Then he was down on the sidewalk, a sudden, scary vertical rollercoaster dip that was over before he even knew what was happening. He reflexively put his hands out and avoided mashing his face in the concrete. His blood was pumping too fast to feel any pain. One second he was upright, now he was down. For a long time, he took in the quiet of the street and the plain black tires on his car. A small bug walked beneath his gaze. He got to his knees and then the agony seared through him. Somehow the rewiring of his spinal cord made being on his knees especially painful. He couldn’t stand the normal way. He thought about turning around and using the steps to get up. But he was in too much pain, and too angry. He used his strength to crabwalk until his body bent in the middle, and then he could push himself up with his hands until he could use the cane to help lift the rest of the way. It hurt like hell. Then he was upright again. His pant legs looked in good shape. His hands weren’t bleeding. He felt his phone vibrating and let it alone.
On shaky legs, he walked around to the driver’s side. Looking up, he saw that Cindy had long since closed the door. Maybe if he had gone on to law school, as he had intended, he could have given her this pile of rocks. It never happened. The more he got to know lawyers as a cop, the less he wanted to be one. He could have stomached being a prosecutor, but there was no money in it. Prosecutors didn’t live in Hyde Park. Cindy never understood how he liked being a police officer. Every day, no matter how shitty, you could come home and know you had actually helped someone. On good days, you got the bad guys. That sensibility never left him. He was so much the same.
He listened to the voice mail: “Will, it’s Diane Henderson, Covington P.D. We matched the shoe print that we found on the boat. It’s a size ten-and-a-half Columbia Sportswear Drainmaker.”