopping. They’d left Boz behind because he had a tendency to absent-mindedly fill the cart with junk food and Nick never had the heart to make him put it back. But the two of them had returned just as their new client was leaving, and as soon as Nick had looked in Jim Harrington’s eyes, he’d known. This man is an asshole. Trouble.
And sure enough, three days, eleven hours of stakeout and one police chase later--
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Nick yelled over the pounding of the wake and the whine of the engine. The Coastie driving looked over at him from behind mirrored sunglasses, then returned his attention to the wheel.
Up ahead, the Sunset Drifter bounced and jerked across the surface of the ocean, the wake white and foamy. Nick could see Harrington at the helm, fierce and determined. Last he’d seen Cody, the guy was laying unconscious in the bottom of the boat, having surprised Harrington in the act of abandoning his partners in crime, not to mention his detective agency bills.
But as Nick watched the Drifter increase its lead, money was furthest from his mind. “Come on!” he yelled. “Put your foot down!”
This time the Coastie didn’t even look over.
With an ominous thump and a whine, the Coast Guard patrol boat blew its engine. The whine gave way to a dull thudding. Nick threw his head back and roared with frustration.
The Happy Snapper shot by on Nick’s right -- starboard, Nick heard Cody correct him. The one that’s not port, Nick -- a tiny day-cruiser Quinlan had commandeered back at the pier, with Murray hot on his heels. Nick could see the back of Quinlan’s head, Murray at his shoulder. The lieutenant had a bullhorn, yelling over the noise of the wind and the waves.
The sound of gunfire rang out and the Drifter slowed, Harrington having to ease off to return fire.
But the Coast Guard boat was dead in the water.
Nick didn’t hesitate. He stepped up on the gunwale and dove into the water.
The ocean was cold. It was always cold, even at the peak of summer. So much colder than Nick ever seemed to remember. He stroked hard against the waves, then dove under them, desperate to reach the fleeing fugitive.
Back in King Harbor, he’d been just inches away when the boat left its slip and Harrington had gunned it out of the harbor. Cody, with his ridiculous long legs, had been two steps ahead of Nick, already off the pier and sailing through the air. He’d hit the deck of the Drifter a couple seconds after Nick skidded to a halt at the water’s edge. But Harrington was ready for him, and while Nick had struggled with two well-meaning Coasties, Harrington had given Cody a good hard right, flooring him. Then Harrington had winked at Nick as he took off out of the harbor.
Nick swam as hard as he could. The Drifter was idling, and all around him in the water, Nick heard the telltale pop pop of bullets. Whose, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Cody.
Reaching the speedboat’s side, Nick surfaced, spitting saltwater. Harrington was hanging over the fantail, reloading, yelling at Quinlan. Nick dove again, silently, then resurfaced just as Harrington was taking aim. Propelling himself up with one hand, Nick used the other to knock the gun out of Harrington’s hand. He caught the felon’s arm in a steel grip and hung on tight as his wet hand slid across the fiberglass and off, the force of his fall carrying them both into the water.
Harrington came up livid, using both hands on Nick’s shoulder, trying to force him back under. But Nick had no time for niceties, and grabbed Harrington’s balls in his fist and squeezed, street-style. Gasping, Harrington keeled backward in the water, just as Quinlan, Murray and the Happy Snapper pulled alongside, killing the engine.
Quinlan dropped the bullhorn and leaned bodily over the side of the boat, grabbing a gray-faced Harrington by the shoulders. “Well, score one for the good guys,” Quinlan rasped. “Like I always said. When you need a job doing, call in the professionals.”
“That’s not fair,” Murray began, but Nick was no longer listening. He turned and clawed his way up the fantail of the Drifter again, still sliding wetly across the fiberglass but this time finding purchase. Nick slung an arm over the side and, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, pulled himself up and over.
Cody still lolled on the deck, unconscious, but as Nick reached his side, his eyelids fluttered open, eyes woozy but focusing.
“Nick?”
Nick nodded, pulling Cody half into his lap, leaning heavily against the side of the boat. Behind him he could hear Quinlan and the Coasties yelling at one another, Murray’s voice rising high between the two, and the hard slop of waves against the Drifter’s sides. Then Cody turned and looked up into Nick’s eyes.
3.
On the way back from San Francisco, neither one of them spoke.
The Mimi was good for that sometimes, the heavy whir of her rotors combining with the labored chuff of her engine making conversation in the cockpit impossible.
During the war, Nick had relished the enforced silence of helicopters, preferring the mechanical thunder to trying to talk about what he and Cody had seen, what they’d done.
He supposed now was something similar, this thing with Janet. It felt a helluva lot like a war to him.
From the moment he saw her, he knew: she was poison. Tits, hips and lips, poison all over. Not that Nick had anything against any of those body parts, it was just that combined into the whole that was Janet, there was something about her that set the hair on his neck on end, like biting tinfoil. That was her.
And he’d had to stand helplessly by while Cody fell into her trap once again. It wasn’t enough, the number she’d done on him in D.C. It wasn’t enough he’d gone to war rather than deal with her, she had to keep on turning up, soft-tongued, curved and shiny.
Nick looked over at Cody sitting mute and motionless in the co-pilot’s seat, staring into the ether. “She said she’d come to King Harbor, Nick,” he’d said while they were packing. “She offered.”
Yeah, Nick hadn’t said. She offered to come take over your life again. Show you how everything you did was wrong.
They’d stood at the prow drinking strong, hot coffee, the best balm Nick knew for making the two of them right again. Even if nothing about this felt like it would ever be right.
She offered because she knew you’d never accept.
They were up near Gaviota when the trouble started.
A freak updraft catching Mimi unawares, giving Nick something to focus on then, what with miles of sparkling blue ocean beneath them and the promise of a whole lot of nothing on land, guided only by the long gray ribbon of Highway 1, crawling along the coast.
The wind grew, gusting out of the northwest fourteen, then twenty, twenty-three, twenty-four miles an hour. Nick focused on the controls, coaxing Mimi into riding the crests of air that buffeted her. But in the years that he’d had her, Nick had learned one solid rule: Mimi did what Mimi wanted. So when he felt a tell-tale ping at his back, then the slowing chuff, chuff, chuff of her main rotor, Nick knew she was up to something.
They landed hard but good on a stretch of deserted beach, miles from anywhere, the surf crashing jaggedly against a high cliff at the head of the cove, then seething softly up the sand everywhere else.
Cody glared at Nick as he dropped down the hole into Mimi’s belly, but even that was an improvement.
Murray was already out of the hold, wiggling awkwardly over the side, dropping to the wet sand before Nick and Cody made it to the open bay door.
Two girls in a Jeep arrived fortuitously a few moments later. They’d been joyriding along the waterline, but judging by the looks they gave Murray, all their fun in the sun thoughts had taken a different turn. It was just something about the guy. You wouldn’t know it just by looking at him, but Nick swore, the Boz was like catnip for chicks.
Nick watched as the Jeep accelerated off down the sand, Murray firmly and cozily ensconced between two buxom bikinis. Some guys, he thought, transferring his gaze to Cody, had all the luck.
For a while, they just sat in silence, listening to the waves. And that was nearly enough. Maybe would’ve been enough if Nick hadn’t known how bad Cody was hurting. He looked like he’d aged a decade in two days, yet impossibly young at the same time. He sat at the edge of the cargo bay, the breeze riffling his hair, long legs dangling over the edge, and stared off into places Nick couldn’t follow.
One hour grew to two, then three, and the silence between them eased somehow, as if just by sitting there, they were fixing things. A cheerful honk and Murray’s excited shout heralded the Jeep’s return, bearing, amazingly, a new ring and a rod for the rear rotor. With the tool kit Nick kept in the Mimi, it was a matter of an hour and a half, two maybe to get the busted parts out and the new ones in.
The girls’ faces fell. Two hours alone on deserted beach with two grizzled vets and a busted helicopter wasn’t their idea of fun. But they knew this place just up the road a bit. Murray volunteered to go on a food run, and Nick emptied out his wallet and asked Murray to bring back whatever they had. Murray nodded, understanding, looking only once at Cody, who’d stayed silent throughout.
Only after the Jeep had zipped back up off the sand and silence had returned to the beach, punctuated only by Nick rummaging through his rudimentary tool-box did Cody speak. “Need a hand, Nick?”
Nick looked up, into the shadowed, hurt eyes of his best friend in the world, the guy he’d do anything for. He nodded and handed Cody a ⅝” inch hex wrench, then jumped down onto the wet sand. He reached back up for the toolbox and his fingers met Cody’s, handing it down to him.
That one touch spoke a lot.
Not everything, not enough to set things right between them, but enough for a start. Nick nodded, grinning grudgingly as he hefted the toolbox and crawled down into the wet sand under Mimi’s belly. Although he wouldn’t have believed it a couple hours ago, he didn’t have to look back to know Cody followed.
4.
Nick leapt over the Riptide’s back rail and joined Cody on the deck. Long, lean, relaxed Cody, sitting on the stern banquette, nursing a beer like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Nick went over their cares one more time in his head: slip rent was due, they were still waiting on payment from Dan Taggart for finding his runaway teenage daughter (and his missing Mercedes -- in one place, what were the odds?), Murray needed to get off to a patent hearing in the morning and Jamie Kessler had called three times for an update on the background check on his new hire that they swore would be done two days ago.
All in all, Nick figured it’d be a miracle if the Riptide Detective Agency could make it to Friday without an angry mob of current or soon-to-be former clients storming down the gangplank, torches optional. And that was without the King Harbor Merchants Association stringing them all up for not having followed up on their proposed plan for security at the upcoming King Harbor Crab Boil.
“Okay, so listen to me, Cody, if we plan this right, we should be able to cover for the slip rent a couple more days while we pay a visit to Taggart and remind him of our outstanding bill.” Nick paced a tight circle on the deck. “I mean, the guy’s got a Mercedes, he shouldn’t have any trouble coughing up the cash and is just being a jack-ass about it so we know who’s holding the purse-strings here. But purse strings, shmurse strings, a man’s gotta eat, you know?” Nick didn’t wait for a response. “Meanwhile, I’ll finish following up on those references for Kessler tomorrow and you -- here’s the important part, Cody, you payin’ attention? Whatever you do, you gotta find Mama Jo and the rest of the King Harbor merchants and you gotta stall about that crab boil. You got that?”
Cody set the bottle on his knee and looked up at Nick mildly. “Stall, Nick?”
“Yeah, stall. You know: make something up, buy us time. Tell ‘em we’re coordinating with our other operatives on the final details, or that we’re keeping the plans secret as part of contributing to the security. You know, stall.”
“Sounds like you’re asking me to lie, Nick. To Mama Jo.”
“Well, not lie exactly, just...get creative without being specific.”
“Ah. You had me worried there for a second.”
Nick stopped in the middle of the deck and looked at his partner. Cody sat sprawled across the bench, one arm slung along the back, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. As Nick watched, Cody raised the beer to his lips and finished it, eyes on Nick the whole time.
“What’s with you, Cody? Earth to big guy, come in big guy.” Nick snapped his fingers in front of Cody’s face.
“Well, buddy, I’d love to help you, what with Mama Jo and her boil, and Tesla and his daughter--”
“Kessler. Jamie Kessler. And Taggart’s the one with the daughter. Cody, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Cody set the bottle on the deck and rose. He walked over and clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Listening and evaluating, my friend.”
Nick drank in Cody. The sight of him, his nearness. His insufferable smugness. “Evaluating, huh? This oughta be good.”
“And I’ve come to the conclusion that we, Nick, need a vacation.”
Nick stared. “A vacation? Are you kidding me? Cody--”
“I’m serious, Nick. You’re too tense.” Cody squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “You need to relax.”
“Cody, what’s the matter with you? Do you want the agency to go under?”
“Well, it would leave more time for fishing.”
“Fishing! Cody, have you lost your mind entirely?”
“Nope. But you sound about out of yours. Tell me, Nick, when’s the last time we went fishing?”
“Fishing.” Nick closed his eyes and squeezed his brow with one hand. “We’re about to lose the agency and you wanna go fishing.”
“We’re not gonna lose the agency. Look, I was gonna tell you later but while you were out, I dropped Murray off at the airport a little early and I called in a favor from Cherise. You remember Cherise? She had that little--” Cody gestured “On her lip?”
“I remember. What was that thing?”
“No idea, buddy. But Cherise now works down at the DMV as a manager.”
“So?”
“So Cherise is gonna do the background check as a favor for an old friend. Drop it off at Straightaway's when she’s done. I told her we’d housesit for her next weekend in return. And that, my friend, leaves us free to go fishing. Pretty smart, huh?”
Nick thought about it for a second. “An old friend huh? How good a friend?”
Cody made an exasperated noise and threw his arms up in frustration. “C’mon, Nick. I thought--”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Look, Cody. That...that’s pretty smart. When’d you find time to do all this?”
Cody looked pleased with himself. “While you were runnin’ round this morning getting all worked up, I made a few phone calls, got some stuff organized. Now listen, Nick, we gotta go fishing tonight, okay? A buddy of mine down at the Bait Shack heard a couple old guys talking down the end of Pier 51 about how there’s this little place out between Catalina and San Clemente where there’s all kinds of fish spawning right now. Between the cold nights and the warm water coming up from the Gulf, apparently this place is teeming with the little guys. Rockfish, mackerel, white sea bass, you name it, it’s there.”
“Sea bass, huh? And mackerel?”
Cody grinned and stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest. “So what d’you think, Nick? You up for a little fishing?”
Nick looked at Cody and thought about all the bills they had to pay, and all their clients, and the wrath of Mama Jo and the rest of the merchants association. He thought about how this morning he’d felt like he couldn’t get all of it done, all their obligations and cases and all the tiny jobs and errands that had a way of piling up. And none of it compared to the expression on Cody’s face, standing there beaming on the boat he’d -- they’d -- worked so hard for. All that talking and dreaming about the boat they’d have, all the trips they’d take in her, all the fish they’d catch. Not once had they sat up drinking beer and watching the sky talking about tracking down deadbeat clients or working festival security. Not once.
Nick grinned back at his partner. “You sure you know how to find this place? Between Catalina and San Clemente’s an awfully big stretch of water. We might need to be out there for a while. At least through Friday. Maybe even the whole weekend.”
Cody’s grin widened and he turned and headed for the hatch. “Oh definitely. That’s why I stocked up on some supplies on the way back from the airport. Beer, mainly. And bait.”
“Well of course,” Nick said, following. “You were already at the Bait Shack, so why waste a trip?”
Halfway through the hatch, Cody turned, looking worried, but Nick brushed a hand over his stomach. “I’m serious. It’s a great idea, Cody. You’re right: we need a vacation.”
“Yeah but I just thought of something, Nick: what if Mama Jo asks where we’ve been?”
Nick shrugged. “She can get her own fish. Now c’mon, let’s get out of here before Cherise gets done with her favor and wants more than a little housesitting.”
And with a final quick look around, Nick followed his spluttering, protesting partner through the hatch and down below, already feeling more rested than he had in weeks.
Rating: PG
Summary: Just what the title says.
1.
“Nick! I’m in here! Nick!”
Roaring, Nick threw his shoulder into the door. It popped open and slammed into a filing cabinet on the other side. Smoke billowed out into the corridor of the cheap construction trailer, seeping into Nick’s eyes and nose, filling his throat. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, blinking wildly, eyes stinging.
“Nick!”
Flames licked the polyester curtains and danced on the desk of Multinomah Limited, a cheap scam run by cheaper crooks. But the thing Nick was finding out about the detective business was that cheap crooks spared no expense when it came to trying to shut down private investigators.
Flames exploded from a nearby trashcan, joining the fire on the desk. There was no sign of a fire extinguisher. Or Cody.
“Nick! In here!”
Nick’s mouth and throat were coated with oily-tasting polycarbons, but through the black, tarry smoke, he could make out another door, on the far side of the room. Nick wiped his stinging eyes and charged over to it, trying the knob. Hissed in pain as it burnt his palm. Wrapping his shirt around the knob did no good, it was still too hot.
“Nick?” The yell was punctuated by coughing.
Nick gave up on his shirt and pulled a .38 from his waistband, clicked off the safety and shot the lock. The heat in the room was unbelievable.
The door swung lazily open, admitting more smoke and sprawled legs in gray jeans. White sneakered feet. “Cody!” Nick ducked his chin into the neck of his t-shirt and lunged for Cody, dragging him out of the supply closet.
“Nick,” Cody answered woozily. His head lolled woozily and his chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath.
Nick looked around the burning office wildly, spotting the only remaining answer.
He bent and hoisted Cody to a sitting position, then lifted him up and onto one shoulder. Flames crawled toward his feet across the carpet. One, Nick thought. They’d done this before once, in Da Nang. Two. They’d made it out of that okay, so it would work again. It had to.
Three.
Nick charged toward the window and leapt, putting his shoulder into it and turning so his back and Cody’s ass took the glass.
The window shattered and the two of them tumbled through space for a few seconds, then crashed to the dirt outside, rolling crazily.
For a few moments, Nick’s head rang and he lay in the dust, staring up at the clear night sky. The stars, the pale-pale moon. Sirens blaring in the distance. Then he fell back into himself in a rush and, ignoring the pain in his back and neck, struggled to his knees. “Cody,” he said hoarsely. “You okay?”
A few feet away, Cody lay on his back, surrounded by glittering broken glass. He raised gingerly up on one elbow and looked around cautiously, face smudged with soot and sweat. “Jeez, Nick,” he said. His beautiful voice was thick with smoke. “You always gotta make such a mess?”
Nick glared.
Cody grinned back, teeth white in the moonlight.
2.
Nick hated boats. He hated the way they rocked, and the way saltwater got in the engines and corroded all the parts. He hated the way they didn’t have doors that locked.
But most of all, he hated the way one of them was shooting across the ocean, carrying Cody away from him.
Jim Harrington had hired the Riptide Detective Agency while Nick and Cody were grocery shopping. They’d left Boz behind because he had a tendency to absent-mindedly fill the cart with junk food and Nick never had the heart to make him put it back. But the two of them had returned just as their new client was leaving, and as soon as Nick had looked in Jim Harrington’s eyes, he’d known. This man is an asshole. Trouble.
And sure enough, three days, eleven hours of stakeout and one police chase later--
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Nick yelled over the pounding of the wake and the whine of the engine. The Coastie driving looked over at him from behind mirrored sunglasses, then returned his attention to the wheel.
Up ahead, the Sunset Drifter bounced and jerked across the surface of the ocean, the wake white and foamy. Nick could see Harrington at the helm, fierce and determined. Last he’d seen Cody, the guy was laying unconscious in the bottom of the boat, having surprised Harrington in the act of abandoning his partners in crime, not to mention his detective agency bills.
But as Nick watched the Drifter increase its lead, money was furthest from his mind. “Come on!” he yelled. “Put your foot down!”
This time the Coastie didn’t even look over.
With an ominous thump and a whine, the Coast Guard patrol boat blew its engine. The whine gave way to a dull thudding. Nick threw his head back and roared with frustration.
The Happy Snapper shot by on Nick’s right -- starboard, Nick heard Cody correct him. The one that’s not port, Nick -- a tiny day-cruiser Quinlan had commandeered back at the pier, with Murray hot on his heels. Nick could see the back of Quinlan’s head, Murray at his shoulder. The lieutenant had a bullhorn, yelling over the noise of the wind and the waves.
The sound of gunfire rang out and the Drifter slowed, Harrington having to ease off to return fire.
But the Coast Guard boat was dead in the water.
Nick didn’t hesitate. He stepped up on the gunwale and dove into the water.
The ocean was cold. It was always cold, even at the peak of summer. So much colder than Nick ever seemed to remember. He stroked hard against the waves, then dove under them, desperate to reach the fleeing fugitive.
Back in King Harbor, he’d been just inches away when the boat left its slip and Harrington had gunned it out of the harbor. Cody, with his ridiculous long legs, had been two steps ahead of Nick, already off the pier and sailing through the air. He’d hit the deck of the Drifter a couple seconds after Nick skidded to a halt at the water’s edge. But Harrington was ready for him, and while Nick had struggled with two well-meaning Coasties, Harrington had given Cody a good hard right, flooring him. Then Harrington had winked at Nick as he took off out of the harbor.
Nick swam as hard as he could. The Drifter was idling, and all around him in the water, Nick heard the telltale pop pop of bullets. Whose, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Cody.
Reaching the speedboat’s side, Nick surfaced, spitting saltwater. Harrington was hanging over the fantail, reloading, yelling at Quinlan. Nick dove again, silently, then resurfaced just as Harrington was taking aim. Propelling himself up with one hand, Nick used the other to knock the gun out of Harrington’s hand. He caught the felon’s arm in a steel grip and hung on tight as his wet hand slid across the fiberglass and off, the force of his fall carrying them both into the water.
Harrington came up livid, using both hands on Nick’s shoulder, trying to force him back under. But Nick had no time for niceties, and grabbed Harrington’s balls in his fist and squeezed, street-style. Gasping, Harrington keeled backward in the water, just as Quinlan, Murray and the Happy Snapper pulled alongside, killing the engine.
Quinlan dropped the bullhorn and leaned bodily over the side of the boat, grabbing a gray-faced Harrington by the shoulders. “Well, score one for the good guys,” Quinlan rasped. “Like I always said. When you need a job doing, call in the professionals.”
“That’s not fair,” Murray began, but Nick was no longer listening. He turned and clawed his way up the fantail of the Drifter again, still sliding wetly across the fiberglass but this time finding purchase. Nick slung an arm over the side and, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, pulled himself up and over.
Cody still lolled on the deck, unconscious, but as Nick reached his side, his eyelids fluttered open, eyes woozy but focusing.
“Nick?”
Nick nodded, pulling Cody half into his lap, leaning heavily against the side of the boat. Behind him he could hear Quinlan and the Coasties yelling at one another, Murray’s voice rising high between the two, and the hard slop of waves against the Drifter’s sides. Then Cody turned and looked up into Nick’s eyes.
3.
On the way back from San Francisco, neither one of them spoke.
The Mimi was good for that sometimes, the heavy whir of her rotors combining with the labored chuff of her engine making conversation in the cockpit impossible.
During the war, Nick had relished the enforced silence of helicopters, preferring the mechanical thunder to trying to talk about what he and Cody had seen, what they’d done.
He supposed now was something similar, this thing with Janet. It felt a helluva lot like a war to him.
From the moment he saw her, he knew: she was poison. Tits, hips and lips, poison all over. Not that Nick had anything against any of those body parts, it was just that combined into the whole that was Janet, there was something about her that set the hair on his neck on end, like biting tinfoil. That was her.
And he’d had to stand helplessly by while Cody fell into her trap once again. It wasn’t enough, the number she’d done on him in D.C. It wasn’t enough he’d gone to war rather than deal with her, she had to keep on turning up, soft-tongued, curved and shiny.
Nick looked over at Cody sitting mute and motionless in the co-pilot’s seat, staring into the ether. “She said she’d come to King Harbor, Nick,” he’d said while they were packing. “She offered.”
Yeah, Nick hadn’t said. She offered to come take over your life again. Show you how everything you did was wrong.
They’d stood at the prow drinking strong, hot coffee, the best balm Nick knew for making the two of them right again. Even if nothing about this felt like it would ever be right.
She offered because she knew you’d never accept.
They were up near Gaviota when the trouble started.
A freak updraft catching Mimi unawares, giving Nick something to focus on then, what with miles of sparkling blue ocean beneath them and the promise of a whole lot of nothing on land, guided only by the long gray ribbon of Highway 1, crawling along the coast.
The wind grew, gusting out of the northwest fourteen, then twenty, twenty-three, twenty-four miles an hour. Nick focused on the controls, coaxing Mimi into riding the crests of air that buffeted her. But in the years that he’d had her, Nick had learned one solid rule: Mimi did what Mimi wanted. So when he felt a tell-tale ping at his back, then the slowing chuff, chuff, chuff of her main rotor, Nick knew she was up to something.
They landed hard but good on a stretch of deserted beach, miles from anywhere, the surf crashing jaggedly against a high cliff at the head of the cove, then seething softly up the sand everywhere else.
Cody glared at Nick as he dropped down the hole into Mimi’s belly, but even that was an improvement.
Murray was already out of the hold, wiggling awkwardly over the side, dropping to the wet sand before Nick and Cody made it to the open bay door.
Two girls in a Jeep arrived fortuitously a few moments later. They’d been joyriding along the waterline, but judging by the looks they gave Murray, all their fun in the sun thoughts had taken a different turn. It was just something about the guy. You wouldn’t know it just by looking at him, but Nick swore, the Boz was like catnip for chicks.
Nick watched as the Jeep accelerated off down the sand, Murray firmly and cozily ensconced between two buxom bikinis. Some guys, he thought, transferring his gaze to Cody, had all the luck.
For a while, they just sat in silence, listening to the waves. And that was nearly enough. Maybe would’ve been enough if Nick hadn’t known how bad Cody was hurting. He looked like he’d aged a decade in two days, yet impossibly young at the same time. He sat at the edge of the cargo bay, the breeze riffling his hair, long legs dangling over the edge, and stared off into places Nick couldn’t follow.
One hour grew to two, then three, and the silence between them eased somehow, as if just by sitting there, they were fixing things. A cheerful honk and Murray’s excited shout heralded the Jeep’s return, bearing, amazingly, a new ring and a rod for the rear rotor. With the tool kit Nick kept in the Mimi, it was a matter of an hour and a half, two maybe to get the busted parts out and the new ones in.
The girls’ faces fell. Two hours alone on deserted beach with two grizzled vets and a busted helicopter wasn’t their idea of fun. But they knew this place just up the road a bit. Murray volunteered to go on a food run, and Nick emptied out his wallet and asked Murray to bring back whatever they had. Murray nodded, understanding, looking only once at Cody, who’d stayed silent throughout.
Only after the Jeep had zipped back up off the sand and silence had returned to the beach, punctuated only by Nick rummaging through his rudimentary tool-box did Cody speak. “Need a hand, Nick?”
Nick looked up, into the shadowed, hurt eyes of his best friend in the world, the guy he’d do anything for. He nodded and handed Cody a ⅝” inch hex wrench, then jumped down onto the wet sand. He reached back up for the toolbox and his fingers met Cody’s, handing it down to him.
That one touch spoke a lot.
Not everything, not enough to set things right between them, but enough for a start. Nick nodded, grinning grudgingly as he hefted the toolbox and crawled down into the wet sand under Mimi’s belly. Although he wouldn’t have believed it a couple hours ago, he didn’t have to look back to know Cody followed.
4.
Nick leapt over the Riptide’s back rail and joined Cody on the deck. Long, lean, relaxed Cody, sitting on the stern banquette, nursing a beer like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Nick went over their cares one more time in his head: slip rent was due, they were still waiting on payment from Dan Taggart for finding his runaway teenage daughter (and his missing Mercedes -- in one place, what were the odds?), Murray needed to get off to a patent hearing in the morning and Jamie Kessler had called three times for an update on the background check on his new hire that they swore would be done two days ago.
All in all, Nick figured it’d be a miracle if the Riptide Detective Agency could make it to Friday without an angry mob of current or soon-to-be former clients storming down the gangplank, torches optional. And that was without the King Harbor Merchants Association stringing them all up for not having followed up on their proposed plan for security at the upcoming King Harbor Crab Boil.
“Okay, so listen to me, Cody, if we plan this right, we should be able to cover for the slip rent a couple more days while we pay a visit to Taggart and remind him of our outstanding bill.” Nick paced a tight circle on the deck. “I mean, the guy’s got a Mercedes, he shouldn’t have any trouble coughing up the cash and is just being a jack-ass about it so we know who’s holding the purse-strings here. But purse strings, shmurse strings, a man’s gotta eat, you know?” Nick didn’t wait for a response. “Meanwhile, I’ll finish following up on those references for Kessler tomorrow and you -- here’s the important part, Cody, you payin’ attention? Whatever you do, you gotta find Mama Jo and the rest of the King Harbor merchants and you gotta stall about that crab boil. You got that?”
Cody set the bottle on his knee and looked up at Nick mildly. “Stall, Nick?”
“Yeah, stall. You know: make something up, buy us time. Tell ‘em we’re coordinating with our other operatives on the final details, or that we’re keeping the plans secret as part of contributing to the security. You know, stall.”
“Sounds like you’re asking me to lie, Nick. To Mama Jo.”
“Well, not lie exactly, just...get creative without being specific.”
“Ah. You had me worried there for a second.”
Nick stopped in the middle of the deck and looked at his partner. Cody sat sprawled across the bench, one arm slung along the back, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. As Nick watched, Cody raised the beer to his lips and finished it, eyes on Nick the whole time.
“What’s with you, Cody? Earth to big guy, come in big guy.” Nick snapped his fingers in front of Cody’s face.
“Well, buddy, I’d love to help you, what with Mama Jo and her boil, and Tesla and his daughter--”
“Kessler. Jamie Kessler. And Taggart’s the one with the daughter. Cody, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Cody set the bottle on the deck and rose. He walked over and clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Listening and evaluating, my friend.”
Nick drank in Cody. The sight of him, his nearness. His insufferable smugness. “Evaluating, huh? This oughta be good.”
“And I’ve come to the conclusion that we, Nick, need a vacation.”
Nick stared. “A vacation? Are you kidding me? Cody--”
“I’m serious, Nick. You’re too tense.” Cody squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “You need to relax.”
“Cody, what’s the matter with you? Do you want the agency to go under?”
“Well, it would leave more time for fishing.”
“Fishing! Cody, have you lost your mind entirely?”
“Nope. But you sound about out of yours. Tell me, Nick, when’s the last time we went fishing?”
“Fishing.” Nick closed his eyes and squeezed his brow with one hand. “We’re about to lose the agency and you wanna go fishing.”
“We’re not gonna lose the agency. Look, I was gonna tell you later but while you were out, I dropped Murray off at the airport a little early and I called in a favor from Cherise. You remember Cherise? She had that little--” Cody gestured “On her lip?”
“I remember. What was that thing?”
“No idea, buddy. But Cherise now works down at the DMV as a manager.”
“So?”
“So Cherise is gonna do the background check as a favor for an old friend. Drop it off at Straightaway's when she’s done. I told her we’d housesit for her next weekend in return. And that, my friend, leaves us free to go fishing. Pretty smart, huh?”
Nick thought about it for a second. “An old friend huh? How good a friend?”
Cody made an exasperated noise and threw his arms up in frustration. “C’mon, Nick. I thought--”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Look, Cody. That...that’s pretty smart. When’d you find time to do all this?”
Cody looked pleased with himself. “While you were runnin’ round this morning getting all worked up, I made a few phone calls, got some stuff organized. Now listen, Nick, we gotta go fishing tonight, okay? A buddy of mine down at the Bait Shack heard a couple old guys talking down the end of Pier 51 about how there’s this little place out between Catalina and San Clemente where there’s all kinds of fish spawning right now. Between the cold nights and the warm water coming up from the Gulf, apparently this place is teeming with the little guys. Rockfish, mackerel, white sea bass, you name it, it’s there.”
“Sea bass, huh? And mackerel?”
Cody grinned and stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest. “So what d’you think, Nick? You up for a little fishing?”
Nick looked at Cody and thought about all the bills they had to pay, and all their clients, and the wrath of Mama Jo and the rest of the merchants association. He thought about how this morning he’d felt like he couldn’t get all of it done, all their obligations and cases and all the tiny jobs and errands that had a way of piling up. And none of it compared to the expression on Cody’s face, standing there beaming on the boat he’d -- they’d -- worked so hard for. All that talking and dreaming about the boat they’d have, all the trips they’d take in her, all the fish they’d catch. Not once had they sat up drinking beer and watching the sky talking about tracking down deadbeat clients or working festival security. Not once.
Nick grinned back at his partner. “You sure you know how to find this place? Between Catalina and San Clemente’s an awfully big stretch of water. We might need to be out there for a while. At least through Friday. Maybe even the whole weekend.”
Cody’s grin widened and he turned and headed for the hatch. “Oh definitely. That’s why I stocked up on some supplies on the way back from the airport. Beer, mainly. And bait.”
“Well of course,” Nick said, following. “You were already at the Bait Shack, so why waste a trip?”
Halfway through the hatch, Cody turned, looking worried, but Nick brushed a hand over his stomach. “I’m serious. It’s a great idea, Cody. You’re right: we need a vacation.”
“Yeah but I just thought of something, Nick: what if Mama Jo asks where we’ve been?”
Nick shrugged. “She can get her own fish. Now c’mon, let’s get out of here before Cherise gets done with her favor and wants more than a little housesitting.”
And with a final quick look around, Nick followed his spluttering, protesting partner through the hatch and down below, already feeling more rested than he had in weeks.
