Page 15 of No Surrender
“Oh, really? You know I’m from Upstate, not the Lowcountry.” Simon had grown up, gone to college, and taught at the university in Columbia, the state capital.
“Yeah, I know. But we’re both here now, and our friends are here, so when in Rome…”
“I think the hardest thing is going to be deciding on a cake.” Simon clicked on a file filled with beautiful—and delicious-looking—cakes of all sorts.
Vic’s stomach rumbled. “All of those look amazing. I’ll be honest—I don’t care so much about what the cake looks like as long as it tastes good.” He slipped one hand over Simon’s chest, and Simon reached up to twine their fingers together. Their rings glinted in the light, a sign of promise on the right hand, to be moved to the left during the ceremony.
“I don’t care if we run off to a Justice of the Peace as long as when it’s all said and done, we’re husbands,” Simon confided.
“You might not care, but my mother will,” Vic replied. “Trust me on this.”
The oven timer went off, and Simon closed the files and moved his laptop.
“Good timing—I’m starved,” Vic told him.
They bustled around each other in the small kitchen like well-practiced choreography. Vic filled water glasses and set out silverware, along with salsa and tortilla chips to go with the meal. Simon took the burritos out of the oven and plated them, adding sour cream and guacamole on top of the bubbling, melted cheese.
“This smells amazing,” Vic said as they both settled at the table. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t talk about the stressful parts of their day, giving themselves a break to regroup.
Simon shared about the unremarkable psychic readings and recounted funny things that had happened on Pete’s most recent ghost tour. Vic had stories from the other cops about the misadventures of criminals who hadn’t thought through their crimes and made awkward mistakes.
By the time they finished, Simon felt much of the day’s weight lift from his shoulders. But watching Vic closely told Simon that his fiancé was still preoccupied—a sure clue that something important hadn’t gone as planned.
Once they had cleaned up the kitchen, Simon poured them each some whiskey and followed Vic to the living room, where they binged a couple of episodes of the newest superhero series. The longer Vic went without bringing up what consumed his thoughts, the more Simon suspected his worries weren’t trivial.
“So what’s on your mind?” Simon finally nudged, cradling his glass in both hands as he turned to sit facing Vic on the couch.
Vic took another sip and seemed to study the amber liquid for a moment before he spoke. “Hamilton Andrews—the D.A.—was in a bad car accident. Hit and run. He got sideswiped on the driver’s side. Luckily, Andrews kept enough control to not get pushed into another car or something like a bridge abutment. But his arm is badly broken, and there’s a possibility that he might have to pass some responsibilities to his staff attorneys.”
“And that’s bad?”
Vic shrugged. “Andrews is the District Attorney because he’s got a strong record of convictions as a prosecutor. He has a combination of knowledge, talent, and presence that makes him stand out in a courtroom. That’s exactly what you want with someone like the Slitter. High-profile trials have a showmanship angle—love that or hate it, it’s still a fact. Bottom line—we have a better chance to put Fischer away for life with our best prosecutor.”
“Shit.” Simon knew that it was unlikely that the Slitter would go free after all the evidence and eyewitness testimony. But juries could be remarkably fickle, and Simon had learned from his partner not to take a conviction for granted.
“Yeah,” Vic agreed and took another drink, savoring the taste. “I don’t think the timing is a coincidence. First the menacing notes, and now this.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “You think someone staged the accident?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to set up,” Vic replied. “But that’s not the weirdest part. This afternoon—not long before the wreck—Andrews received a letter that contained an old-fashioned baseball card in an envelope that looked like it came from a club he belongs to. Except he didn’t order the card, and as it turns out, the club didn’t send it. Normally, no one would have noticed. But after those notes, we advised the team to be careful about their mail. He thought he recognized the sender, so he didn’t hesitate about opening the envelope until he saw the card and realized something wasn’t right.”
Simon frowned. “Baseball card?”
Vic nodded. “Some team I never heard of. Sarasota Swordfish.”
A chill ran down Simon’s spine. “Number 12–Javier Narvaez?”
Vic gave him a strange look. “Yeah. How did you know that? You aren’t a baseball fan.”
“I had a vision. Believe me, baseball surprised me as much as you.”
“What did you see?”
Simon told Vic all about his vision, the bad dream, and the séance. Vic listened with deepening worry.
“Then I looked up Narvaez because I figured he didn’t show up at random. His career ended because he was in a car wreck that shattered his pitching arm.”
“Fuck,” Vic muttered. “That can’t be good.” He got up and paced, still carrying his drink. “Andrews isn’t just a baseball fan—he’s hardcore. The kind of guy who always has season tickets, who can rattle off all the stats. He talks about baseball all the time—it’s kind of a joke among everyone who knows him. So whoever sent that card knew that—and meant to send a message.”
