Page 69 of Jameson’s Salvation

Goddamn, morals suck.

That didn’t mean when Jameson reached into the closet and yanked the man out, he’d done it carefully, and when he’d tossed Peyton on the filthy floor, he’d certainly knocked the wind out of him. With a knee in the small of the prone man’s back, Jameson secured his wrists extra-tight with a zip tie hoping the plastic bit into his skin.

Weston already had his phone to his ear calling Jonny.

“You’re a slippery motherfucker to find.” Then Jameson remembered he’d been deputized and he wasn’t acting as a bounty hunter chasing a skip. There were procedures that needed to be followed.

They had Peyton on a minimum of breaking and entering, which necessitated Jameson reading the piece of shit his rights and telling him he was under arrest.

By the time Weston had called Nixon to tell him they’d found Peyton, and Jameson hauled the man to his feet, they could hear sirens approaching.

Jonny and another deputy appeared in the hallway, both armed but holstering their weapons when they saw Peyton was secure.

“Found him hiding in the closet,” Jameson announced.

“Did you search the house?” Jonny asked.

“Nope. We were waiting on you.”

“Newton, take him out,” Jonny instructed the deputy next to him.

Once Peyton and Newton were out of the house, Jonny turned to Jameson and Weston, his scowl set, and he asked, “Do I want to know how you entered the premises?”

Jameson looked at Weston before his eyes went back to Jonny’s. “We got here and the door was open. We knocked and thought we heard someone in distress so we entered.”

Jonny’s gaze slid to Weston and he confirmed Jameson’s story.

“Did you read him his rights?”

“Yep. I even pulled the notecard out of my pocket and read it word for word.” That part was the truth, Jameson had read the notecard Jonny had given them. “We didn’t have gloves so we didn’t touch anything.”

“Found something,” a man called from the other room and all three of them made their way back into the living room.

“Looks like a key to a motorcycle or a four-wheeler.” The deputy motioned to a table with the leftover takeout trash.

Gotcha, motherfucker.

22

Kennedy

“Thanks again for taking my mom to PT this morning,” I told Holden.

He’d just gotten back from picking us up lunch and we were sitting around the conference room table. McKenna had her laptop open and the volume up so we could listen in on Reggie Coleman. So far, all we’d heard was static, which McKenna explained was the sound of the phone being in Reggie’s pocket, and a muffled conversation with a flooring subcontractor.

The conversation had been painful to hear, because Reggie was a dick and had berated the poor man for fifteen minutes about a nick in the wood the man had finished laying. And by all accounts the mark had been small but Reggie had insisted a section of the flooring be replaced even after the subcontractor explained it could be buffed out.

What a jerk.

“Not a problem. I talked to her therapist and he agreed to add TENS therapy to her PT. Studies show that electronic simulation can help a stroke patient regain muscle movement. The earlier you start the better chance there is for mobility and muscle control to return. Your mom’s made great gains and she does have some movement on her left side, which is a good indication the TENS unit will help her.”

For the first time, hope started to swell in my chest. My mom’s doctor had never been all that confident she’d get back more than the small movement she already had. From the beginning he’d had the attitude that my mom should accept that she’d be partially paralyzed and learn to live with it. Lola Lane didn’t learn to live with anything she didn’t want to live with. But that didn’t mean there hadn’t been times when my mom had been depressed about it.

But she hadn’t given up.

Of course she hadn’t, because Lanes didn’t quit. So was I ready to?

“I really appreciate it. The doctor never told us that was an option.”