13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  She nodded toward them. “Who are you two?”

  “Detectives.” Griffin held out his badge. “Griffin and Coulter.”

  Her head snapped toward Brad when Griffin said Coulter. She stared for a few seconds, then focused on her patient, her dark ponytail swinging.

  She knelt next to her patient. “I’m Jill. I’m going to take care of you with my partner, Amir.”

  Brad heard Jill’s calm, caring voice with compassion for her patient. He headed out of the room and down the stairs into the refreshing fall air.

  He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. Maybe it was too soon. He’d gone from giddiness at being back at work to psychotic in a microsecond. There’d been no hesitation.

  The paramedics and cops lifted the stretcher out the doorway and rolled it toward the ambulance. Behind them, two other cops escorted the suspect toward their cruiser. The suspect slowed as he neared the stretcher. “I’ll finish this later, bitch.” Then he kicked at the stretcher.

  Brad lunged for the suspect, but a uniformed cop punched the suspect in the gut and he collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

  Briscoe stepped in front of Brad, hand on his chest. Brad backed away, hands held out, scowling at the suspect lying on the sidewalk.

  Griffin grabbed Brad by the arm and shoved him to their car. “We’ll call it a night. Take tomorrow off. We work dayshift Monday. Tomorrow, get your shit together, or this will be the shortest partnership in police history.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday Day Five

  After a long workout in the barn, Brad headed for his house. Lobo padded alongside. They rounded the corner and saw a Honda Civic parked behind Brad’s Firebird.

  “Looks like we have company.”

  Lobo bounced with his front paws in the air.

  “Okay, go,” Brad said.

  Lobo raced to the house. Brad caught up and opened the back door. Odors of cooking flowed over him. Roast beef? Apple pie?

  Lobo pushed past. When Brad entered the kitchen, Lobo was excitedly licking Annie’s face.

  “Nice to see you,” Brad said.

  Annie glanced up. “I’m sorry your phone and answering machine don’t work.”

  “What? They work just … ah shit.”

  Annie stood, hands on her hips. “Ah ha, they do work. You’re ignoring me. I called five times, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I’ve been ignoring everyone.” Brad smiled sheepishly. “I’ve been busy.”

  Two years ago, when Annie was sixteen, she was kidnapped by the vicious biker, Jeter Wolfe, who assaulted her. After a couple of months in captivity, Annie escaped.

  Brad and Maggie had unofficially adopted her, with Brad as the big brother figure in her life. To say Brad was protective was an understatement.

  Earlier this year when Wolfe escaped from prison, he swore revenge on everyone involved in his arrest and incarceration, including Annie, Maggie, Brad, Tina Davidson and the crown prosecutor, Jenni Blighe.

  Wolfe broke into Brad’s house and held Maggie and Annie hostage. When Brad came home, Wolfe was waiting. He was about to kill Brad when Lobo raced into the room, propelling Wolfe to the ground. In the subsequent gun battle, Brad killed Wolfe, but Maggie, Brad and Lobo were shot. Brad and Lobo recovered. Maggie didn’t.

  Now almost nineteen, Annie cared for Brad. But that was difficult when he rejected help and over a month ago, in frustration with Dr. Keller’s refusal to let him go back to work, he’d shut out Annie and his friends.

  “You’re lucky Lobo was with me. There’s no way he’d have let you break and enter.”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense. Lobo has always loved me more than you. Besides, I didn’t have to break in. I have a key.”

  He nudged her with his elbow. “Who’s going to rob this decrepit house? If they tried, they’d have to deal with Lobo. Anyway, key or no key, it is still breaking and entering.”

  Annie laughed and headed to the stove. “I’d like to see that charge stick.”

  Brad glanced at the pots. “You’ve got a lot of food going. Are you expecting an army?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s a lot of food.”

  “There’ll be leftovers. At least I’ll know you have food in the fridge. Maybe you’ll even eat some of it.”

  Lobo raced to the back door, barking. The barks became low growls, then silence.

  “What the heck.” Brad headed to the door, then halted. He scrubbed a hand down his face and chuckled. Ambushed. He should have known they wouldn’t let him be a hermit forever.

  Jerry Briscoe, short and built like a tank, pushed past Brad. “Thanks for inviting us, rookie.”

  Sam Steele and Charlie Zerr were kneeling and roughing up Lobo.

  Brad shook his head, smirking. “I need a better guard dog. What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

  “We were invited for dinner,” Sam said.

  “What? By whom?”

  “By Annie.”

  “Really?”

  Sam stepped forward, jabbing his finger in Brad’s chest. “Three reasons. One, Annie invited us. Two, we are hungry. Three, you’ve shut us out.”

  “I’m … not shutting you out. Come in.”

  Charlie slipped past, heading into the kitchen. “Something smells good.” He stood behind Annie as she stirred the gravy.

  Sam stepped around Brad, Lobo at his heels. Brad followed them into the kitchen. “Annie.”

  “Yes, Brad.” She kept her back to Brad as she continued stirring.

  “Did you invite them over?”

  “Yes.” She rotated slightly and pointed the spoon at him. “It’s an intervention.”

  Brad lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not an addict.”

  Sam put his arm around Brad’s shoulder. “We all felt the pain of Maggie’s murder—you most of all. We get that.”

  “I’m busy, that’s all.”

  “Uh, sure,” Sam said. “We know you’re hurting, always will be. But you don’t have to work through this alone.”

  Brad scowled at Sam. “I see a shrink. He said I could come back to work.”

  “That’s good. I hope Dr. Bonkers is helping you.” Sam paused and glanced at Annie and Charlie, then to the doorway to the living room where Briscoe stood. “Maybe you don’t need us, buddy, but we need you.”

  “Not me.” Briscoe popped the top on a beer. “They made me come.”

  “Jeez, Briscoe,” Charlie said. “You’re not helping.”

  Briscoe smirked at Brad and winked. “If the rookie wants to pout, fine. I’m here cuz Annie is a great cook.” He patted his stomach. “Takes a lot of calories to keep this physique.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Thanks for being a caring human being.”

  Briscoe shrugged and set a case of beer on the counter—minus one bottle. Sam opened beers and handed them out. “Brothers in blue.” They tapped bottles.

  “What about me?” Annie asked.

  “Future criminologist is close enough,” Sam said.

  “Is that a thing?” Briscoe asked.

  “It is nowadays,” Annie said. “Charlie. Help me finish dinner. The rest of you, out of the kitchen.”

  Brad flopped into his recliner, and Lobo lay at his feet. Briscoe and Sam grabbed the couch.

  Brad glanced at Sam. “Was this your idea?”

  Sam took a drink. “Sure, I’ll take credit.”

  “How’s Emma?” Brad asked.

  “She’s doing good,” Sam said. “She thinks she’s huge and doesn’t want anyone to see her like that.”

  “She could have come tonight,” Brad said.

  “Nah. Her mom is with us this week, so she stayed home.”

  “Basically, you’re saying you escaped for the night,” Briscoe said.

  Sam tapped his nose in acknowledgement.

  “When is she due?” Briscoe asked.

  “Two more months—mid-December.”

  Briscoe chugged his beer. “Then you can take some time off.
You can be a lazy bum like Brad.”

  Brad shook his head. “Nope. I’m back at work.”

  “Are you serious?” Sam asked. “When did this happen?”

  “Cleared on Thursday, started Friday with Griffin in Homicide. I aced the firearms qualifications.”

  “Well damn,” Briscoe said. “If all you have to do is shoot, you’ll be fine.”

  “Annie didn’t say anything about this,” Sam said.

  “She doesn’t know.” Brad took a long drink.

  “Should have been school resource officer,” Briscoe said.

  “Oh, hell, Briscoe,” Sam said. “Can’t you ever shut up? Just drink your beer.”

  “What? We pretend nothing happened last night?” Briscoe leaned forward. “Your little episode where you punched the hell out of the suspect.”

  “He had it coming,” Brad said.

  “What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

  Briscoe told the story of the assault and Brad’s response.

  Brad spun to see Annie and Charlie standing behind him. “A blond teen?” Annie asked.

  Briscoe nodded.

  She glared at Brad. “Did you think it was me?”

  His hand dropped to Lobo’s head, and he rubbed Lobo’s ears.

  Annie knelt beside his chair. “Brad, what happened?”

  He absently peeled the label on the bottle. Finally, he glanced up. “Last night … last night, I saw you. Pent-up anger, frustration for failing Tina and Maggie. The suspect wasn’t Wolfe, but it didn’t matter.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to work?” Annie asked.

  Brad felt Briscoe staring, but couldn’t meet his eyes. “It was one time. I’m good.” He glanced at the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

  Again, the room was silent. Then Annie stood. “Charlie, help me finish dinner.”

  “Since when is Charlie a chef?” Brad asked.

  Sam smiled, then took a drink. “You are really out of touch.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Briscoe grunted.

  Brad glanced from Sam to Briscoe and back. Then he peered toward the kitchen and his eyes lit up. “No way.”

  Sam stood. “I’ll get us another beer and check on the kids.”

  Brad’s eyes followed Sam to the kitchen.

  Briscoe smirked. “Life happens when you’ve got your head up your ass. You missed a budding romance right under your nose. Not like you. Not like you at all.”

  “No kidding.” Brad drained his beer.

  Annie peeked around the door. “Dinner is ready.”

  Brad headed to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from Sam on the way.

  “I can carve the roast,” Brad said.

  “Charlie already did,” Annie said.

  “Uh, okay then.” Brad pulled out a chair.

  Charlie slid half a cow onto his plate and passed it to Brad. “What’s with the old truck by the barn?”

  “It came with the place,” Brad said. “I’m trying to see if I can get it running.”

  “By yourself?” Charlie asked.

  Brad poured gravy over his potatoes and roast. “Yeah, I’m doing it. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Charlie laughed. “Only that you’re the least mechanical person I know.”

  Brad pointed at fork at Charlie. “You’ll eat crow when I get it running.”

  “Never happen,” Charlie said.

  “I’m with Charlie.” Sam turned to Briscoe. “Hey, I didn’t know sergeants got rookies.”

  Briscoe snorted. “Caterina Toscana. She’s getting her opportunity to be an acting district sergeant. She’ll work as 501 district sergeant downtown. Lucky me, I get to train her for a few weeks.”

  “You better hope she turns out better than some of your other rookies,” Sam said.

  “No kidding.” Briscoe glanced at Brad, then gulped his beer. “She’s gung ho. You know, in-your-face intense. She wants to know everything and right f’n today.”

  “Isn’t she the first female cop to get this opportunity?” Sam asked.

  “Might be,” Briscoe said. “Guess she wants to make a statement for all lady cops. On the good side, she’s athletic, so I won’t have to chase the bad guys. I can just send her and heaven help them when she catches them.”

  “Didn’t she try out for our team?” Charlie asked. “She’s built.”

  “Charlie,” Annie said.

  He raised his hands in defense. “Well, she is. She played rugby for the national team.”

  “Oh yeah,” Sam said. “Now I know who you’re talking about.”

  “If I remember right,” Charlie said, “she bench pressed a heavier weight than Sam.”

  “Like that’s hard to do,” Brad said.

  “Hey, I’m a shooter, not a bruiser.”

  “I gather she didn’t make it,” Annie said.

  “No,” Sam said. “But she did well.”

  “But not good enough to break into the boy’s club.” Annie glared at Sam and Charlie.

  “Good luck with her.” Brad glanced around the table. “Or should I be wishing her luck having you as a mentor?”

  Briscoe flipped Brad the finger.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday Day Six

  Pittman slowed in the morning rush-hour traffic. He knew who he wanted shot. He didn’t know where. There were several options. As the traffic crept toward downtown, he spotted the target.

  “There.”

  “Another dealership?” Hirsch asked. “Car salesman aren’t our mission.”

  “Not any dealership. Wasn’t it a Ford dealership that took your truck?”

  “Actually, the bank.”

  Pittman pulled the car into the parking lot of an office building. “Close enough.”

  “It’s just a guy mowing grass.”

  “At a Ford dealership. It’s not about who dies, it’s the symbolism.”

  Hirsch glared at Pittman. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Pittman shrugged. “Anyone who fucked with us is a target.”

  Hirsch stared at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “I don’t know. In rush hour?”

  Pittman swung toward Hirsch. “Enough with your fucking excuses and whining. You said you were in—all in.”

  Hirsch bit his bottom lip and stared at the guy mowing the lawn. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  Pittman turned away and smirked. His heart raced and his body shook with excitement. Putty in my hands.

  Paramedics Willie Dixon and Pete Thompson were cruising downtown a little after 7:15 a.m., waiting for their first response of the day. Both veteran paramedics, they loved their work and believed being on the street increased their chances of stealing a response from another crew. Dixon, tall and slim with a dark drooping mustache, had a dry sense of humor and was a little burned out. Thompson, shorter than Dixon with white-blond hair and a constant smile, exuded enthusiasm. That was probably why paramedic students loved training with him.

  “It’s time we took another student,” Thompson said.

  Dixon grunted. “Too much work.”

  “Hell, train them right, and they carry the kits, do the messy stuff, and clean the ambulance. What’s better than that?”

  Dixon glared at this partner. “You left out the part where they’re book smart and street stupid, and it’s like three months of babysitting.”

  “We’ve had some outstanding students.”

  “Sure, by the end of the three months, they finally get it, then they’re done.”

  “Maggie was an exceptional student.”

  They were quiet for a minute.

  Thompson stared out the window.

  “Became one of the best,” Dixon said. “She was a royal pain when we first got her.”

  Thompson’s voice caught in his throat. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Have you talked to Brad lately?”

  Thompson shook his head. “No. I heard he’s still on leave.”

  “Do you think he
’ll come back to work?”

  “If I was him, I wouldn’t.”

  “This would be a perfect time for him to use his law degree,” Dixon said.

  Thompson shrugged. “He has that option, but I don’t see him behind a desk or in court.”

  “I don’t know,” Dixon said. “I think he’d be an excellent prosecutor.”

  The radio came to life. “Medic 2, man down. Ford dealership, Ninth Avenue West. Unknown cause. We got a few calls. Some said heart attack and others say he’s bleeding. Police on the way.”

  Thompson grabbed the mic. “Roger.”

  Dixon swung the ambulance in a U-turn and activated the lights and siren.

  As they pulled up, several people pointed to a man on the ground.

  Thompson grabbed the kits and followed Dixon across the lawn in front of the dealership.

  A man in his thirties lay motionless on the lawn with blood covering his chest. Not a heart attack, Thompson thought. He checked for a pulse—none.

  Dixon started chest compressions. Several police cruisers arrived. Dixon told a cop to take over compressions and two others to get the stretcher.

  While Thompson inserted an airway, Dixon applied bandages to several open chest wounds. When he checked the patient’s back, he found additional wounds. “He’s got lacerations to the back.”

  “We need to get going,” Thompson said.

  Dixon nodded. They lifted the patient and rushed to the ambulance.

  “I need you to come with us and keep doing compressions,” Dixon said to the cop attending to the patient. “We also need a driver.”

  A young cop immediately volunteered.

  “Nice and easy,” Dixon said.

  He nodded and headed to the front of the ambulance.

  As they pulled away, Dixon started two intravenous lines. Thompson ventilated the patient with a bagging unit. The cop did compressions. Once the IVs were in place and flowing, Dixon applied the leads for the cardiac monitor. He glanced at the display—flatline.

  Chapter Eleven

  Coffee in hand, Brad headed back to his black Firebird. Even when life was shitty, there were things to be thankful for. For Brad, it was coffee—and coffee from Gerry’s to start the day never failed.